No More Learning

The slaying of a stranger who insulted
him and smote him on the head could not be, and is not by the poet,
considered as any crime that deserved extreme punishment. It was
the mere retaliation which any heroic Greek would think perfectly
justifiable. How far we are thus removed from the tragic problem
of Hamlet, or even of Antigone, the reader will easily perceive. Per-
haps the poet may have desired to teach the moral lesson much
needed at skeptical Athens in his day,- that the warnings of the
gods are accomplished, and that the neglect of them is a crime which
brings upon men punishments very disproportionate to the apparent
guilt of negligence. But is this a proper subject for a Greek tragedy?
And is the iron grasp of fate, which mocks all human effort, a moral
subject for the stage?
Sweeter and more human in many respects is the 'Edipus at
Colonus,' which ancient tradition and ancient critics unanimously
placed at the end of the poet's life; nor will the arguments of the
learned in Germany regarding its perfect diction and structure have
much weight against the current belief, supported by the strong feel-
ing of every literary reader from Cicero to our day, that its mild-
ness, sadness, and weariness of life, speak the long experience and
sober resignation of an old man at the close of his days.
The whole action turns round the figure of Edipus, who comes
old, beggared, and blind, supported by his daughters only, an exile


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SOPHOCLES
13665
from Thebes, into the grove of the dread Eumenides (Furies) at
Colonus. The gentle and affectionate Antigone in this play is a
different character from herself in the title play we have already
discussed. It is but one of several instances which show that these
tragic poets aimed at no consistency when using the figures of Greek
legend for various plays. The Attic audience were not expected to
compare this Antigone with the other produced many years before.
I have elsewhere suggested that this may be one reason why the
subjects of these tragedies were so seldom taken from Homer,-
whose characters, as they appear in the Iliad and Odyssey, were too
familiar to the audience to admit of any variation being tolerated on
the tragic stage. Edipus himself is now worn and mellowed with
suffering; he has recovered a certain dignity not only from his un-
deserved suffering, but from his person being declared by oracles
to be of great value to those that possess it. Hence Creon, who had
exiled him, comes to carry him home by force; his son Polynices
comes to pray for his support to insure victory against the younger
brother, who now holds the Theban throne. But the old man resists
all attempts to persuade him. Theseus saves him from the vio-
lence of Creon, and rescues his daughters, who had been seized by
Creon's attendants; and in gratitude to the King of Athens, Edipus
tells him the secret by which the throne of Athens is to be forever
safe. Finally, in a splendid scene heralded by thunder and light-
ning, Edipus passes into the grove to his mysterious death. The lam-
entations of the bereaved daughters, with responses from the chorus,
occupy a long musical scene at the close of the play. This conclus-
ion, though somewhat lame if judged by modern taste, has the indi-
cation of Antigone's resolve to return to Thebes and strive to stay
her brothers' criminal war; thus pointing at the tragic sequel which
Sophocles had already brought upon the stage.
•
If he had thought fit to rearrange his plays in trilogies after the
manner of Eschylus, the three dramas on the legend of Edipus and
his children have a very striking artistic connection. To me the
later Edipus' seems the finest of all the extant plays; nor can we
imagine, if it had indeed been composed in the poet's middle age,
why its production should have been delayed till four years after his
death, though we hear this on good authority. There is not only
fine character-drawing in the play,-dipus, Creon, Theseus, all
very living and distinct, but there are tragic contrasts of the great-
est subtlety. Thus the episode of Polynices, who turns aside from
the invasion of his native land to entreat the support of Edipus, is
manifestly intended for such a contrast. Both father and son are
approaching their fate: but the father, an innocent offender, shines
out in the majesty of a glorious sunset; while the son, unfilial, selfish,
XXIII-855
-


## p. 13666 (#488) ##########################################

13666
SOPHOCLES
and vindictive, only uses his punishment of exile to devise further
crimes,―his repentance for his unfilial conduct to his father is not
genuine, and his heart is still poisoned with ambition and revenge,
so that when stricken by his father's awful curse, he rushes in de-
spair upon his doom. The scene is not without harshness: the old
man's curses are like those of Lear, violent from his feeling of long
impotence; but this flaw, if flaw it be, is redeemed by the majesty of
his solemn translation to the nether world.
The treatment of the chorus is marked by a curious inconsistency;
or rather, by the clear assertion that while they act and think as
common old men of Colonus, their choral odes are those of the poet
speaking for himself. In their conduct, the chorus of this play show
the vulgarities of common life: they treat Edipus, when they find
him in the sacred grove, with cowardice, rudeness, want of faith,
unmannerly disgust, and indecent curiosity. They are only courteous
and kind to him in the presence of Theseus, or when they have
learned that it is their interest to have him there. But when they
sing their great interludes, the choral odes, they abandon all this
poor personality, and philosophize upon the action with a depth and
beauty hardly equaled by any other lyrics in the Greek language.
Chorus-
-
STROPHE
Beyond the common lot who lusts to live,
Nor sets a limit to desire,
Of me no doubtful word shall win-
A fool in love with foolishness.
Since long life hath in store for him to know
Full many things drawn nearer unto grief,
And gone from sight all pleasant things that were:
Till fallen on overmuch
Fulfillment of desire,
One only friend he sees can help —
A friend who shall come when dawns at last
The day that knows not bridal song
Nor lyre nor dance that fatal day
Whose equal doom we all abide;
Shall come kind Death, and make an end!
ANTISTROPHE
-
Not to be born is past disputing best:
And after this, his lot transcends,
Who, seen on earth for briefest while,
Thither returns from whence he came.
For with its fluttering follies all aswarm,


