Books and Habits, from the Lectures of Lafcadio Hearn Part 19

Serves you right!" Of course you recognize the allusion to the story of t.i.thonus, so beautifully told by Tennyson. The girl's jest has a double meaning. The word "importunate" has the signification of a wearisome repet.i.tion of a request, a constant asking, impossible to satisfy.

t.i.thonus was supposed to complain because he was obliged to live although he wanted to die. That young girl does not want to die at all. And she says that the noise of the insect, supposed to repeat the complaint of t.i.thonus, only makes it more tiresome for her to work. She was feeling, no doubt, much as a j.a.panese student would feel when troubled by the singing of _semi_ on some very hot afternoon while he is trying to master some difficult problem.

That is pure Greek--pure as another mingling of the Greek feeling with the modern scholarly spirit, ent.i.tled "An Invocation." Before quoting from it I must explain somewhat; otherwise you might not be able to imagine what it means, because it was written to be read by those only who are acquainted with Theocritus and the Greek idylists. Perhaps I had better say something too, about the word idyl, for the use of the word by Tennyson is not the Greek use at all, except in the mere fact that the word signifies a picturing, a shadowing or an imagining of things.

Tennyson's pictures are of a purely imaginative kind in the "Idyls of the King." But the Greek poets who first invented the poetry called idyllic did not attempt the heroic works of imagination at all; they only endeavoured to make perfectly true pictures of the common life of peasants in the country. They wrote about the young men and young girls working on the farms, about the way they quarrelled or rejoiced or made love, about their dances and their songs, about their religious festivals and their sacrifices to the G.o.ds at the parish temple. Imagine a j.a.panese scholar of to-day who, after leaving the university, instead of busying himself with the fashionable studies of the time, should go out into the remoter districts or islands of j.a.pan, and devote his life to studying the existence of the commoner people there, and making poems about it. This was exactly what the Greek idylists did,--that is, the best of them. They were great scholars and became friends of kings, but they wrote poetry chiefly about peasant life, and they gave all their genius to the work.

The result was so beautiful that everybody is still charmed by the pictures or idyls which they made.

Well, after this disgression, to return to the subject of Theocritus, the greatest of the idylists. He has often introduced into his idyls the name of Comatas. Who was Comatas? Comatas was a Greek shepherd boy, or more strictly speaking a goatherd, who kept the flocks of a rich man. It was his duty to sacrifice to the G.o.ds none of his master's animals, without permission; but as his master was a very avaricious person, Comatas knew that it would be of little use to ask him. Now this Comatas was a very good singer of peasant songs, and he made many beautiful poems for the people to sing, and he believed that it was the G.o.ds who had given him power to make the songs, and the Muses had inspired him with the capacity to make good verse. In spite of his master's will, Comatas therefore thought it was not very bad to take the young kids and sacrifice to the G.o.ds and the Muses. When his master found out what had been done with the animals, naturally he became very angry, and he put Comatas into a great box of cedar-wood in order to starve him to death--saying, as he closed and locked the lid, "Now, Comatas, let us see whether the G.o.ds will feed you!" In that box Comatas was left for a year without food or drink, and when the master, at the end of the year, opened the box, he expected to find nothing but the bones of the goatherd. But Comatas was alive and well, singing sweet songs, because during the year the Muses had sent bees to feed him with honey. The bees had been able to enter the box through a very little hole. I suppose you know that bees were held sacred to the Muses, and that there is in Greek legend a symbolic relation between bees and poetry.

If you want to know what kind of songs Comatas sang and what kind of life he represented, you will find all this exquisitely told by Theocritus; and there is a beautiful little translation in prose of Theocritus, Bion and Moschus, made by Andrew Lang, which should delight you to read. Another day I shall give you examples of such translations. Then you will see what true idyllic poetry originally signified. These Greeks, although trained scholars and philosophers, understood not only that human nature in itself is a beautiful thing, but also that the best way to study human nature is to study the life of the peasants and the common people. It is not to the rich and leisurely, not to rank and society, that a poet must go for inspiration. He will not find it there. What is called society is a world in which n.o.body is happy, and in which pure human nature is afraid to show itself. Life among the higher cla.s.ses in all countries is formal, artificial, theatrical; poetry is not there. Of course no kind of human community is perfectly happy, but it is among the simple folk, the country folk, who do not know much about evil and deceit, that the greater proportion of happiness can be found. Among the youths of the country especially, combining the charm of childhood with the strength of adult maturity, the best possible subjects for fine pure studies of human nature can be found. May I not here express the hope that some young j.a.panese poet, some graduate of this very university, will eventually attempt to do in j.a.pan what Theocritus and Bion did in ancient Sicily? A great deal of the very same kind of poetry exists in our own rural districts, and parallels can be found in the daily life of the j.a.panese peasants for everything beautifully described in Theocritus. At all events I am quite sure of one thing, that no great new literature can possibly arise in this country until some scholarly minds discover that the real force and truth and beauty and poetry of life is to be found only in studies of the common people--not in the life of the rich and the n.o.ble, not in the shadowy life of books.

