“Jenny” was Mrs. Carlyle.

From Guy Mannering. Scott says it is a prayer or spell, which was used in Scotland or Northern England to speed the passage of a parting spirit, like the tolling of a bell in Catholic days.

This was written in 1863, but ten years earlier Alexander Smith, in “A Life Drama,” had written:

Other writers have also used the same simile. See next poem.

Two friends, who through absence have become “soul from soul estranged,” are compared to two ships, which unconsciously draw apart during the night and must continue a diverging course; but, being both bound for the same port, will at the end of their life-voyage be re-united.

Tennyson, here and elsewhere (see, for example, the king’s beautiful speech in “The Passing of Arthur”) urges us to prayer, and adds his belief in a personal intercourse with an ever-present and loving God. Innumerable men of the highest character during nineteen centuries have testified to the same direct communion with the Almighty.

See following quotation.

This is Vision.

This was written in a game of bouts rimés (rhymed ends). Four lines had to be composed ending with “brook,” “why,” “crook,” “I.”

Referring to Bryant’s poem, “To a Waterfowl”:—

In the play Francis I (1494-1547) enters singing these lines. (Francis wrote on the walls of the royal apartments at Chambord Toute femme varie, “Every woman is fickle.”) One finds this never-ending theme of poets and cynics in Virgil’s Varium et mutabile semper Femina, “Woman is a fickle and changeable thing” (Aeneid iv, 569), La donna è mobile (Rigoletto), and countless other passages.

This was written in March, 1879, after Hodgson had left Australia for England. The love-episode is imaginary.

It is very true that the amazing intellectual power of the Greeks in a primitive age ensures them an immortality of fame; and this is finely expressed in the last two lines. But those two splendid lines are utterly spoilt by the two that precede them. One asks, Why “Greece and her foundations”? One does not say “a house and its foundations” are built somewhere or other. This by itself would be trivial, but next comes the question, What is the meaning of the second line? We know what Shelley intended—that the memory and influence of Greece will withstand its destruction by war—but why in that case should she not be built above, instead of submerged below the tide of war? Later on, in lines 836-7, the Emperor Palæologus, at the siege of Constantinople, is said to have cast himself “beneath the stream of war”; that is to say, he was overwhelmed and killed. The words, in fact, do not express the poet’s meaning. The third and fatal defect of the lines is the juxtaposition of “tide” and “sea” —the city is built below a tide, and also based on a sea. Not only is this combination absurd in itself, but it also destroys the beauty of the last two magnificent lines. The moving unstable water is scarcely a foundation to build upon, yet this meaning is forcibly impressed upon the word “sea” by the previous mention of a “tide.” What Shelley meant was an immense broad, deep, expanse of solid crystal—the “sea of glass like unto crystal” of Revelations (iv, 6) and the Mer de Glace (“sea of ice”), the great Alpine glacier.[34] Therefore, anyone who had exactness of thought or perception of poetry would omit the first two lines and give only the last two as a quotation.

Mrs. Shelley in her note on “Hellas” specially refers to this verse as a beautiful example of Shelley’s style, and she quotes all four lines. We may assume, therefore, that Shelley himself thought highly of the verse, and we thus have an illustration of the curious fact that a great poet is often a poor judge of his own poetry. (Almost certainly Shakespeare himself did not realize how god-like he stood above all other poets.) However, it is not only for this reason that I have included the above quotation, but because with it I propose to make a flank attack upon Mr. R. W. Livingstone, the author of The Greek Genius and its Meaning to us. I do this, of course, with a special object in view.

Mr. Livingstone’s book is important, valuable, and highly interesting—and is especially admirable because the author does not envelope his subject in the usual glamour, born of enthusiasm. He is, indeed, most exceptional in this respect, that he endeavours to look at the Greeks from an ordinary commonsense point of view. But he makes the mistake, not unusual with classical men, of supposing that he is a qualified critic of poetry; and he, therefore, gives us a special dissertation upon the comparative values of English and Greek poetry.

Apart from this dissertation, he quotes three or four passages from English poets in the course of the book. Of these the most prominent is the above verse of Shelley’s, and he quotes all four lines without comment. Thus we see an able man, in whom classical study should have induced exactness of thought, failing to analyse and understand what he is quoting. But, more than this, the question is one of poetic perception. The imagery in the last two lines is sublime—in the four lines it is ludicrous. Therefore, we begin with the fact that our literary critic was unable to see palpable and grave defects in one of the few verses he himself quotes. (I might give other illustrations, as where he admires poor verse of Dryden’s, but I must be brief.)

Mr. Livingstone’s point is that the “direct” and “truthful” character of Greek poetry is superior to the “imaginative” quality of English verse. He goes so far as to say that “Sappho and Simonides with four words make him see a nightingale and give him a greater and far saner pleasure” than Shelley’s poem “To a Skylark.” I take his quotation from Simonides, as it involves less discussion than that from Sappho.[35] It is (Fr, 73) ἀὴδονες πολυκώτιλοι χλωραύχενες εἰαριναί, “The warbling nightingales with olive necks, the birds of spring.”