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SOPHOCLES
13667
Who needs, while youth abides, go far afield
To heap vexation? What's the missing plague ?
Slaughters are here, and strife,
Factions, and wars, and spite;
And still life's crowning ill's to bear,-
Last scene of all, of all condemned:
Unfriended, uncompanioned Age,
When strength is gone, but grief remains,
And every evil that is named,-
Evil of evil, grief of grief.
As now this man, not wretched I alone,-
Lo, like some promontory northward set,
Wave-buffeted by all fierce winds that rave,
So buffet him, nor cease,
Poured on his helpless head,
All shattering billows of outrageous fate;
Some from the setting sun,
And from the rising some,
Some with the mid-noon beam,
Some from the starry shimmerings of the night.
-
We now come to a play which shows many contrasts to either
'Edipus. ' The 'Ajax' is perhaps the simplest in structure of all the
extant dramas; but is not therefore to be assumed the earliest, as
some critics have done. To me it shows so much of the influence of
Euripides, or perhaps we should rather say of the dicastic (litigious)
habit of the Athenians of post-Periclean days, that I should place its
production late in the poet's life. If a modern dramatist were asked
to compose a play on such a subject,- the madness of his hero
from disappointed ambition, the carnage of flocks of sheep in mis-
take for his rivals and umpires, his return to sanity, his consequent
despair and suicide, and a quarrel about his funeral,- he would prob-
ably feel no small perplexity. Yet Sophocles has composed a justly
famous character play upon the story, which he found in the so-
called 'Little Iliad' of Lesches. There is no finer psychological pict-
ure than the awakening of Ajax from his lunacy, his intense shame,
his firm resolve to endure life no longer, his harsh treatment of the
tender and loving Tecmessa,- the slave-mother of his boy,— and yet
his deep love for her and for his child. Even his suicide is brought
upon the stage,- contrary to the habit of the Greeks, who avoided
such scenes, and put the recital of them in the mouth of a messenger;
but then his dying speech is one of the most remarkable in all Greek
tragedy. Not less splendid is that in which he gives his directions
before going to meet his death.


## p. 13668 (#490) ##########################################

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SOPHOCLES
Ajax-The long march of the innumerable hours
Brings from the darkness all things to the birth,
And all things born envelops in the night.
What is there that it cannot? Strongest oaths
Of men, and the untempered will, it bends:
As I, who lately seemed so wondrous firm,
See by this woman now my keen edge made-
As steel by dipping — womanish and weak;
So that it pities me among my foes
To leave her widowed, fatherless my child.
Now to the seaside meadows and the baths
I go to purge away my stains, if so
Athene's grievous wrath I may escape.
And I must go and find some spot untrodden,
And hide away this hated sword of mine,
Burying it in the earth where none may see;
Let night and Hades keep it underground.
For from the day I took it in my hand,
From Hector, from my enemy, a gift,
Of Greeks I gat no honor any more;
But soothly says the proverb that men use,
Foes' gifts are no gifts,-no, nor profitable.
Well I shall know henceforth to bow to Heaven,
And the Atreidæ study to revere:
Men must obey their rulers. Nay, how else?
Things most august and mightiest upon earth
Bow to authority: the winter's storms,
Dense with their driven snow, give place at last
To fruitful summer; and night's weary round
Passes, and dawn's white steeds light up the day:
And blasts of angry winds let sleep again
The groaning sea; and tyrannous sleep withal
Holds not his prey, but looses whom he binds.
Then shall not we learn wisdom, and submit?
And I this lesson I have learnt to-day:
To hate my enemies so much and no more,
As who shall yet be friends; and of a friend
I'll bound my love and service with the thought,
He's not my friend forever. For most men find
A treacherous haven this of fellowship.
But for these things it shall suffice; and thou,
Woman, go in, and pray the gods that all
My heart's desire may be fulfilled in full.
And you, my comrades, honor me with her


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SOPHOCLES
13669
Thus praying, and bid Teucer when he comes
Have care of me and all good-will to you.
For I go hence whither I needs must go.
Do ye my bidding; so shall ye hear perchance,
That after all my troubles I am safe.
Then follows a brilliant hyporcheme or dancing ode, to Pan, in
delight that Ajax has recovered his senses:—
Chorus
I tremble, I thrill with longing!
With joy transported, I soar aloft!
O Pan, Pan, Pan, appear!
Come hither, tossed by the sea, O Pan,
From Cyllene's rock-ridge, scourged with snow-
The master in heaven of those that dance!
And unpremeditated measures here,
Nysian or Gnosian, fling with me!
For now on dancing my heart is set,
And far across the Icarian waters,
Lord of Delos, Apollo, come;
Come, plain to see, and partake my mirth -
Gracious and kind to the end as now!
Lo, Ares the cloud has lifted;
Despair and dread from our eyes are gone!
Now, now, O Zeus, again
May stainless light of a gracious day
To our swift sea-cleaving ships come nigh;
When Ajax his sorrow again forgets,
And serves the gods with perfect piety,
Pays them their rites and leaves out none.
For all things ever the strong hours quench;
And naught, I'll say, is too hard for saying;
Now when Ajax, so past all hope,
Against the Atreidæ unbends his pride-
Rage and defiance outbreathes no more.
He is for one day, we hear presently from his brother, under the
anger of Athene; and if he can weather that day he will be safe.
This gives a peculiar pathos to the play, when we reflect how nearly
a noble life was saved. But the anger of Athene is hardly justified,
beyond the consideration that the gods rule as they please; and here
the goddess is shown with those hard and cruel features which we
find in Homer's picture. * The Ajax of Sophocles, on the other hand,
* On this I have already commented in my Social Life in Greece. '