Well, our English poet felt with the Greek idylists, and in the poem called "An Invocation" he beautifully expresses this sympathy. All of us, he says, should like to see and hear something of the ancient past if it were possible. We should like, some of us, to call back the vanished G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses of the beautiful Greek world, or to talk to the great souls of that world who had the experience of life as men--to Socrates, for example, to Plato, to Phidias the sculptor, to Pericles the statesman.

But, as a poet, my wish would not be for the return of the old G.o.ds nor of the old heroes so much as for the return to us of some common men who lived in the Greek world. It is Comatas, he says, that he would most like to see, and to see in some English park--in the neighbourhood of Cambridge University, or of Eton College. And thus he addresses the spirit of Comatas:

O dear divine Comatas, I would that thou and I Beneath this broken sunlight this leisure day might lie; Where trees from distant forests, whose names were strange to thee, Should bend their amorous branches within thy reach to be, And flowers thine h.e.l.las knew not, which art hath made more fair, Should shed their shining petals upon thy fragrant hair.

Then thou shouldst calmly listen with ever-changing looks To songs of younger minstrels and plots of modern books, And wonder at the daring of poets later born, Whose thoughts are unto thy thoughts as noontide is to morn; And little shouldst them grudge them their greater strength of soul, Thy partners in the torch-race, though nearer to the goal.

Or in thy cedarn prison thou waitest for the bee: Ah, leave that simple honey and take thy food from me.

My sun is stooping westward. Entranced dreamer, haste; There's fruitage in my garden that I would have thee taste.

Now lift the lid a moment; now, Dorian shepherd, speak; Two minds shall flow together, the English and the Greek.

A few phrases of these beautiful stanzas need explanation. "Broken sunlight" refers, of course, to the imperfect shade thrown by the trees under which the poet is lying. The shadow is broken by the light pa.s.sing through leaves, or conversely, the light is broken by the interposition of the leaves. The reference to trees from distant forests no doubt intimates that the poet is in some botanical garden, a private park, in which foreign trees are carefully cultivated. The "torch race" is a simile for the pursuit of knowledge and truth. Greek thinkers compare the transmission of knowledge from one generation to another, to the pa.s.sing of a lighted torch from hand to hand, as in the case of messengers carrying signals or athletes running a mighty race. As a runner runs until he is tired, or until he reaches the next station, and then pa.s.ses the torch which he has been carrying to another runner waiting to receive it, so does each generation pa.s.s on its wisdom to the succeeding generation, and disappear. "My sun is stooping westward" is only a beautiful way of saying, "I am becoming very old; be quick, so that we may see each other before I die." And the poet suggests that it is because of his age and his experience and his wisdom that he could hope to be of service to the dear divine Comatas. The expression, "there is fruitage in my garden," refers to no material garden, but to the cultivated mind of the scholar; he is only saying, "I have strange knowledge that I should like to impart to you." How delightful, indeed, it would be, could some university scholar really converse with a living Greek of the old days!

There is another little Greek study of great and simple beauty ent.i.tled "The Daughter of Cleomenes." It is only an historical incident, but it is so related for the pleasure of suggesting a profound truth about the instinct of childhood. Long ago, when the Persians were about to make an attack upon the Greeks, there was an attempt to buy off the Spartan resistance, and the messenger to the Spartan general found him playing with his little daughter, a child of six or seven. The conference was carried on in whispers, and the child could not hear what was being said; but she broke up the whole plot by a single word. I shall quote a few lines from the close of the poem, which contain its moral lessons. The emissary has tried to tempt him with promises of wealth and power.

He falters; for the waves he fears, The roads he cannot measure; But rates full high the gleam of spears And dreams of yellow treasure.

He listens; he is yielding now; Outspoke the fearless child: "Oh, Father, come away, lest thou Be by this man beguiled."

Her lowly judgment barred the plea, So low, it could not reach her.

_The man knows more of land and sea, But she's the truer teacher._

All the little girl could know about the matter was instinctive; she only saw the cunning face of the stranger, and felt sure that he was trying to deceive her father for a bad purpose--so she cried out, "Father, come away with me, or else that man will deceive you." And she spoke truth, as her father immediately recognized.

There are several more cla.s.sical studies of extraordinary beauty; but your interest in them would depend upon something more than interest in Greek and Roman history, and we can not study all the poems. So I prefer to go back to the meditative lyrics, and to give a few splendid examples of these more personal compositions. The following stanzas are from a poem whose Latin t.i.tle signifies that Love conquers death. In this poem the author becomes the equal of Tennyson as a master of language.