As Mr. Livingstone is not discussing beauty of expression we can leave this out of consideration.[36] He is discussing the substance of poetry, comparing the “directness” and “truthfulness” of Simonides (in this case) with the imaginative element in Shelley’s poem. He would apparently discard the latter element altogether, and prefers a simple description of the nightingale—that it sings, has an olive neck, and appears in spring. The first suggestion that occurs to one is that if, say, an auctioneer’s catalogue of farm stock—without any addition whatever to its contents—could be worded prettily and made metrical, it would afford huge enjoyment to our literary critic.

The whole question is as to the value of the imaginative element which to our minds makes Shelley’s poem one of the most beautiful lyrics—possibly the most beautiful—in all literature. In sweeping away this element, Mr. Livingstone tells us how much of English poetry must be cast aside. But he does not realize that much else has also to be flung on the scrap-heap. Imagination, in its true sense, includes all those aesthetic, moral, and spiritual faculties which are higher than the intellect—all, in fact, that raises man above his material existence. (See pp. 39, 40, 358.) With the immense deal of English poetry which Mr. Livingstone proposes to “scrap” must go all our most beautiful music, all that is great in painting (which is never “direct” and “truthful” in this sense, or it would not be great), all Greek statuary, and all that expresses high moral and spiritual truths in our literature. I do not think that Mr. Livingstone will find many adherents to his new creed.

This critic also discusses style, and we find that he speaks of Pope as a “great poet,” and apparently revels in his monotonous verse! When pointing out that English verse, unlike what we have left of Greek poetry, includes much unequal and ill-finished work, he says, “Of all our great poets, perhaps only Milton and Pope can boast unfailing excellence of style.”

As regards this inequality in the work of English poets the answer is very simple. Mr. Livingstone forgets the fact—a very important fact in any speculation upon the scheme of the universe—that only the good things ultimately survive. How very little we have left of many Greek poets! Of Sophocles only seven plays remain out of one hundred and twenty-seven, and the Fragments collected are said to be very poor (many, of course, are only grammatical illustrations)—and more than half of Homer must have been dropped. We probably still have everything that is best in Greek literature. Again, it is not in fact desirable to restrict publication to work of the highest importance, and the facilities afforded by printing have made it unnecessary thus to restrict it—so that even My Commonplace Book is now, at least temporarily, part of English literature!

Greatly as I admire Mr. Livingstone’s book, I feel bound to call attention to a view of poetry that must do great harm to University students and others. I am also bound to mention him as an illustration of the fact that classical men usually imagine that their study of the Greek and Latin languages and literature qualifies them to become literary critics.[37] This fact has impressed itself upon me from youth upwards. One of my teachers, a man of some weight in the classical world, was in the habit of saying that only through study of Latin and Greek could a man learn to write good English![38] His own English was simply execrable.

I will now give another instance where the classical enthusiast, as in Mr. Livingstone’s case, tends to exaggerate the value of his favourite literature—truly wonderful as it is. Gissing’s Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft is an interesting book of wide circulation, in which the author displays great admiration for and familiarity with the classics. Speaking of Xenophon’s Anabasis, he says “Were it the sole book existing in Greek, it would be abundantly worth while to learn the language in order to read it.” That is to say, it would be worth while expending, out of our short lives, some years of study for the sole purpose of reading in the original an extremely simple, prose historical narrative, which has been excellently translated! (If Gissing had said Homer instead of Xenophon, no one would have quarrelled with him.) Again, he says, “Many a single line presents a picture which deeply stirs the emotions”; and he gives us what he calls “a good instance of such a line.” A guide, who has led the Greeks through hostile country, has to return through the same perilous district, and the wonderful line is Ἐπεὶ ἑσπέρα ἐγένετο, ᾤχετο τῆς νυκτὸς ἀπιών. This line Gissing translates, “When evening came he took leave of us and went away by night”—a sentence which only by inadvertence could have appeared in, say, a Times leader, seeing that the words “by night” are redundant. As a matter of fact, the translation is incorrect; there is nothing about “taking leave of us,” and the meaning is, “As soon as evening came, he had slipped away into the darkness.”

(Professor Naylor points out to me that the word ᾤχετο in this line is interesting. It conveys the idea of a swift or abrupt departure or disappearance. It is used in connection with that most interesting man Alcibiades (Xen, Hell., 2. I. 26) and gives a fine impression of his quick insolent temper. The Greek admirals had put themselves in a position of extreme danger and he came to warn them of their peril. Their reply was the usual expression of ineptitude, “We are the admirals, not you”; and immediately follows the one word ᾤχετο, “he turned on his heels and left”—and with this word Alcibiades disappears from contemporary history.)

In referring to Mr. Livingstone’s remarks above I could not use the Sappho quotation, because there are certain initial questions that need to be first settled. (In briefly discussing these I must speak as though I were expressing definite opinions, since otherwise the note could not be compressed sufficiently, but I mean the following rather as suggestions which may possibly be found useful.)