## p. 13670 (#492) ##########################################

13670
SOPHOCLES
A
is far more refined than the Homeric prototype. He feels himself
unjustly treated, and carries the spectator's sympathy wholly with
him. The wrangle about his funeral honors between his brother
Teucer, who arrives but a moment too late to save him, and the
vulgar and heartless Agamemnon and Menelaus, is so disagreeable
that we have constantly to remind ourselves of the Attic love of
argument, of dispute, of casuistry, to tolerate this part of the drama.
Odysseus (Ulysses) for once comes in as the peacemaker; the gener-
ous foe, who can respect and honor his fallen enemy. But then he
has obtained all his desire, - the easiest moment to be generous.
word must be reserved for Tecmessa; one of the most attractive
women in Sophocles, as we possess him. She is one of those slave
wives whom the heroes of the Iliad kept in camp to solace their long
absence from home. She had passed from the estate of a princess to
be the slave mistress of her lord. But she fulfills all her enforced
duties with loyalty and tenderness, and with great and womanly
affection for both Ajax and his child. She is indeed in many respects
as tragic a figure as Ajax; for her disasters have all come upon her
without any fault of her own, and in spite of her innocence and
loyalty.
Tecmessa - O my lord Ajax, of all things most hard,
Hardest is slavery for men to bear.
And I was daughter of a sire freeborn,-
-
No Phrygian mightier, wealthier none than he;
But now I am a slave. For so the gods,
And so thine arm, had willed it. Therefore now
For I am thine, thy wife, and wish thee well-
I charge thee now by Zeus who guards thy hearth,
And by that couch of thine which I have shared,—
Condemn me not, given over to their hands,
To bear the cruel gibes thy foes shall fling.
Bethink thee, on that day when thou shalt die,
And by that death divorce me, violent hands
On me the Greeks will lay, and we shall live
Henceforth the life of slaves, thy child and I.
And then at me shall some one of my lords
Shoot out sharp words, "Lo ye, the concubine
Of Ajax, who was strongest of the Greeks-
Fallen from what pride, unto what service bound! "
So they will talk. And me such fate will plague;
But shame such talk imports to thee and thine.
Nay, but have pity, and leave not thou thy sire,
So old, so grieved; pity thy mother too,


## p. 13671 (#493) ##########################################

SOPHOCLES
13671
Portioned with many years, who night and day
Prays to the gods to bring thee home alive;
And have compassion on thy boy, O prince! —
Think, should he live, poor child, forlorn of thee,
By unkind guardians of kind care deprived,
What wrong thy death will do to him and me:
Nothing have I to look to any more,
When thou art gone. Thy spear laid waste my home;
My mother too and father, Fate withal
Brought low, in the dark house of death to dwell.
What home then shall I find instead of thee-
What wealth? My life hangs utterly on thee.
The Philoctetes' is the last of our series, till some fortunate
chance, in Egypt or elsewhere, restores to us another of these master-
pieces. We know it to have been composed very late in the poet's
life, perhaps the very last of his works; and yet, though it shows
everywhere the influence of his great rival Euripides, in this remark-
able play there is no evidence of any decadence, of any weakening
of Sophocles's genius, though some critics pretend to see it. The
habit of asserting subjective opinions upon such points is so universal
in Germany that it is necessary to cite examples of their worth.
Some trivial fact is generally at the basis of these theories; because
the Philoctetes' is now accepted as late, the Edipus at Colonus,'
long criticized as the dying song of the old man, is now attributed to
a far earlier period, and is called the product of the poet's strongest
maturity. It was formerly the last sweet echo of his waning powers.
At all events, the Philoctetes' is a very remarkable and distinct-
ive specimen of the work of Sophocles. It is essentially a character
play, in which the action of the gods only comes in to thwart and
spoil a plot made great by human suffering and human constancy;
and yet though a character play, it is the solitary example we have,
among the extant remains of the poet, in which there is no woman
brought on the stage. Ingenious people may here find, if they like,
a mute antagonism to, a recoil from, the habit of Euripides, who never
draws a great man, but sets all the sympathies of the audience upon
the grandeur of his heroines. In the play now before us, the princi-
pal character is ennobled partly by his long and miserable suffering,
partly by his strong will and determination that he will in no way
yield to his enemies, or help them in their designs.
He had been abandoned at Lemnos by the sons of Atreus and by
Ulysses, on their way to Troy, because of his loathsome wound and
his constant and wearisome lamentations. Now they find through an
oracle that after ten years' war and waste of life, the city cannot be


