THE KNICKERBOCKER.

GREEK EPITAPHS AND INSCRIPTIONS.

Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori.—Horace.

Greece was the land of poetry. Endowed with a language, of all others adapted to every variation of feeling, from the deepest pathos or boldest heroism, to the lightest mirth, and gifted with the most exquisite sensibility to all the charms of poetry, it is not surprising that her inhabitants carried it to a height beyond any thing that the world has seen, before or since. It was intermingled with their daily life, it formed a portion of their very being, and constituted the chief source of their highest enjoyment. All Athens rushed daily to the theatre, to exult or weep as the genius of the poet directed them; and the people who could fine their greatest tragedian for harrowing their feelings beyond endurance, must have been differently formed from those of the present day. The well-known saying of old Fletcher of Saltoun, is not now true; but we can readily believe it, with such a race, when songs, like the glorious ode of Callistratus,

Εν μυρτω κλαδι το ξιφος φορησω. κ. τ. λ.

were daily sung, while the lyre and myrtle-branch passed from hand to hand.

With the Greeks, poetry seemed to enter into the character of every man. It was cultivated by the annual contests between its highest professors; and the honor which awaited the victor was an inducement to exertion of the noblest kind. It was the surest road to the favor and patronage of the great. Not the cold and chilling assistance which the Medici held out to the genius of their land, and which seemed to calculate the least expense with which the credit of a protector of learning could be bought, but the ready and regal munificence of a man who regards the gifts of genius as the highest with which a mortal can be favored. He who could enchant such a people need take no care for the future. Kings disputed for the honor of his presence, and states were overjoyed to support him. Let not the example of Homer be brought to controvert this. He lived long before poetry thus became the delight of the people; and, after all, to say that he 'begged his bread' is but a bold poetic license. Beside, the eagerness with which the 'Seven Cities' disputed for the Mœonian, show what would have been his fate had he not 'fallen on evil days.' In after ages he was honored, and ranked all but with the gods.

In the same mood, the highest reward, the fullest honor, that could be given to the rescuer of his country was to have his name inserted in the inscription that marked the scene of his victories.[A] In this spirit, no national event took place, no great battle was won, no instance of heroic self-devotion occurred, that the genius of the highest poets was not called upon to commemorate it in some noble or pathetic inscription, which, in after ages, calls forth as much admiration as the deed which originated it. The glorious death of the three-hundred takes place at Thermopylæ; the Athenians propose a contest for the honor of placing an inscription to mark the spot; and crowds are gathered to adjudge the prize; for, in those days, crowds were judges. Among the competitors are Æschylus and Simonides; and, amid the roar of that immense multitude, the victor-palm is awarded to Simonides, for two lines which will live to the end of time:

Their noble simplicity is almost untranslatable, yet we will attempt it:

Or, more literally:

The few of these majestic inscriptions which yet remain to us, all bear the same imprint of lofty poetic feeling. Expressed with the utmost simplicity, they would seem bald, were it not for the skill of the poet, and the glorious associations that they call up around us.

The subject of Thermopylæ appears to have been a favorite with Simonides. Here is another which breathes the same spirit:

We have endeavored to render it into the English as literally as possible:

And yet another, a glorious eulogy:

And here, again, is another, from the same, beautiful in its simplicity, on the heroes who fell in one of Greece's glorious victories; which one is not known:

Or thus:

And, as it was with these monuments of national glory, so was it with the bounties of nature, the lesser tokens of love and affection, and the humble demonstrations of piety. No fountain leaped forth from the way-side to greet and refresh the weary traveller; no lone tomb was raised among its grove of gloomy cypresses, that some Meleager, some Anyte was not at hand to adorn it with a few lines, simple indeed, but beautiful and appropriate, and which still live, long after the names of those who called them forth have been forgotten. Then every rustic image, erected by the peasants in honor of some sylvan deity, was sure to have some little inscription, graceful, and conceived in the happiest mood. Thus, in the Greek Anthology, there are preserved nearly eight hundred epitaphs, most of them touching from their natural and exquisite simplicity. They generally indicate deep and quiet feeling, rarely indulging in the little epigrammatic points that so mar the effect of almost all modern epitaphs. What can be more beautiful than Meleager's Lament over the grave of Heliodora?

This has little of the charming simplicity which usually marks these beautiful poems, but it is an exquisite and touching lament. We have endeavored to render it into English, although we fear

And the following shows the hand of genius, guided by love. The name of its author is unfortunately unknown.

              Ουκ εθανες, Πρωτη. κ. τ. λ.