The plunging rocks, whose ravenous throats The sea in wrath and mockery fills, The smoke that up the valley floats, The girlhood of the growing hills;

The thunderings from the miners' ledge, The wild a.s.saults on nature's h.o.a.rd, The peak that stormward bares an edge Ground sharp in days when t.i.tans warred;

Grim heights, by wandering clouds embraced Where lightning's ministers conspire, Grey glens, with tarns and streamlet laced, Stark forgeries of primeval fire.

These scenes may gladden many a mind Awhile from homelier thoughts released, And here my fellow men may find A Sabbath and a vision-feast.

_I bless them in the good they feel; And yet I bless them with a sigh; On me this grandeur stamps the seal Of tyrannous mortality._

_The pitiless mountain stands so sure.

The human breast so weakly heaves, That brains decay while rocks endure.

At this the insatiate spirit grieves._

But hither, oh ideal bride!

For whom this heart in silence aches, Love is unwearied as the tide, Love is perennial as the lakes.

Come thou. The spiky crags will seem One harvest of one heavenly year, And fear of death, like childish dream, Will pa.s.s and flee, when thou art here.

Very possibly this charming meditation was written on the Welsh coast; there is just such scenery as the poem describes, and the grand peak of Snowdon would well realize the imagination of the line about the girlhood of the growing hills. The melancholy of the latter part of the composition is the same melancholy to be found in "Mimnermus in Church," the first of Cory's poems which we read together. It is the Greek teaching that there is nothing to console us for the great doubt and mystery of existence except unselfish affection. All through the book we find the same philosophy, even in the beautiful studies of student life and the memories of childhood. So it is quite a melancholy book, though the sadness be beautiful. I have given you examples of the sadness of doubt and of the sadness of love; but there is yet a third kind of sadness--the sadness of a childless man, wishing that he could have a child of his own. It is a very pretty thing, simply ent.i.tled "Scheveningen Avenue"--probably the name of the avenue where the incident occurred. The poet does not tell us how it occurred, but we can very well guess. He was riding in a street car, probably, and a little girl next to him, while sitting upon her nurse's lap, fell asleep, and as she slept let her head fall upon his shoulder. This is a very simple thing to make a poem about, but what a poem it is!

Oh, that the road were longer A mile, or two, or three!

So might the thought grow stronger That flows from touch of thee.

_Oh little slumbering maid, If thou wert five years older, Thine head would not be laid So simply on my shoulder!_

_Oh, would that I were younger, Oh, were I more like thee, I should not faintly hunger For love that cannot be._

A girl might be caressed Beside me freely sitting; A child on knee might rest, And not like thee, unwitting.

Such honour is thy mother's, Who smileth on thy sleep, Or for the nurse who smothers Thy cheek in kisses deep.

And but for parting day, And but for forest shady, From me they'd take away The burden of their lady.

Ah thus to feel thee leaning Above the nursemaid's hand, Is like a stranger's gleaning Where rich men own the land;

Chance gains, and humble thrift, With shyness much like thieving, No notice with the gift, No thanks with the receiving.

Oh peasant, when thou starvest Outside the fair domain, Imagine there's a harvest In every treasured grain.

Make with thy thoughts high cheer, Say grace for others dining, And keep thy pittance clear From poison of repining.

There is an almost intolerable acuity of sadness in the last two mocking verses, but how pretty and how tender the whole thing is, and how gentle-hearted must have been the man who wrote it! The same tenderness reappears in references to children of a larger growth, the boys of his school. Sometimes he very much regrets the necessity of discipline, and advocates a wiser method of dealing with the young. How very pretty is this little verse about the boy he loves.

Sweet eyes, that aim a level shaft, At pleasure flying from afar, Sweet lips, just parted for a draught Of Hebe's nectar, shall I mar By stress of disciplinal craft The joys that in your freedom are?

But a little reflection further on in the same poem reminds us how necessary the discipline must be for the battle of life, inasmuch as each of those charming boys will have to fight against evil--

yet shall ye cope With worlding wrapped in silken lies, With pedant, hypocrite, and pope.

One might easily lecture about this little volume for many more days, so beautiful are the things which fill it. But enough has been cited to exemplify its unique value. If you reread these quotations, I think you will find each time new beauty in them. And the beauty is quite peculiar.

Such poetry could have been written only under two conditions. The first is that the poet be a consummate scholar. The second is that he must have suffered, as only a great mind and heart could suffer, from want of affection.

CHAPTER XV

OLD GREEK FRAGMENTS

The other day when we were reading some of the poems in "Ionica," I promised to speak in another short essay of Theocritus and his songs or idyls of Greek peasant life, but in speaking of him it will be well also to speak of others who equally ill.u.s.trate the fact that everywhere there is truth and beauty for the mind that can see. I spoke last week about what I thought the highest possible kind of literary art might become. But the possible becoming is yet far away; and in speaking of some old Greek writers I want only to emphasize the fact that modern literary art as well as ancient literary art produced their best results from a close study of human nature.