## p. 13672 (#494) ##########################################

13672
SOPHOCLES
taken unless the wounded hero of his own accord accompanies them,
bringing with him the famous bow and arrow of Heracles, which
he possesses. The plots of Ulysses to obtain this result, and their
repeated failure, till Heracles actually descends from heaven and
commands Philoctetes to change his resolve,- these are moments of
the play. The appearance of Heracles as a deus ex machina is how-
ever a mere appendix, thrown in to satisfy the requirements of the
popular legend which held that the hero did go to Troy, and so cause
the oracles to be positively accomplished.
Ulysses, the principal agent, though not the chief actor in the
play, sets in motion those subtle plots which to the Greek were per-
fectly lawful and even admirable, while to us they savor of mean-
ness and fraud. He suborns the young and gallant Neoptolemus to
land at the island, and pretend that he too had been summoned to
Troy and then insulted by the leaders of the host; that he is there-
fore on his way home in anger and disgust.
This leads to sympa-
thetic discourse with Philoctetes, who entreats Neoptolemus to bring
him home, and intrusts him with the precious bow and arrows when
seized with one of his paroxysms which ends in a deep sleep. The
chorus of sailors, who as usual represent the mean side of Greek
character, propose that now Neoptolemus should decamp with the
bow and arrows. The fact that the hero's own presence and consent
were necessary is kept in the background; and the first difficulty
arises from the loyal nature of Neoptolemus, who has misgivings
from the beginning, and has been persuaded too easily to adopt the
crooked policy of Ulysses, but who will not now desert his suffering
friend, and who will not take him on board by fraud. So when he
discloses his real intentions to Philoctetes, he meets with a storm of
protest, of adjuration and appeal from the outcast hero, but not a
sign of submission. Ulysses, who comes in, threatens force; he pro-
poses to carry off the bow and leave the wretched man helpless and
defenseless on the island; he makes all preparations for departure:
when Neoptolemus tries the only remaining argument. He returns
conscience-smitten with the bow and arrows and restores them to
their owner, in spite of the anxious protest of Ulysses, who knows
that his own life now hangs upon a thread. But Neoptolemus holds
the hand that would draw the bow and slay his enemy, and appeals
on the ground of friendship and of generosity to Philoctetes now to
yield and return with him as ally to Troy. But here he meets with
an equally stubborn resistance; and, vanquished by the vanquished
man, he has submitted, and is going to bring Philoctetes to his home
at Trachis, when the divine command of Heracles prevents this vio-
lation of the current story, and the conflict is ended by the submis-
sion of Philoctetes.


## p. 13673 (#495) ##########################################

SOPHOCLES
13673
Such is the skeleton of the drama; but this skeleton is enriched
by the accessories which a true poet adds to his argument. The
picturesque features of the lonely island, the voice of nature which
threatened and which solaced the lonely man, the birds and beasts
that were his companions and his prey,- these are ever present to
the hero in his lamentations and his prayers. No doubt the poet
knew well this island, which was, like Imbros, a peculiar property of
the Athenians for a great part of its history. It lies not far from the
Trojan coast, surrounded by splendid historic lands: the giant Samo-
thrace, the still more gigantic Athos, from whose peak I have looked
upon Lemnos and thought of the many legends that cluster about that
rugged island. And now, after long centuries of cultivation, centu-
ries of piracy and of misgovernment have reduced it again to the
very condition described by Sophocles: lonely uplands, windy hills,
waste and thicket replacing the labors of men.
It is remarkable that the rival plays on the subject those of
Eschylus and Euripides-did not make the island an absolute wil-
derness. The chorus, instead of representing the sailors who came
with Neoptolemus, as it is in Sophocles's play, did visit him; and one
of them, Actor, appeared as his friend. These facts we owe to an
interesting little oration of Dio Chrysostom, who compares the three
plays then extant and known to him.
-
But I will not extend this commentary unduly. Those who desire
to appreciate Sophocles must not attempt to do so at second hand,
through this essay or through any modern translation; they must
learn Greek, and read him in the original: for no version in any
European language can give any notion of the strength, the grace,
the suppleness of his dialogue. Not that he was absolutely without
faults in style. He himself, in a curious sentence reported by Plu-
tarch, says that he had three styles: first, the grand eloquence of
Eschylus, which he had shaken off early; then the harsh and artifi-
cial style of his next epoch, - features well known to us in contem-
porary writers, such as Thucydides; lastly he had adopted the style
which was best for painting character, and therefore the fittest for
his purpose.
We can still trace some of the harshness of which he
speaks in the earlier extant plays. The opening speech in the
'Antigone,' for example, is contorted and difficult in style, and is by
no means exceptional in this quality. Some of the choral odes seem
to us to use constructions which we can hardly call Greek; and if it
be urged that in these cases corruption of the text has altered the
poet's words, it must have been a very early corruption, and such is
not likely unless the original was really obscure. We know also
from the great number of strange words cited from his lost plays by
early grammarians that his vocabulary must have been not easy and


## p. 13674 (#496) ##########################################

13674
SOPHOCLES
natural, like that of Euripides, but artificial and recondite. This love
of erudite words seems to have been as strong in Sophocles as it
was in Shakespeare.
But if he was licentious in his vocabulary and sometimes daring in
his syntax, no great poet was ever more conservative in his art. It
is to us an ever-recurring source of wonder, how a great poet, born
in a particular generation, writing for a special public, hampered
by all the conventionalities of his age, nevertheless not only rises
above all these transitory circumstances and seizes the great and
permanent features of human nature, but even frequently turns his
shackles into a new source of beauty. Some of the greatest felici-
ties in poetry have been the direct result of the curbs of metre or
of rhyme. Nothing has more evidently determined the beauties of
Greek or mediæval sculpture than its position as the handmaid of
architecture. There are many more such instances, but none more
signal than that supplied by the work of Sophocles.
Nothing can be imagined more artificial than the Greek stage,
nothing upon that stage more artificial than tragedy as determined
by his predecessors. The subjects to be treated were limited to the
Greek legends; legends familiar to the audience, and not admitting
of any great liberties in treatment. The actors were padded out and
masked, so that all delicate acting was impossible, and slow declama-
tion was the law of the stage. The importance of the chorus and
its traditional primacy in the earliest plays determined the musical
character of Greek tragedy; which may best be compared to a mod-
ern oratorio, acted on the stage. Thus the poet must not only write
dramatic verse, he must be a lyric poet; nay more, we are told that
he must compose the music for his odes. Even these set pieces, like
our musical interludes, were not enough for the requirements of the
drama: there were lyrical monodies, or dialogues between the actor
and the chorus, which required in the actor-in early days the poet
himself - proficiency in singing. It was in fact the "music-drama "
of Wagner, out-Wagnered. All these conditions were satisfied by
Sophocles in his day. But what marks his world-position is this:
though the music is lost; though the stage as he knew it is gone
forever; though nothing remains to us but the text, in metres which
had their musical accompaniments and which do not speak easily to
modern ears,-still these plays, stripped of all the accessories which
made them splendid in their day of performance, transcribed with
ignorance and defaced by time, the widowed and forlorn remnant
of a bygone age and an extinct society, move every modern heart;
stimulate every modern poet; stand forth in their imperishable maj-
esty, like the ruined Parthenon, unapproachable in their essential per-
fection.