Sappho’s line is (Fr, 39) Ἦρος ἄγγελος ἱμερόφωνος ἀήδων, which Mr. Livingstone translates “The messenger of spring, the lovely-voiced nightingale.” Now ἱμερος (himeros) means animal passion, so that ἱμερόφωνος (himerophonos) is a strong word meaning singing of, or with, passion—in this case the passion of the pairing-time. Why then does Mr. Livingstone, following Liddell and Scott, give the totally different meaning “lovely-voiced”? Apparently it is because Theocritus (XXVIII, 7) applies the expression “himerophonos” to the Charites, and, according to the current conception, those deities were pure unimpassionate beings.[39]

In questions of this character, seeing that the Greek gods were guilty of every form of immorality and the Greeks themselves were one of the most sensual nations that ever existed, the presumption is in favour of impurity: the onus of proof is on those who allege purity. I have not undertaken the heavy work of looking up the innumerable references to the Charites in Greek literature, but I know of nothing that supports the prevalent conception of those deities. Apart from the fact that Theocritus uses the word himerophonos, Meleager (Anth. Pal, V, 195) speaks of himeros as conferred by the Charites. There is nothing in the meaning of charis, or the verb charizesthai to support the current idea (both being even used in an immodest sense); Homer identifies Charis with Aphrodite, with whom Hesiod also identifies Aglaia, since each is made the wife of Hephaestus; the Charites are constantly associated with Aphrodite and Erôs (and consequently with Himeros, the personification of passion) so that the maxim Noscitur a sociis applies; Sappho repeatedly claims them as her patrons; as regards the representation of the Charites in art, girl friendship would be a subject quite alien to the Greek mind.

If the view suggested is correct our authorities with their preconceived ideas presume to correct Theocritus and Sappho! They not only give a wrong view of the Charites, but also hide the coarseness of the compliment paid by Theocritus to his lady friend—in each case distorting the truth.

Mr. Livingstone may have another reason for altering the meaning of “himerophonos.” He appears to hold the opinion that a Greek writer would not ascribe intelligence or emotion to a bird, as Mrs. Browning does in “To a Seamew.” (I quite agree with him as to the false, feminine sentiment in this poem. It is mainly the “Sonnets from the Portuguese” that raise Mrs. Browning above the minor poets.) Mr. Livingstone, for example, translates ἡμερόφων’ ἀλέκτωρ, “O cock that criest at dawn.” This should surely mean “that announceth the dawn;” the attitude and the very crow of the bird would suggest this to the Greeks; and the fowl did, as a matter of fact, serve in place of an alarm-clock to them (see, for instance, Aristophanes’ Birds, 488). Does not Mr. Livingstone forget that the Greeks attributed not only intelligence but also miraculous powers to animals (see p. 370)? If so, this illustrates another fact noticeable among classical authorities. They often fail to consider all the premises before arriving at a conclusion. Taking another illustration from Mr. Livingstone, he says that the Greeks had little of the feeling of wonder, did not “muse on the strangeness of the world,” and would not have experienced the emotion Pascal felt when viewing the starry heavens, “The eternal silence of those infinite spaces terrifies me.” The premise he appears to omit here is the fact of the intense ignorance of the Greeks. Their world was a very limited one, with its flat earth and solid lid, certain bright objects conceived as gods or otherwise moving in the intermediate space. To illustrate this, Herodotus (II, 24) believes that the sun-god is forced by the cold winds in winter to move to the warm sky above Libya; and in 434 B.C. (about the same time) the great advanced thinker, Anaxagoras, is arrested for blasphemy and exiled because he taught that the sun must be a mass of blazing metal larger than the Peloponnesus! Everything in nature had its god, whose action explained whatever happened. If the Greeks had once realized the awful infinity of the universe their whole outlook on nature would have changed, and I cannot think that so highly intellectual a people would not have been moved by wonder. I cannot see any element in “the Greek genius” that would indicate this. (Observe Ptolemy’s epigram on p. 10.)

Returning to the Sappho quotation, Mr. Livingstone translates ἦρος ἄγγελος literally as “the messenger of spring.” Does he mean the messenger “sent by spring” or “announcing spring”? Presumably he does not mean the latter, as it would impute intelligence or emotion to the bird. But, if we accept the former interpretation, it leads to the curious result that the poet, not content with a Goddess of Spring and the Hours who represent the seasons, intends still further to personify spring. Is not the true meaning of Sappho’s words “the nightingale with its passionate song sent (by Proserpine) to let men know that spring is approaching”? This is not mere captious criticism. To Sappho the goddess Proserpine was a concrete being with some sort of corporeal form, who brings a thing called spring, and who actually does send the nightingale ahead to sing of the passion of the pairing-time, and thus let men know that spring is coming. There is no poetic imagery, no imaginative picture in the poet’s mind, but the statement of an actual fact. See also the reference to the halcyon, p. 370. It seems to me that, in this as in other cases, our classical authorities fail to place themselves in the position of the Greeks. Here they interpret as imagination what was meant as reality. (However, as I have said before, the above are merely suggestions which I myself hope to consider further; but, until we knew exactly what Sappho’s verse meant, it could not be brought into the discussion of Mr. Livingstone’s views.)