Both of these are almost perfect, each in its own way. One contemplates the survivor, and paints his grief at the loss of an adored object; the other, in a more resigned mood, observes the felicity which that object should experience in the land of spirits. Both are somewhat wanting in the tender simplicity which is the usual charm and characteristic of the Greek epitaph. But properly speaking, they are not epitaphs; they are addresses to the dead. We will give a few specimens of the inscription over the dead in its true form.

Here is a beautiful one, by Lucian, on a child:

This one, by Erinna the Lesbian, was inscribed on the tomb of a bride who died on the marriage night.

              Σταλαι και σειρηνες εμαι. κ. τ. λ.

Callimachus, too, has given us a noble one in a single distich:

And here is an exquisite little one by Tymneus, on an Egyptian who died in Crete:

              Μησοι τουτο, Φιλαινι. κ. τ. λ.

This touching one, by Callimachus, is for the cenotaph of a friend who was shipwrecked:

              Ωφελε μηδ' εγενοντο. κ. τ. λ.

When a man died at sea, and his corpse was not recovered, to receive the usual funeral honors, he was refused admittance into Charon's boat, unless his friends erected a cenotaph and performed the accustomed rites over it. The above appears to have been an inscription designed for such an occasion.

Simonides does not forget his fire in commemorating the exploits of a friend who fell in one of the battles against the Persians:

ON MEGISTIAS, THE SOOTHSAYER.

Μναμα τοδε κλεινοιο. κ. τ. λ.

The Greeks delighted to frame epitaphs for their most distinguished men, especially for their poets. Those in honor of Homer are almost innumerable. Anacreon has more than a dozen, and other favorites in proportion. We will give a specimen of these compositions in the following beautiful lines by Simmias the Theban, on Sophocles:

Not less beautiful were the inscriptions affixed to fountains, rustic statues, baths, and the hundred other little evidences of cultivated taste so frequent in Greece. With such a people, it must have afforded double pleasure to a wearied traveller on approaching a fountain, sparkling in its basin of rocks, to find over it an invitation to repose from some one of the first epigrammatists of antiquity; as, for instance, this one of Anyte:

These compositions being so limited as to their subject, bear of course much similarity to each other. We will, however, give two or three specimens in as different styles as we can select.

Here is one by Leonidas of Tarentum, on a brook, too much frequented by the flocks to be acceptable to the traveller:

And, again, here are a few lines, by the fair Anyte, simple indeed, but graceful and pleasing:

              Ἱζευ ἁπας ὑπο τασδε δαφνας. κ. τ. λ.

And yet another, by an author whose name has been forgotten:

              Ερχεο και κατ εμαν. κ. τ. λ.

The whole has an air of quiet yet musical repose that makes us almost fancy we hear the plashing of the falling waters.

There is also a pretty little inscription, somewhat Anacreontic, by Marianus the Scholiast, on a warm spring.

              Ταδ' ὑπο τας ρλατανους. κ. τ. λ.

And here, in the compass of four lines, has Paul the Silentiary given a better eulogy to his sea-side garden than could be comprehended in a whole volume of modern descriptive poetry. He allows the imagination to wander at will among objects of its own creating, and to depict for itself the scene which he would not describe:

We will now give an inscription of Theocritus, in dedicating an humble rustic altar to Apollo:

              Τα δροσοεντα τα ῥοδα. κ. τ. λ.

And here are a few simple and pretty lines, inscribed by Anyte on a statue of Venus by the sea-shore:

              Κυπριδος ὁυτος ὁ χωρος. κ. τ. λ.

And when any offering of this kind was made to one of the innumerable gods of the Greeks, it appears to have been accompanied by a few dedicatory lines. There is, of course, great sameness in such compositions, and, in fact, they generally consist merely of an enumeration of the articles offered, and the name of the devotee, but we will select two or three on different subjects.

Here is one, by Simonides, on a spear dedicated to Jupiter:

Or thus,

The following inscription is said to be by Plato. It was affixed to a mirror which the celebrated Laïs, in her old age, dedicated to Venus:

              Ἡ σοβαρον γελασασα. κ. τ. λ.

When a Grecian maiden arrived at womanhood, it was usual for her to dedicate some toy of her childhood to Venus, in token of her having abandoned her youthful occupations and amusements. Here is an inscription, by Callimachus, designed for an occasion of this kind. It is both graceful and elegant, yet is deficient in the simplicity which is the usual charm of these compositions among the Greeks. It is addressed to Venus Zephyritis:

              Κογχος εγω Ζεφυριτι. κ. τ. λ.