## p. 13675 (#497) ##########################################

SOPHOCLES
13675
1
What an age was this, when the builders of the Parthenon and
the authors of tragedy met and discussed the principles of their art!
The lofty Pericles was there, the genial Herodotus, the brilliant Aris-
tophanes, the homely Socrates, all contributing to form an atmo-
sphere in which no poor or unreal art could last for a day. But
artificial they all were, except Socrates; though the artifice was only
the vehicle for great ideas, for the deepest nature, for the loftiest
ideals. Hence the changes of custom, and even of traditions, have
not marred the eternal greatness of Sophocles's tragedies. Sufferers
such as Ajax, Philoctetes, Œdipus, will ever command the deepest
human pity; martyrs such as Antigone, the purest admiration. To
paraphrase the words of Aristotle, Sophocles purifies the affections of
pity and awe in the hearts of his audience by representing to them
ideal men and women suffering huge misfortunes; broken it may be
on the wheel of fortune, but not vanquished, because their heroic will
is invincible.
This is the great moral lesson which the poet has taught the
world; and it constitutes his first and greatest claim to rank among
the stars of the first magnitude in the literature of nations. In the-
ology he was a conservative; he did not venture, like Euripides, to
quarrel with the current myths and to question the morality of the
current creeds. But even as every sound modern moralist holds
that in this world, the ideal of life and conduct is far higher than
the average specimens we meet in ordinary society,—so Sophocles
was convinced that there was a Divine morality, a Divine justice, far
higher and purer than the lives and characters of the several gods as
represented in Homer and the Epic Cycle. While therefore he does
not alter the hard features of the Greek gods, or justify their jealousy
and vindictiveness, he frequently asserts a very different and a far
higher government of the world.
Such being the highest feature in the poet's philosophy, we may
place next to it his admirable knowledge and portraiture of human
character. The gallery of his heroes and heroines is like the gallery
of a great painter's works, which gives us impressive and imperisha-
ble types. He takes but little care about his villains: his tyrants
were not drawn from life, and his only erring queen - Clytemnestra
-is not very interesting when we compare her to the Clytemnestra
of Eschylus. But his heroines are as great as those of Euripides;
his heroes are far greater; and his whole stage is more human than
that of Eschylus.
Apart from the matter is the style; and in artistic work the style
or form is of equal if not of greater importance. It is through style.
that any writer or age of writers becomes a model, or an ideal, for
succeeding generations to pursue. But as I am debarred in this


## p. 13676 (#498) ##########################################

13676
SOPHOCLES
essay from quoting from the original, and am addressing a public not
intimate with Greek, I am precluded from discussing this question
with any further detail; and can only repeat my previous warning
that Greek of the Attic age, used by its greatest masters, is a vehicle
of expression so perfect both in its strength and its delicacy, that all
versions in other tongues seem tame and bald to those who can read
the poet's own words. It is this peerless perfection in Greek style,
not only in the art of composition, but in the plastic arts, which has
kept Greek studies alive as the very essence of any thorough modern
culture. Nor is it likely that a time will ever come when future
generations will have made such advances in art that the Edipus
of Sophocles, the Hermes of Praxiteles, the nameless tomb of the
King of Sidon, the temples on the Acropolis at Athens, will be super-
seded by greater models.
Поликар


## p. 13676 (#499) ##########################################



## p. 13676 (#500) ##########################################


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## p. 13677 (#503) ##########################################

13677
ROBERT SOUTHEY
(1774-1843)
F IT were possible to earn a place among the immortals by
the force of unremitting toil, no man of letters could have a
clearer claim to the distinction than Robert Southey. The
vast labors of his life, seconding talents of no mean order, did indeed
build for him a reputation which cannot be destroyed by time. What
the author of Thalaba' and the Life of Nelson' accomplished, has
a definite and solid value. Within his limits he did his life's work
well. He was a good and faithful servant of literature: had he had
more of the mastery of genius, he would have been less in bondage
to his conceptions. As it was, he was fettered by the schemes for
his vast epics and interminable histories.
The element of drudgery
dulls even the greatest of his works. He is among English men of
letters as one that serveth.
His life touched at many points the lives of other noted men; yet
it was ever self-contained, closed in against all passions but the one
devouring passion for culture. There was a Southey who, feeling the
electric currents of the revolution, dreamed of brotherhood and free-
dom in the forests of America: but the Southey of literary history
spent his life among his thousands of beloved books in the quiet
rooms of Greta Hall, content with the use and wont of the Old
World; content to perform, year in and year out, the daily tasks of
composition, proof-reading, and letter-writing. The poet had become
the sober writer of prose; the revolutionist had become the conserv-
ative.
Robert Southey was born on the 12th of August, 1774. His father,
a linen draper, being unsuccessful in his business, the care and sup-
port of the boy was partly assumed by his mother's maiden aunt,
Miss Tyler, an eccentric woman, who was wise enough however
to feed her charge's mind with such tales as 'Goody Two-Shoes'
and the History of the Seven Champions of England'; she further
trained the future poet in the way he should go, by taking him to
the theatre, and by allowing him to enter into the enchanted world
of Beaumont and Fletcher, and to wander along the broad human
highways of Shakespeare.
He was early taken from these most beautiful and tender nurses
of genius, and delivered over to schoolmasters to be "regularly"


## p. 13678 (#504) ##########################################

13678
ROBERT SOUTHEY
educated. Great institutions of learning do not always know how
to conduct the education of a poet. Westminster School rejected
Southey after four years of nurture, because the boy wrote a sarcas-
tic article on flogging, for the paper published by the pupils. Two
enduring friendships, however, were formed at Westminster: one with
Grosvenor Bedford, the other with C. W. Wynn. It was through the
liberality of the latter that an annuity of £160 was for many years
settled upon Southey. Through provision made by his uncle, the
Rev. Mr. Hill, chaplain to the British factory at Lisbon, Southey was
enabled to go to Oxford. Christ Church rejected him because of
the Westminster episode, but he was received at Balliol.
In 1794 occurred an event of much importance in his life: he met
Coleridge. With the mystical poet, "voyaging on strange seas of
thought alone," the young Southey had much in common. They
were both under the domination of the republican spirit; they had
both looked to France for the dawn of the social millennium, and had
beheld only the terrors of the midnight tempest. They both dreamed
of a world made over nearer to the heart's desire. Coleridge had
already formulated his dreams. They should go to America: there in
the virgin forests they could free themselves forever from the perni-
cious social system of the Old World. They would live as brothers.
Each would till the soil, living by the work of his own hands. Each
would take with him a wife who should share the toil and the bless-
ings. They would rear their children in innocence and peace. They
would live the ideal life of study and of manual labor in the bosom
of nature. Their community would be a "pantisocracy. " Coleridge
and Southey had friends ready and willing to make the venture,-
Robert Lovell, a young Quaker; Robert Allen, and George Burnett.
Lovell's wife had four sisters, - Edith, Sarah, Martha, and Elizabeth
Fricker. An idea prevailed among the pantisocrats that these ladies
might be married off-hand, the only inducement necessary being a
glowing description of the land of promise. Southey, however, had
another object in marrying than the good of the new community.
He loved Edith Fricker, and she returned his affection.
Nothing was lacking now to the perfect success of the scheme but
money. The young enthusiasts were rich in dreams, but poor in
pocket. Coleridge never had money in his life. The others, being
also of the poetical temperament, could never have much of it.
Southey and Coleridge began a series of lectures, the one on history,
the other on ethics and politics, for the sake of raising the necessary
funds. About this time Southey met Joseph Cottle, a Bristol book-
seller, whose sincere friendship manifested itself in substantial forms.
Two years before, in 1794, Southey had written an epic, 'Joan of Arc,'
in which he had embodied his democratic fervor. Cottle bought this


## p. 13679 (#505) ##########################################

ROBERT SOUTHEY
13679
of him for fifty guineas, and published it in 1796. The assistance.
was timely; for the young poet was in disgrace with Miss Tyler,
who had cast him out on the news of his intended marriage with
Miss Fricker.
Soon after the publication of Joan of Arc,' Southey's uncle, Mr.
Hill, arrived from Lisbon; having heard of his nephew's vagaries,
and believing that a change of scene would bring about a change of
mind, he induced him to return with him. On the day of his depart-
ure he was secretly married to Edith. He returned, cured of pan-
tisocracy, but with his mind full of poetical schemes: epics galore,
tragedies and comedies and romances, which were to be wrought out
one by one. Among the first of these to be completed was 'Madoc,'
a narrative poem of the adventures of a Welsh prince of the twelfth
century in the wilderness of America. He had been meanwhile for a
year in London crucifying his spirit over law-books. After leaving
London and the law, he wandered through England for a time, finally
settling at Norwich, where he spent twelve months.
The breaking
down of his health led to a second visit to Portugal, on which his
wife accompanied him. On his return he was offered the position
of private secretary to Mr. Corry, Chancellor of the Exchequer for
Ireland. He accepted it; but the post not proving a congenial one,
he soon returned to England, and not long afterwards took up his
abode in Greta Hall, Keswick, in the English Lake region, where he
was to spend the remainder of his life,-supporting himself, his fam-
ily, and Coleridge's family, by his incessant literary labors.
It is in the household of Greta Hall that the greater Southey,
Southey the man, comes into clear view; he is seen here as the lov-
ing father and husband, as the kind kinsman of the Coleridge child-
ren, as the friend ever ready with words of sympathy, advice, and
encouragement. A remarkable family of children was gathered under
his roof. There were his own brilliant, beautiful Herbert, Edith May,
Bertha, Kate, and Isabel; there was the marvelous child, the elfish
Hartley Coleridge; there were also his brother Derwent, and Sara
Coleridge, who had inherited not a small share of her father's genius.
There was besides a large colony of cats, whose high-sounding names
Southey has recorded in his 'Chronicle History of the Cattery of
Cat's Eden. '
In 1813 Southey was appointed to the office of Poet Laureate,
made vacant by the death of Pye. At that date his more important
works included his metrical romance of Thalaba the Destroyer,' the
romance of 'Amadis de Gaul' from a Spanish version, 'The Chronicle
of the Cid, 'The Curse of Kehama,' 'Espriella's Letters,' and the
'History of Portugal' begun but not finished. In 1807 he had pro-
duced Specimens of the Later English Poets,' and 'Palmerin of