It would scarcely be fair to conclude this little notice of some of the smaller gems of Greek poetry, without glancing at those intended to be satirical or witty. Of these we can find but few remaining, and what are thus preserved cannot induce us to regret much the loss of those which have been destroyed. They do not seem to show a taste as refined and delicate as is exhibited by the other productions of the Grecian muse, and, indeed, are usually very poor. Two or three specimens will suffice.

Doctors and lawyers, as at present, were favorite butts for the shafts of the epigrammatists. The following mock-epitaph is intended as a cut at the former. The author is unknown:

              Ουτ' εκλυσεν Φειδων. κ. τ. λ.

And here is an epitaph,

intended, no doubt, for the grave of an enemy:

              Πολλα φαγων, και πολλα πιων. κ. τ. λ

This is certainly pithy.

Stepmothers, in those days, would seem to have been just as bad as at present, when they have become a very proverb. Here is a kind of epitaph by Callimachus, containing a hit at them which certainly has no very great merit:

              Στηλην μητρυιης. κ. τ. λ.

These are ample, as specimens of Grecian wit, which, as here exhibited, is certainly of no very refined or exalted description.

In taking a general and comprehensive glance over Greek Epitaphs and Inscriptions, we see that they are usually characterized by deep feeling, expressed concisely, and with the utmost simplicity. We rarely find any catches, any evident striving after effect, and, in consequence, to an ear not accustomed to them, they may frequently seem meagre, and even bald. But, by studying them, a meaning seems to grow out of the very words; and the more that we examine them, and the oftener that we read them, the more we find them expressive of 'thoughts that lie too deep for words,' thoughts which can be expressed but darkly, and which, concealed in this garb of simplicity, must be passed over by those who are not content to pause and ponder. Whether the pleasure derived from this be worth the labor that must be spent over them, even though it be a labor of love, is a question which each must answer for himself, according to his own tastes. If they lead him to it, he will have discovered an almost inexhaustible source of pure and elevated gratification; if not

Philadelphia, June, 1843.

Henry C. Lea.

NEW-ENGLAND.

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New-York, July 1, 1843

E. B. G.

'MENS CONSCIA RECTI.'

A CHRONICLE OF IDLEBERG.

Nicholas Pelt, the worthy pedagogue, whose history was suspended in the July number of his namesake, the 'Old Knick.,' was not long in establishing for himself a fair fame in all the region round about Idleberg; nor was his attention exclusively devoted to the monotonous duties of his profession. While he taught the young idea 'how to shoot,' a new and absorbing passion had taken deep root in his own heart, and was now flourishing luxuriantly in the genial soil. His fortunes had brought him to Idleberg, and thrown in his path the lovely image of Ellen Van Dyke; and what poor mortal, Yankee though he be, could resist her thousand fascinations? Every day, at home, in the midst of her domestic duties and her ten petticoats, she was beautiful enough, in all conscience; but when on frequent occasions she braided her hair, and pinched her cheeks for a bloom, and clasped around her neck that enchanting dove of jet and gold, poor Nicholas looked and sighed, and sighed and looked, as though his very existence depended on her smile.

Could you have witnessed the eccentric movements of the fair Ellen and the sage Nicholas, you might have guessed the nature of their mutual feelings. How he stood by while she milked, to keep the cow from kicking, and how the cow did kick, notwithstanding; how he led the way to church, and how she followed on behind; such smiling and blushing when they met thrice a day at table; such an agitation of nerves whenever he clasped that small hand in his own, that seemed just made for it; these were enough to show that the schoolmaster's sojourn in the village was fraught with deep interest to at least two persons more than the striplings who were thriving on his instructions. Then when the school would be drawing to a close, and the evening sun was growing drowsy together with master and pupil, you might have seen the sage pedagogue forget his official dignity so far as to smile and nod repeatedly at some object over the way, which was no other than the cobbler's daughter, who always happened just at that time to be taking the air from her little gable-end window, and returned Nicholas's amorous glances with such unequivocal symptoms of delight, as should have made any lover's heart, if not his feet, dance for very joy.