## p. 13680 (#506) ##########################################

13680
ROBERT SOUTHEY
His Poet-Laureateship
Southey seems to have
Portugal,' a translation from the Portuguese.
was the recognition of his youthful work.
renounced poetry with his republicanism. The odes which he wrote
in his official character are forced in tone, and with exception of the
'Funeral Song for the Princess Charlotte,' commonplace. After tak-
ing up his abode in Greta Hall, Southey devoted himself chiefly to
prose composition. He wrote there his 'History of Brazil,' his 'His-
tory of Portugal,' his lives of Wesley, of Cowper, and of Nelson, his
commonplace books, his History of the Peninsular War,' and that
charming book of gossip, 'The Doctor. ' His prose is masterly, direct,
and even. His claim to be numbered among the foremost English
men of letters rests indeed upon his prose.
The events of his life at Keswick are chiefly those of a student
and a scholar. For many years it was necessary that he should
write incessantly, performing his day-labor like a workman in the
fields. After this necessity was removed, he still toiled on, finding
his greatest pleasure in the companionship of his books, and of his
friends, among whom were Charles Lamb, Wordsworth, and Landor.
His reputation attracted to him men of the highest intellectual rank;
even one man as far removed from him in thought and feeling as
the poet Shelley. Southey was never slow to recognize genius and
to befriend it; but with certain literary movements in England he
had little sympathy. His designation of Byron and his coterie as
the "Satanic School" was not the least just, as it was the most un-
friendly, of his criticisms. For the work of Wordsworth, of Landor,
and of Lamb, he had unqualified admiration.
In 1816 Southey was offered a baronetcy through the influence of
Sir Robert Peel; but he declined the honor. In 1826 he was offered a
seat in Parliament, and an estate to qualify him for the office; but this
he also declined. Oxford conferred upon him the degree of LL. D. ;
he refused a similar honor from Cambridge.
His later years were darkened by domestic afflictions. The light of
his life went out when his son Herbert, a child of the rarest promise,
passed away. His second marriage in 1839, to the writer Caroline
Anne Bowles, was one of convenience. For a year or two before his
death the vigor of his faculties was almost wholly departed. He died
on the 21st of March, 1843, literally worn out by brain labor.
As Mr. Dowden, in his life of Southey, points out, the literary
career of the poet falls into two periods: a period during which he
devoted himself chiefly to poetry, and a later period during which
prose occupied the first place.
Southey's poetry is not of the first rank. It is too intentional and
well-ordered. He had not the imagination to cope with the subject-
matter of his epics,- which, as in 'Thalaba' and 'Kehama,' is taken


## p. 13681 (#507) ##########################################

ROBERT SOUTHEY
13681
from wild Arabian legends, or as in "Roderick,' from the dim rich
pages of mediæval chronicle. His simple, serious spirit expresses
itself most adequately in his ballads, and in such poems as 'The
Battle of Blenheim,' 'The Complaints of the Poor,' and in the quiet,
measured verse of the 'Inscriptions. ' His prose has more of the
light of inspiration. Its sustained, sober excellence is well adapted to
the long-drawn-out impersonal narratives which Southey could handle
with so much skill and ease. He united the patience of the media-
val chronicler with the culture of the modern historian. He wrote,
in the sober temper of the scholar, of "old, unhappy, far-off things,
and battles long ago. " For him the fever had departed from them.
He was not a dramatist in his conception of history. What had been
done had been done, and he recorded it impassionately. Yet he was
not without keen sympathies, as his Life of Cowper' and his 'Life
of Nelson' show. Southey as a biographer reveals his own high
standards of life, his love of equity, his appreciation of noble achieve-
ment wherever found, his belief in character as the basis of well-
being. He himself was altogether true-hearted. The manliness which
pervades all his works makes large compensation for the lack of the
divine spark of genius.
THE HOLLY-TREE
O
READER! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly-tree?
The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves,
Ordered by an Intelligence so wise
As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.
Below a circling fence its leaves are seen,
Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle through their prickly round
Can reach to wound;
But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.
XXIII-856
I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize;
And in this wisdom of the Holly-tree
Can emblem see
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.


## p. 13682 (#508) ##########################################

13682
ROBERT SOUTHEY
Thus though abroad perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere,
To those who on my leisure would intrude
Reserved and rude,-
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.
And should my youth-as youth is apt, I know-
Some harshness show,
All vain asperities I day by day
Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.
And as, when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,
The Holly leaves a sober hue display
Less bright than they,
But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly-tree? —
So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;
So would I seem, amid the young and gay,
More grave than they,
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly-tree.
STANZAS WRITTEN IN MY LIBRARY
Y DAYS among the Dead are passed;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old;
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.
Μ'
With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedewed
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.


## p. 13683 (#509) ##########################################

ROBERT SOUTHEY
13683
My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with a humble mind.
My hopes are with the Dead: anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.
THE INCHCAPE ROCK
N°
O STIR in the air, no stir in the sea:
The ship was still as she could be;
Her sails from heaven received no motion;
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
The Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that Bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell,
The mariners heard the warning Bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
The sun in heaven was shining gay;
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round,
And there was joyance in their sound.
The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green:
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.


## p. 13684 (#510) ##########################################

13684
ROBERT SOUTHEY
He felt the cheering power of spring;
It made him whistle, it made him sing:
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok. "
The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound;
The bubbles rose and burst around:
Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok. "
Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away;
He scoured the seas for many a day:
And now, grown rich with plundered store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,
They cannot see the sun on high:
The wind hath blown a gale all day;
At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes his stand:
So dark it is, they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon. "
"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore. "
"Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell. "
-
They hear no sound; the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock:
"O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock! "
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He curst himself in his despair:


## p. 13685 (#511) ##########################################

ROBERT SOUTHEY
13685
The waves rush in on every side;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But even in his dying fear,
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,—
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,
The Devil below was ringing his knell.
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM
T WAS a summer evening;
IT Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large and smooth and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,-
Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
"Who fell in the great victory.
"I find them in the garden,
For there's many hereabout;
And often when I go to plow,
The plowshare turns them out:
For many thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in that great victory. "
"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes:-
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for. "
―


## p. 13686 (#512) ##########################################

13686
ROBERT SOUTHEY
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out:
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.
My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by:
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
"With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby, died:
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
"They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun:
But things like that, you know, must be,
After a famous victory.
"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,
And our good Prince Eugene. "
"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing! "
Said little Wilhelmine.
"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he:
"It was a famous victory,
"And everybody praised the Duke,
Who this great fight did win. "
"But what good came of it at last? "
Quoth little Peterkin.
"Why, that I cannot tell," said he;
"But 'twas a famous victory. "


## p. 13687 (#513) ##########################################

ROBERT SOUTHEY
13687
THE OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEY
A BALLAD, SHOWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO
RODE BEFORE HER
THE
HE Raven croaked as she sate at her meal,
And the Old Woman knew what he said·
And she grew pale at the Raven's tale,
And sickened, and went to her bed.
"Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,"
The Old Woman of Berkeley said;
"The Monk my son, and my daughter the Nun,
Bid them hasten, or I shall be dead. ”
The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun,
Their way to Berkeley went;
And they have brought, with pious thought,
The holy sacrament.
The Old Woman shrieked as they entered her door,
And she cried with a voice of despair,
"Now take away the sacrament,
For its presence I cannot bear! "
Her lip it trembled with agony;
The sweat ran down her brow:
"I have tortures in store for evermore;
But spare me, my children, now! "
Away they sent the sacrament:
The fit it left her weak;
She looked at her children with ghastly eyes,
And faintly struggled to speak.
"All kind of sin I have rioted in,
And the judgment now must be;
But I secured my children's souls:
Oh, pray, my children, for me!
"I have 'nointed myself with infants' fat;
The fiends have been my slaves;
From sleeping babes I have sucked the breath;
And breaking by charms the sleep of death,
I have called the dead from their graves.


## p. 13688 (#514) ##########################################

13688
ROBERT SOUTHEY
"And the Devil will fetch me now in fire,
My witchcrafts to atone;
And I, who have troubled the dead man's grave,
Shall never have rest in my own.
"Bless, I entreat, my winding-sheet,
My children, I beg of you;
And with holy-water sprinkle my shroud,
And sprinkle my coffin too.
"And let me be chained in my coffin of stone;
And fasten it strong, I implore,
With iron bars, and with three chains
Chain it to the church-floor.
"And bless the chains, and sprinkle them;
And let fifty Priests stand round,
Who night and day the Mass may say
Where I lie on the ground.
"And see that fifty Choristers
Beside the bier attend me,
And day and night, by the tapers' light,
With holy hymns defend me.
"Let the church-bells all, both great and small,
Be tolled by night and day,
To drive from thence the fiends who come
To bear my body away.
"And ever have the church-door barred
After the even-song;
And I beseech you, children dear,
Let the bars and bolts be strong.
"And let this be three days and nights,
My wretched corpse to save;
Till the fourth morning keep me safe,
And then I may rest in my grave. "
The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down,
And her eyes grew deadly dim;
Short came her breath, and the struggle of death
Did loosen every limb.
They blest the Old Woman's winding-sheet
With rites and prayers due;


## p. 13689 (#515) ##########################################

ROBERT SOUTHEY
13689
With holy-water they sprinkled her shroud,
And they sprinkled her coffin too.
And they chained her in her coffin of stone,
And with iron barred it down,
And in the church with three strong chains
They chained it to the ground.
And they blest the chains, and sprinkled them;
And fifty Priests stood round,
By night and day the Mass to say
Where she lay on the ground.
And fifty sacred Choristers
Beside the bier attend her,
Who day and night, by the tapers' light,
Should with holy hymns defend her.
To see the Priests and Choristers
It was a goodly sight,
Each holding, as it were a staff,
A taper burning bright.
And the church-bells all, both great and small,
Did toll so loud and long;
And they have barred the church-door hard,
After the even-song.
And the first night the tapers' light
Burnt steadily and clear;
But they without a hideous rout
Of angry fiends could hear;
;-
-
A hideous roar at the church-door,
Like a long thunder-peal;
And the Priests they prayed, and the Choristers sung
Louder, in fearful zeal.
Loud tolled the bell; the Priests prayed well;
The tapers they burnt bright:
The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun,
They told their beads all night.
The cock he crew; the Fiends they flew
From the voice of the morning away:
Then undisturbed the Choristers sing,
And the fifty Priests they pray;


## p. 13690 (#516) ##########################################

13690
ROBERT SOUTHEY
As they had sung and prayed all night,
They prayed and sung all day.
The second night the tapers' light
Burnt dismally and blue,
And every one saw his neighbor's face
Like a dead man's face to view.
And yells and cries without arise,
That the stoutest heart might shock,
And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring
Over a mountain rock.
The Monk and Nun they told their beads
As fast as they could tell;
And aye as louder grew the noise,
The faster went the bell.
Louder and louder the Choristers sung,
As they trembled more and more;
And the Priests, as they prayed to Heaven for aid,
They smote their breasts full sore.
The cock he crew; the Fiends they flew
From the voice of the morning away:
Then undisturbed the Choristers sing,
And the fifty Priests they pray;
As they had sung and prayed all night,
They prayed and sung all day.
The third night came, and the tapers' flame
A frightful stench did make;
And they burnt as though they had been dipped
In the burning brimstone lake.
And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean,
Grew momently more and more;
And strokes as of a battering-ram
Did shake the strong church-door.
The bellmen they for very fear
Could toll the bell no longer;
And still, as louder grew the strokes,
Their fear it grew the stronger.