But how fared the suit of Hans Keiser? Where were his organs of sight and hearing while all Idleberg was gossiping about the amours of Nicholas and Ellen? Hans seemed to possess the happy faculty of contemplating, with the utmost indifference, spectacles of youth and beauty, that would have driven many men to acts of desperation; and but for the constant efforts of his father to remind him that Ellen Van Dyke was living in constant expectation of seeing him at her feet, pleading his cause with all the eloquence of a Dutch lover, Hans would have quite forgotten the obligations of his promise to Caleb Van Dyke. Stimulated at length by his father's reiterated appeals and an extra tankard of beer, Hans one evening about sunset suddenly plucked up the requisite courage, and after arraying himself in the most glaring habiliments of his wardrobe, started out on his pilgrimage of love. Never was lover so tricked out with all the fascinations of dress, as was the young Dutchman on that eventful evening. As he surveyed his enormous shoe-buckles, glittering with the lustre of several hours' polish; his numerous suits of breeches; his gaudy waistcoat and the broad-skirted garment which completed his outer man; his imagination was agreeably entertained with visions of bleeding arrows and broken hearts, lighted halls, wedding cake, and honey-moons, all mingled in one wild, brilliant, and enchanting panorama. Nor did this imaginary prospect fade from his mental vision until he reached the scene of action, and contemplated the reality with a fast breath and a palpitating heart. Never was sanguine lover so non-plussed. The first objects he saw at the cobbler's, were the forms of Nicholas and Ellen sitting very close together and whispering in great apparent delight. Cut short on the threshold of his adventure, nipped in the very bud of his affections, Hans stumbled and stammered, and could scarcely gain sufficient composure to bid the company good evening, until he was reassured by Caleb, who, guessing the object of his errand, offered him a stool and bade him be seated.

How many wild, bewildering thoughts scampered through poor Hans's brain, like rats in a garret, while he sat there in silent astonishment, listening to the suppressed whispers of the loving pair! How heartily did he long to be away from such a place; and how often did he think of his favorite idea of going down the river on a flat-boat, or of his dog and gun, or rod and line, and some quiet place in the woods or along the creeks, where woman's image had never intruded to throw him in the shade of even a Yankee schoolmaster! He would rather be a bar-keeper to retail beer by the tankard, or an ostler to be be-Bob'd or be-Bill'd by every traveller, than a lover, sitting up in fine clothes and a straight-jacket, to win the favor of any woman under the sun, the fair Ellen not excepted.

Such a state of things had never entered into Hans's calculations, and he was consequently unprepared for the emergency. Encouraged as he had been to hope that every preliminary arrangement had been made by old Caleb; that at the mere mention of the subject the lovely girl would fly to his embrace; that the wedding would come off the next week, and after that every thing would go on in the same easy, old-fashioned way, as though nothing had happened—Hans found the cold reality inexpressibly chilling, and though neither a poet nor philosopher, began to think of certain objects, such as stars and bubbles, which greater men than he had often tried in vain to grasp. For the first time in all his life Hans was growing sentimental—nay, desperate; and while he was wishing that somebody would call in and knock the Yankee down and then strangle him, the object of his ire arose, and after a graceful bow to Hans, opened a door in the wall, and retired. At this the young Dutchman breathed somewhat more freely, but still as if laboring under great tightness of jacket, when old Caleb addressed him, inquiring what disposition he had made of his voice.

Hans's only reply was a sudden start as if from the sting of an adder, accompanied by a series of awkward gestures, during which his face grew crimson with embarrassment.

'You are not frightened at Mr. Pelt, I hope, Hans?' continued Caleb.

'Yes—no,' said Hans; 'that is—I——'

'For my part,' interposed Ellen, tossing a curl pettishly from her forehead, 'I think Mr. Pelt a very handsome, clever young man, and not an object to frighten boobies;' and with a single bound she stood at the door of her chamber, and disappeared, before Hans or her father could frame a reply.

'Never mind that, my boy,' said Caleb; 'that's the best sign in the world. Cut and come again, Hans!'

'I tell you what, old fellow,' said Hans, rising and opening the street-door; 'you've got this child into a tarnation scrape this time; but if you ever catch me in these diggings again, I'll be darned!'

'Hans! Hans! you are a fool. Good night!' And the amiable youth departed, and in five minutes had doffed his finery, and was fast drowning his sorrows in the flowing bowl.

Scarcely had he gone, leaving Caleb ruminating on a proper scold to be administered to Ellen the next morning, when a step was heard in the school-master's chamber, and that worthy made his appearance before the cobbler, bearing a great board on his shoulder. Caleb stared for some time at the quaint characters inscribed thereon. His eyes had for the first time that evening been opened to the growing intimacy between his daughter and Nicholas; and he was disposed to consider the invention as little else than a 'Yankee notion.'

'And what do you call that?' he asked, gruffly.

'My dear Sir,' said Mr. Pelt, 'this is nothing more than a sign-board. It is something new in town, and I think it will attract attention, and may do you some service.' Then bringing the lamp to bear on the board, he displayed to Caleb various devices, inscribed on its surface, of boots and shoes of all sizes and fashions, the whole illustrated with the words: