So, from the depths of earth and the bowels of mighty ruins, the
long-deferred day has brought back the returning Laocoon, who stood of
old in thy royal halls and graced thy penates, Titus. The image of
divine art, a work as noble as any produced by the learning of
antiquity, now freed from darkness, beholds again the lofty walls of
renovated Rome. With what part shall I begin as the greatest? the
unhappy father and his two sons? the sinuous coils of the terrible
serpents? the tails and the fierceness of the dragons? the wounds and
real pains of the dying stone? These chill the mind with horror, and
pity, mingled with no slight fear, drives our hearts back from the
dumb image. Two gleaming snakes cover a vast space with their gathered
coils, and move in sinuous rings, and hold three bodies bound in a
many-twisted knot. Eyes scarce can bear to behold the cruel death and
fierce sufferings. One gleaming seeks Laocoon himself, winding him all
about, above, below, and attacks his groins at last with poisonous
bite. The imprisoned body recoils, and you see the limbs writhe and
the side shrink back from the wound. Forced by the sharp pain and
bitter anguish, he groans; and, trying to tear out the cruel teeth,
throws his left hand upon the serpent’s back. The nerves strain, and
the whole body in vain collects its strength for the supreme effort.
He cannot endure the fierce torture, and pants from the wound. But the
slippery snake glides down with frequent folds, and binds his leg
below the knee with twisted knot. The calves fall in, the tight-bound
leg swells between the pressing coils, and the vitals grow tumid from
the stopping of the pulses, and black blood distends the livid veins.
The same cruel violence attacks the children no less fiercely,
tortures them with many encircling folds, and lacerates their
suffering limbs. Now satiated upon the bloody breast of one, who, with
his last breath, calls upon his father, the serpent supports the
lifeless body with the mighty circles thrown around it. The other,
whose body has as yet been hurt by no sting, while preparing to pluck
out the tail from his foot, is filled with horror at sight of his
wretched father, and clings to him. A double fear restrains his great
sobs and falling tears. Therefore ye enjoy perpetual fame, ye great
artificers who made the mighty work, although an immortal name may be
sought by better deeds, and nobler talents may be handed down to
future fame. Yet any power employed to snatch this praise and reach
the heights of fame is excellent. Ye have excelled in animating the
rigid stone with living forms, and inserting living senses within the
breathing marble. We see the movement, the wrath and pain, and almost
hear the groans. Illustrious Rhodes begot you of old. Long the glories
of your art lay hid, but Rome beholds them again in a second dawn, and
celebrates them with many voices, in fresh acknowledgment of the old
labor. How much nobler, then, to extend our fates by art or toil than
to swell pride and wealth and empty luxury.
(Leodegarii a Quercu Farrago Poematum, T. ii.) Gruter has introduced
this poem with another one of Sadolet into his well-known collection,
but with many errors. (Delic. Poet. Italorum. Parte alt.)
Note 16, p. 45.
De la Peinture, tome iii. p. 516. C’est l’horreur que les Troïens ont
conçue contre Laocoon, qui était nécessaire à Virgile pour la conduite
de son poëme; et cela le mène à cette description pathétique de la
destruction de la patrie de son héros. Aussi Virgile n’avait garde de
diviser l’attention sur la dernière nuit, pour une grand ville entière,
par la peinture d’un petit malheur d’un particulier.
Note 17, p. 51.
I say it is possible, but I would wager ten against one that it is not
so. Juvenal is speaking of the early days of the republic, when splendor
and luxury were yet unknown, and the soldier put whatever gold and
silver he got as booty upon his arms and the caparisons of his horse.
(Sat. xi.)
Tunc rudis et Grajas mirari nescius artes
Urbibus eversis prædarum in parte reperta
Magnorum artificum frangebat pocula miles.
Ut phaleris gauderet equus, cælataque cassis
Romuleæ simulacra feræ mansuescere jussæ
Imperii fato, geminos sub rupe Quirinos,
Ac nudam effigiem clypeo fulgentis et hasta,
Pendentisque Dei perituro ostenderet hosti.
The soldier broke up the precious cups, the masterpieces of great
artists, to make a she-wolf, a little Romulus and Remus to deck his
helmet with. All is plain down to the last two lines, where the poet
proceeds to describe such a figure on the helmets of the old soldiers.
The figure is meant for the god Mars, but what can the term _pendentis_
mean as applied to him? Rigaltius found in an old gloss the
interpretation “quasi ad ictum se inclinantis.” Lubinus supposes the
figure to have been on the shield, and, as the shield hung from the arm,
the figure might be spoken of as hanging. But this is contrary to the
construction, the subject of “ostenderet” being not “miles” but
“cassis.” According to Britannicus, whatever stands high in the air may
be said to hang, and the expression may be used of this figure perched
above or upon the helmet. Some would read “perdentis” as a contrast to
the following “perituro,” though none but themselves would think the
contrast desirable. What does Addison say to this doubtful passage? He
thinks all the commentators are wrong and maintains this to be the true
meaning. “The Roman soldiers, who were not a little proud of their
founder and the military genius of their republic, used to bear on their
helmets the first history of Romulus, who was begot by the god of war
and suckled by a wolf. The figure of the god was made as if descending
upon the priestess Ilia, or, as others call her, Rhea Silvia. As he was
represented descending, his figure appeared suspended in the air over
the vestal virgin, in which sense the word ‘pendentis’ is extremely
proper and poetical. Besides the antique basso-rilievo (in Bellori) that
made me first think of this interpretation, I have since met with the
same figures on the reverses of a couple of ancient coins, which were
stamped in the reign of Antoninus Pius.” (Addison’s Travels, Rome,
Tonson’s edition, 1745, p. 183.)
Since Spence considers this such a happy discovery on the part of
Addison, that he quotes it as a model of its kind and as the strongest
proof of the value of the works of the old artists in throwing light on
the classic Roman poets, I cannot refrain from a closer examination of
it. (Polymetis, dial. vii.) I must observe, in the first place, that the
bas-relief and the coin would hardly have recalled to Addison the
passage from Juvenal, had he not remembered reading in the old
scholiast, who substituted “venientis” for “fulgentis” in the last line
but one, this interpretation: “Martis ad Iliam venientis ut
concumberet.” Now, instead of this reading of the old scholiast, let us
accept Addison’s, and see if we have then the slightest reason for
supposing the poet to have had Rhea in mind. Would it not rather be a
complete inversion on his part, where he is speaking of the wolf and the
boys, to be thinking of the adventure to which the children owe their
life? Rhea has not yet become a mother, and the boys are already lying
under the rock. Would an hour of dalliance be a fitting emblem for the
helmet of a Roman soldier? The soldier was proud of the divine origin of
the founder of his country, and that was sufficiently typified by the
wolf and the children. What need of introducing Mars at a moment when he
was any thing but the dread-inspiring god? His visit to Rhea may have
been represented on any number of old marbles and coins: did that make
it a fitting ornament for armor? What are the marbles and coins on which
Addison saw Mars in this hovering attitude? The old bas-relief to which
he appeals is said to be in Bellori, but we shall look for it in vain in
the Admiranda, his collection of finest old bas-reliefs. Spence cannot
have found it there or elsewhere, for he makes no mention of it. Nothing
remains, therefore, but the coins, which we will study from Addison
himself. I see a recumbent figure of Rhea, and Mars standing on a
somewhat higher plane, because there was not room for him on the same
level. That is all: there is no sign of his being suspended. Such an
effect is produced very strongly, it is true, in Spence’s copy. The
upper part of the figure is thrown so far forward as to make standing
impossible; so that if the body be not falling, it must be hovering.
Spence says this coin is in his possession. It is hard to question a
man’s veracity, even in a trifle, but our eyes are often greatly
influenced by a preconceived opinion. He may, besides, have thought it
allowable for the good of the reader to have the artist so emphasize the
expression which he thought he saw, that as little doubt might remain on
our mind as on his. One thing is plain: that Spence and Addison refer to
the same coin, which is either very much misrepresented by one or
embellished by the other. But I have another objection to make to this
supposed hovering attitude of Mars. A body thus suspended, without any
visible cause for the law of gravitation not acting upon it, is an
absurdity of which no example can be found in the old works of art. It
is not allowable even in modern painting. If a body is to be suspended
in the air, it must either have wings or appear to rest upon something,
if only a cloud. When Homer makes Thetis rise on foot from the sea-shore
to Olympus, Τὴν μὲν ἄρ’ Οὔλυμπον δὲ πόδες φέρον (Iliad, xviii. 148),
Count Caylus is too well aware of the limitations of art to counsel the
painter to represent her as walking unsupported through the air. She
must pursue her way upon a cloud (Tableaux tirés de l’Iliade, p. 91), as
in another place he puts her into a chariot (p. 131), although exactly
the opposite is stated by the poet. How can it be otherwise? Although
the poet represents the goddess with a human body, he yet removes from
her every trace of coarse and heavy materiality, and animates her with a
power which raises her beyond the influence of our laws of motion. How
could painting so distinguish the bodily shape of a deity from the
bodily shape of a human being, that our eyes should not be offended by
observing it acted upon by different laws of motion, weight, and
equilibrium? How but by conventional signs, such as a pair of wings or a
cloud? But more of this elsewhere; here it is enough to require the
defenders of the Addison theory to show on the old monuments a second
figure floating thus unsupported in the air. Can this Mars be the only
one of its kind? why? Were there some particular conditions handed down
by tradition which would necessitate such exceptional treatment in this
one case? There is no trace of such in Ovid (Fast. lib. i.), but rather
proof that no such conditions ever could have existed. For in other
ancient works of art which represent the same story, Mars is evidently
not hovering, but walking. Examine the bas-relief in Montfaucon (Suppl.
T. i. p. 183), which is to be found, if I am not mistaken, in the
Mellini palace at Rome. Rhea lies asleep under a tree, and Mars
approaches her softly, with that expressive backward motion of the right
hand by which we warn those behind to stay where they are, or to advance
gently. His attitude is precisely the same as on the coin, except that
in one case he holds his lance in the right, in the other in the left
hand. We often find famous statues and bas-reliefs copied on coins, and
the same may well be the case here, only that the cutter of the die did
not perceive the force of the backward motion of the hand, and thought
it better employed in holding the lance. Taking all these arguments into
consideration, what degree of probability remains to Addison’s theory?
Hardly more than a bare possibility. But where can better explanation be
had if this fails? Possibly among the interpretations rejected by
Addison. But if not, what then? The passage in the poet is corrupted,
and so it must remain. It certainly will so remain, if twenty new
conjectures are invented. We might say that “pendentis” here was to be
taken figuratively in the sense of uncertain, undecided. Mars “pendens”
would then be the same as Mars “incertus” or Mars “communis.” “Dii
communes,” says Servius (ad. v. 118, lib. xii. Æneid), are Mars,
Bellona, and Victory, so called from their favoring both parties in war.
And the line,—
Pendentisque Dei (effigiem) perituro ostenderet hosti,
would mean that the old Roman soldier was accustomed to wear the image
of the impartial god in the presence of his enemy, who, in spite of the
impartiality, was soon to perish. A very subtle idea, making the
victories of the old Romans depend more upon their own bravery than on
the friendly aid of their founder. Nevertheless, “non liquet.”
Note 18, p. 51.
“Till I got acquainted with these Auræ (or sylphs),” says Spence
(Polymetis, dial. xiii.), “I found myself always at a loss in reading
the known story of Cephalus and Procris in Ovid. I could never imagine
how Cephalus crying out, ‘Aura venias’ (though in ever so languishing a
manner), could give anybody a suspicion of his being false to Procris.
As I had been always used to think that Aura signified only the air in
general, or a gentle breeze in particular, I thought Procris’s jealousy
less founded than the most extravagant jealousies generally are. But
when I had once found that Aura might signify a very handsome young
woman as well as the air, the case was entirely altered, and the story
seemed to go on in a very reasonable manner.” I will not take back in
the note the approval bestowed in the text on this discovery, on which
Spence so plumes himself. But I cannot refrain from remarking that, even
without it, the passage was very natural and intelligible. We only
needed to know that Aura occurs frequently among the ancients as a
woman’s name. According to Nonnus, for instance (Dionys. lib. xlviii.),
the nymph of Diana was thus named, who, for claiming to possess a more
manly beauty than the goddess herself, was, as a punishment for her
presumption, exposed in her sleep to the embraces of Bacchus.
Note 19, p. 52.
Juvenalis Satyr. viii. v. 52–55.
... At tu
Nil nisi Cecropides; truncoque simillimus Hermæ!
Nullo quippe alio vincis discrimine, quam quod
Illi marmoreum caput est, tua vivit imago.
“But thou art nothing if not a descendant of Cecrops; in body most like
a Hermes; forsooth the only thing in which you surpass that, is that
your head is a living image, while the Hermes is marble.” If Spence had
embraced the old Greek writers in his work, a fable of Æsop might
perhaps—and yet perhaps not—have occurred to him, which throws still
clearer light upon this passage in Juvenal. “Mercury,” Æsop tells us,
“wishing to know in what repute he stood among men, concealed his
divinity, and entered a sculptor’s studio. Here he beheld a statue of
Jupiter, and asked its value. ‘A drachm,’ was the answer. Mercury
smiled. ‘And this Juno?’ he asked again. ‘About the same.’ The god
meanwhile had caught sight of his own image, and thought to himself,—‘I,
as the messenger of the gods, from whom come all gains, must be much
more highly prized by men.’ ‘And this god,’ he asked, pointing to his
own image, ‘how dear might that be?’ ‘That?’ replied the artist, ‘buy
the other two, and I will throw that in.’” Mercury went away sadly
crestfallen. But the artist did not recognize him, and could therefore
have had no intention of wounding his self-love. The reason for his
setting so small a value on the statue must have lain in its
workmanship. The less degree of reverence due to the god whom it
represented could have had nothing to do with the matter, for the artist
values his works according to the skill, industry, and labor bestowed
upon them, not according to the rank and dignity of the persons
represented. If a statue of Mercury cost less than one of Jupiter or
Juno, it was because less skill, industry, and labor had been expended
upon it. And such was the case here. The statues of Jupiter and Juno
were full-length figures, while that of Mercury was a miserable square
post, with only the head and shoulders of the god upon it. What wonder,
then, that it might be thrown in without extra charge? Mercury
overlooked this circumstance, from having in mind only his own fancied
superiority, and his humiliation was therefore as natural as it was
merited. We look in vain among the commentators, translators, and
imitators of Æsop’s fables for any trace of this explanation. I could
mention the names of many, were it worth the trouble, who have
understood the story literally; that is, have not understood it at all.
On the supposition that the workmanship of all the statues was of the
same degree of excellence, there is an absurdity in the fable which
these scholars have either failed to perceive or have very much
exaggerated. Another point which, perhaps, might be taken exception to
in the fable, is the price the sculptor sets upon his Jupiter. No potter
can make a puppet for a drachm. The drachm here must stand in general
for something very insignificant. (Fab. Æsop, 90.)
Note 20, p. 53.
Cretius de R. N. lib. v. 736–747.
It Ver, et Venus, et Veneris prænuntius ante
Pinnatus graditur Zephyrus; vestigia propter
Flora quibus mater præspargens ante viai
Cuncta coloribus egregiis et odoribus opplet,
Inde loci sequitur Calor aridus, et comes una
Pulverulenta Ceres; et Etesia flabra Aquilonum.
Inde Autumnus adit; graditur simul Evius Evan;
Inde aliæ tempestates ventique sequuntur,
Altitonans Vulturnus et Auster fulmine pollens.
Tandem Bruma nives adfert, pigrumque rigorem
Reddit, Hyems sequitur, crepitans ac dentibus Algus.
Spring advances and Venus and winged Zephyrus, the herald of Venus,
precedes, whose path mother Flora fills with wondrous flowers and odors.
Then follow in order dry Heat and his companion dusty Ceres, and the
Etesian blasts of the Northwind. Then Autumn approaches, and Evian
Bacchus. Then other tempests and winds, deep-thundering Volturnus and
Auster (south and south-east winds), mighty with lightnings. At length,
the solstice brings snow, and slothful numbness returns; Winter follows,
and cold with chattering teeth.
Spence regards this passage as one of the most beautiful in the whole
poem, and it is certainly one on which the fame of Lucretius as a poet
chiefly rests. But, surely, to say that the whole description was
probably taken from a procession of statues representing the seasons as
gods, is to detract very much from his merit, if not to destroy it
altogether. And what reason have we for the supposition? This, says the
Englishman: “Such processions of their deities in general were as common
among the Romans of old, as those in honor of the saints are in the same
country to this day. All the expressions used by Lucretius here come in
very aptly, if applied to a procession.”
Excellent reasons! Against the last, particularly, we might make many
objections. The very epithets applied to the various personified
abstractions,—“Calor aridus,” “Ceres pulverulenta,” “Volturnus
altitonans,” “fulmine pollens Auster,” “Algus dentibus crepitans,”—show
that they received their characteristics from the poet and not from the
artist. He would certainly have treated them very differently. Spence
seems to have derived his idea of a procession from Abraham Preigern,
who, in his remarks on this passage, says, “Ordo est quasi Pompæ
cujusdam. Ver et Venus, Zephyrus et Flora,” &c. But Spence should have
been content to stop there. To say that the poet makes his seasons move
as in a procession, is all very well; but to say that he learned their
sequences from a procession, is nonsense.
Note 21, p. 62.
Valerius Flaccus, lib. ii. Argonaut, v. 265–273.
Serta patri, juvenisque comam vestisque Lyæi
Induit, et medium curru locat; æraque circum
Tympanaque et plenas tacita formidine cistas.
Ipsa sinus hederisque ligat famularibus artus;
Pampineamque quatit ventosis ictibus hastam,
Respiciens; teneat virides velatus habenas
Ut pater, et nivea tumeant ut cornua mitra,
Et sacer ut Bacchum referat scyphus.
“The maid clothes her father with the garlands, the locks and the
garments of Bacchus, and places him in the centre of the chariot; around
him the brazen drums and the boxes filled with nameless terror; herself,
looking back, binds his hair and limbs with ivy and strikes windy blows
with the vine-wreathed spear; veiled like the father she holds the green
reins; the horns project under the white turban, and the sacred goblet
tells of Bacchus.”
The word “tumeant,” in the last line but one, would seem to imply that
the horns were not so small as Spence fancies.
Note 22, p. 62.
The so-called Bacchus in the garden of the Medicis at Rome (Montfaucon
Suppl. aux Ant. T. 1, p. 254) has little horns growing from the brow.
But for this very reason some critics suppose it to be a faun. And
indeed such natural horns are an insult to the human countenance, and
can only be becoming in beings supposed to occupy a middle station
between men and beasts. The attitude also and the longing looks the
figure casts upward at the grapes, belong more properly to a follower of
the god than to the god himself. I am reminded here of what Clemens
Alexandrinus says of Alexander the Great. (Protrept. p. 48, edit. Pott.)
Ἐβούλετο δὲ καὶ Ἀλέξανδρος Ἄμμωνος υἱὸς εἶναι δοκεῖν, καὶ κερασφόρος
ἀναπλάττεσθαι πρὸς τῶν ἀγαλματοποιῶν, τὸ καλὸν ἀνθρώπου ὑβρίσαι σπεύδων
κέρατι. It was Alexander’s express desire to be represented in his
statue with horns. He was well content with the insult thus done to
human beauty, if only a divine origin might be imputed to him.
Note 23, p. 64.
When I maintained in a former chapter that the old artists had never
made a fury, it had not escaped me that the furies had more than one
temple, which certainly would not have been left devoid of their
statues. Pausanias found some of wood in their temple at Cerynea, not
large nor in any way remarkable. It would seem that the art, which had
no opportunity of displaying itself on them, sought to make amends on
the images of the priestesses which stood in the hall of the temple, as
they were of stone and of very beautiful workmanship. (Pausanias Achaic.
cap. xxv. p. 587, edit. Kuhn.) Neither had I forgotten that heads of
them were supposed to have been found on an _abraxas_, made known by
Chiffletius, and on a lamp by Licetus. (Dissertat. sur les Furies par
Bannier; Mémoires de l’Académie des Inscript. T. v. 48.) Neither was I
unacquainted with the Etruscan vase of Gorius (Tabl. 151. Musei Etrusci)
whereon are Orestes and Pylades attacked by furies. But I was speaking
of works of art, under which head I consider none of these to come. If
the latter deserve more than the others to be included under the name,
it would in one aspect rather confirm my theory than contradict it. For,
little as the Etruscan artists aimed at beauty in most cases, they yet
seem to have characterized the furies more by their dress and attributes
than by any terrible aspect of countenance. These figures thrust their
torches at Orestes and Pylades, with such a tranquil expression of face
that they almost seem to be terrifying them in sport. The horror they
inspire in Orestes and Pylades appears from the fear of the two men, not
at all from the shape of the furies themselves.
They are, therefore, at once furies and no furies. They perform the
office of furies, but without that appearance of violence and rage which
we are accustomed to associate with the name. They have not that brow
which, as Catullus says, “expirantis præportat pectoris iras.”
Winkelmann thought lately that he had discovered, upon a cornelian in
the cabinet of Stoss, a fury, running, with streaming hair and garments,
and a dagger in her hand. (Library of the Fine Arts, vol. v.) Von
Hagedorn at once counselled all the artists to turn this discovery to
account, and represent furies thus in their pictures. (Betrachtungen
über die Malerei, p. 222.) But Winkelmann himself presently threw doubt
on his discovery, because he did not find that the ancients ever armed
the furies with daggers instead of torches. (Descript. des Pierres
Gravées, p. 84.) He must then consider the figures on the coins of the
cities of Lyrba and Massaura, which Spanheim calls furies (Les Césars de
Julien, p. 44), to be not such but a Hecate _triformis_. Else here would
be exactly such a fury, with a dagger in each hand, and strangely enough
also with flowing hair, while in the other figures the hair is covered
with a veil. But granting Winkelmann’s first supposition to have been
correct, the same would apply to this engraved stone as to the Etruscan
vase, unless owing to the fineness of the work the features were
indistinguishable. Besides, all engraved stones, from their use as
seals, belong rather to symbolism; and the figures on them are more
often a conceit of the owner than the voluntary work of the artist.
Note 24, p. 64.
Fast. lib. vi. 295–98.
Esse diu stultus Vestæ simulacra putavi:
Mox didici curvo nulla subesse tholo.
Ignis inextinctus templo celatur in illo;
Effigiem nullam Vesta, nec ignis, habet.
“I long foolishly thought there were images of Vesta; then I found that
none existed beneath the arching dome. An ever-burning fire is hidden in
that temple. Image there is none either of Vesta or of fire.”
Ovid is speaking only of the worship of Vesta at Rome, and of the temple
erected to her there by Numa, of whom he just before says:
Regis opus placidi, quo non metuentius ullum
Numinis ingenium terra Sabina tulit.
“The work of that peaceful king who feared the gods more than any other
offspring of the Sabine land.”
Note 25, p. 65.
Fast. lib. iii. v. 45, 46.
Sylvia fit mater: Vestæ simulacra feruntur
Virgineas oculis opposuisse manus.
Spence should thus have compared the different parts of Ovid together.
The poet is speaking of different times; here of the state of things
before Numa, there of the state of things after him. Statues of her were
worshipped in Italy as they were in Troy, whence Æneas brought her rites
with him.
Manibus vittas, Vestamque potentem,
Æternumque adytis effert penetralibus ignem,
says Virgil of the ghost of Hector, after he had warned Æneas to fly.
“He bears in his hands from the innermost shrine garlands, and mighty
Vesta and the eternal fire.” Here the eternal fire is expressly
distinguished from Vesta herself and from her statue. Spence cannot have
consulted the Roman poets with much care, since he allowed such a
passage as this to escape him.
Note 26, p. 65.
Plinius, lib. xxxvi. sect. 4. “Scopas fecit.—Vestam sedentem laudatam in
Servilianis hortis.” Lipsius must have had this passage in mind when he
wrote (de Vesta cap. 3): “Plinius Vestem sedentem effingi solitam
ostendit, a stabilitate.” But what Pliny says of a single work by Scopas
he ought not to have taken for a generally accepted characteristic. In
fact, he observes that on coins Vesta was as often represented standing
as sitting. This, however, was no correction of Pliny, but only of his
own mistaken conception.
Note 27, p. 66.
Georg. Codinus de Originib. Constant. Τὴν γῆν λέγουσιν Ἑστίαν, καὶ
πλάττουσιν αὐτὴν γυναῖκα, τύμπανον βαστάζουσαν, ἐπειδὴ τοὺς ἀνέμους ἡ γῆ
ὑφ’ ἑαυτὴν συγκλείει. Suidas, following him, or both following some
older authority, says the same thing under the word Ἑστία. “Under the
name of Vesta the Earth is represented by a woman bearing a drum, in
which she is supposed to hold the winds confined.” The reason is
somewhat puerile. It would have sounded better to say that she carried a
drum, because the ancients thought her figure bore some resemblance to
one, σχῆμα αὐτῆς τυμπανοειδὲς εἶναι. (Plutarchus de placitis Philos.
cap. 10, id. de facie in orbe Lunæ.) Perhaps, after all, Codinus was
mistaken in the figure or the name or both. Possibly he did not know
what better name to give to what he saw Vesta holding, than a drum. Or
he might have heard it called tympanum, and the only thing the word
suggested to him was the instrument known to us as a kettle-drum. But
“tympana” were also a kind of wheel.
Hinc radios trivere rotis, hinc tympana plaustris
Agricolæ.—(Virgilius Georgic. lib. ii. 444.)
Very similar to such a wheel appears to me the object borne by
Fabretti’s Vesta (ad Tabulam Iliadis, p. 334) which that scholar takes
to be a hand-mill.
Note 28, p. 70.
Lib. i. Od. 35.
Te semper anteit sæva Necessitas:
Clavos trabales et cuneos manu
Gestans ahenea; nec severus
Uncus abest liquidumque plumbum.
In this picture of Necessity drawn by Horace, perhaps the richest in
attributes of any to be found in the old poets, the nails, the clamps,
and the liquid lead, whether regarded as means of confinement or
implements of punishment, still belong to the class of poetical, rather
than allegorical, attributes. But, even so, they are too crowded; and
the passage is one of the least effective in Horace. Sanadon says:
“J’ose dire que ce tableau, pris dans le détail, serait plus beau sur la
toile que dans une ode héroïque. Je ne puis souffrir cet attirail
patibulaire de clous, de coins, de crocs, et de plomb fondu. J’ai cru en
devoir décharger la traduction, en substituant les idées générales aux
idées singulières. C’est dommage que le poëte ait eu besoin de ce
correctif.” Sanadon’s sentiment was fine and true, but he does not give
the right ground for it. The objection is not that these attributes are
the paraphernalia of the gallows, for he had but to interpret them in
their other sense to make them the firmest supports of architecture.
Their fault is in being addressed to the eye and not to the ear. For all
impressions meant for the eye, but presented to us through the ear, are
received with effort, and produce no great degree of vividness. These
lines of Horace remind me of a couple of oversights on the part of
Spence, which give us no very good idea of the exactitude with which he
has studied the passages he cites from the old poets. He is speaking of
the image under which the Romans represented faith or honesty. (Dial.
x.) “The Romans,” he says, “called her ‘Fides;’ and, when they called
her ‘Sola Fides,’ seem to mean the same as we do by the words ‘downright
honesty.’ She is represented with an erect, open air, and with nothing
but a thin robe on, so fine that one might see through it. Horace
therefore calls her ‘thin-dressed’ in one of his odes, and ‘transparent’
in another.” In these few lines are not less than three gross errors.
First, it is false that “sola” was a distinct epithet applied to the
goddess Fides. In the two passages from Livy, which he adduces as proof
(lib. i. sect. 21, lib. ii. sect. 3), the word has only its usual
signification,—the exclusion of all else. In one place, indeed, the
“soli” has been questioned by the critics, who think it must have crept
into the text through an error in writing, occasioned by the word next
to it, which is “solenne.” In the other passage cited, the author is not
speaking of fidelity at all, but of innocence, Innocentia. Secondly,
Horace, in one of his odes (the thirty-fifth of the first book,
mentioned above), is said to have applied to Fides the epithet
thin-dressed:
Te spes, et albo rara fides colit
Velata panno.
“Rarus,” it is true, can also mean thin; but here it means only rare,
seldom appearing, and is applied to Fidelity herself, not to her
clothing. Spence would have been right, had the poet said, “Fides raro
velata panno.” Thirdly, Horace is said to have elsewhere called faith or
honesty transparent, in the sense in which friends protest to one
another, “I wish you could read my heart.” This meaning is said to be
found in the line of the eighteenth ode of the First Book:
Arcanique Fides prodiga, pellucidior vitro.
How can a critic allow himself to be thus misled by a word? Is a faith,
“arcani prodiga,” lavish of secrets, faithfulness? is it not rather
faithlessness? And it is of faithlessness, in fact, that Horace says,
“She is transparent as glass, because she betrays to every eye the
secrets entrusted to her.”
Note 29, p. 71.
Apollo delivers the washed and embalmed body of Sarpedon to Death and
Sleep, that they may bring him to his native country. (Iliad, xvi. 681,
682.)
πέμπε δέ μιν πομποῖσιν ἅμα κραιπνοῖσι φέρεσθαι,
Ὕπνῳ καὶ Θανάτῳ διδυμάοσιν.
Caylus recommends this idea to the painter, but adds: “It is a pity that
Homer has given us no account of the attributes under which Sleep was
represented in his day. We recognize the god only by his act, and we
crown him with poppies. These ideas are modern. The first is of service,
but cannot be employed in the present case, where even the flowers would
be out of keeping in connection with the figure of Death.” (Tableaux
tirés de l’Iliade, de l’Odyssée d’Homère, et de l’Enéide de Virgile,
avec des observations générales sur le costume, à Paris, 1757–58.) That
is requiring of Homer ornamentations of that petty kind most at variance
with the nobility of his style. The most ingenious attributes he could
have bestowed on Sleep would not have characterized him so perfectly,
nor have brought so vivid a picture of him before us, as the single
touch which makes him the twin brother of Death. Let the artist seek to
express this, and he may dispense with all attributes. The old artists
did, in fact, make Sleep and Death resemble each other, like
twin-brothers. On a chest of cedar, in the Temple of Juno at Elis, they
both lay as boys in the arms of Night. One was white, the other black;
one slept, the other only seemed to sleep; the feet of both were
crossed. For so I should prefer to translate the words of Pausanias
(Eliac. cap. xviii. p. 422, edit. Kuhn), ἀμφοτέρους διεστραμμένους τοὺς
πόδας, rather than by “crooked feet,” as Gedoyn does, “les pieds
contrefaits.” What would be the meaning of crooked feet? To lie with
crossed feet is customary with sleepers. Sleep is thus represented by
Maffei. (Raccol. Pl. 151.) Modern artists have entirely abandoned this
resemblance between Sleep and Death, which we find among the ancients,
and always represent Death as a skeleton, or at best a skeleton covered
with skin. Caylus should have been careful to tell the artists whether
they had better follow the custom of the ancients or the moderns in this
respect. He seems to declare in favor of the modern view, since he
regards Death as a figure that would not harmonize well with a
flower-crowned companion. Has he further considered how inappropriate
this modern idea would be in a Homeric picture? How could its loathsome
character have failed to shock him? I cannot bring myself to believe
that the little metal figure in the ducal gallery at Florence,
representing a skeleton sitting on the ground, with one arm on an urn of
ashes (Spence’s Polymetis, tab. xli.), is a veritable antique. It cannot
possibly represent Death, because the ancients represented him very
differently. Even their poets never thought of him under this repulsive
shape.
Note 30, p. 76.
Richardson cites this work as an illustration of the rule that the
attention of the spectator should be diverted by nothing, however
admirable, from the chief figure. “Protogenes,” he says, “had introduced
into his famous picture of Ialysus a partridge, painted with so much
skill that it seemed alive, and was admired by all Greece. But, because
it attracted all eyes to itself, to the detriment of the whole piece, he
effaced it.” (Traité de la Peinture, T. i. p. 46.) Richardson is
mistaken; this partridge was not in the Ialysus, but in another picture
of Protogenes called the Idle Satyr, or Satyr in Repose, Σάτυρος
ἀναπαυόμενος. I should hardly have mentioned this error, which arose
from a misunderstanding of a passage in Pliny, had not the same mistake
been made by Meursius. (Rhodi. lib. i. cap. 14.) “In eadem tabula,
scilicet in qua Ialysus, Satyrus erat, quem dicebant _Anapauomenon_,
tibeas tenens.”
Something of the same kind occurs in Winkelmann. (Von der Nachahm. der
Gr. W. in der Mal. und Bildh. p. 56.) Strabo is the only authority for
this partridge story, and he expressly discriminates between the Ialysus
and the Satyr leaning against a pillar on which sat the partridge. (Lib.
xiv.) Meursius, Richardson, and Winkelmann misunderstood the passage in
Pliny (lib. xxxv. sect. 36), from not perceiving that he was speaking of
two different pictures: the one which saved the city, because Demetrius
would not assault the place where it stood; and another, which
Protogenes painted during the siege. The one was Ialysus, the other the
Satyr.
Note 31, p. 79.
This invisible battle of the gods has been imitated by Quintus Calaber
in his Twelfth Book, with the evident design of improving on his model.
The grammarian seems to have held it unbecoming in a god to be thrown to
the ground by a stone. He therefore makes the gods hurl at one another
huge masses of rock, torn up from Mount Ida, which, however, are
shattered against the limbs of the immortals and fly like sand about
them.
... οἱ δὲ κολώνας
χερσὶν ἀποῤῥήξαντες ἀπ’ οὔρεος Ἰδαίοιο
βάλλον ἐπ’ ἀλλήλους· αἳ δὲ ψαμάθοισιν ὁμοῖαι
ῥεῖα διεσκίδναντο θεῶν περὶ δ’ ἄσχετα γυῖα
ῥηγνύμενα διὰ τυτθά....
A conceit which destroys the effect by marring our idea of the size of
the gods, and throwing contempt on their weapons. If gods throw stones
at one another, the stones must be able to hurt them, or they are like
silly boys pelting each other with earth. So old Homer remains still the
wiser, and all the fault-finding of cold criticism, and the attempts of
men of inferior genius to vie with him, serve but to set forth his
wisdom in clearer light. I do not deny that Quintus’s imitation has
excellent and original points; but they are less in harmony with the
modest greatness of Homer than calculated to do honor to the stormy fire
of a more modern poet. That the cry of the gods, which rang to the
heights of heaven and the depths of hell, should not be heard by
mortals, seems to me a most expressive touch. The cry was too mighty to
be grasped by the imperfect organs of human hearing.
Note 32, p. 80.
No one who has read Homer once through, ever so hastily, will differ
from this statement as far as regards strength and speed; but he will
not perhaps at once recall examples where the poet attaches superhuman
size to his gods. I would therefore refer him, in addition to the
description of Mars just quoted, whose body covered seven hides, to the
helmet of Minerva, κυνέην ἑκατὸν πολίων πρυλέεσσ’ ἀραρυῖαν (Iliad, v.
744), under which could be concealed as many warriors as a hundred
cities could bring into the field; to the stride of Neptune (Iliad,
xiii. 20); and especially to the lines from the description of the
shield, where Mars and Minerva lead the troops of the beleaguered city.
(Iliad, xviii. 516–519.)
ἦρχε δ’ ἄρά σφιν Ἄρης καὶ Παλλὰς Ἀθήνη,
ἄμφω χρυσείω, χρύσεια δὲ εἵματα ἕσθην,
καλὼ καὶ μεγάλω σὺν τεύχεσιν, ὥς τε θεώ περ,
ἀμφὶς ἀριζήλω· λαοὶ δ’ ὑπ’ ὑπολίζονες ἦσαν.
... While the youths
Marched on, with Mars and Pallas at their head,
Both wrought in gold, with golden garments on,
Stately and large in form, and over all
Conspicuous in bright armor, as became
The gods; the rest were of an humbler size.—BRYANT.
Judging from the explanations they feel called upon to give of the great
helmet of Minerva, Homer’s commentators, old as well as new, seem not
always sufficiently to have borne in mind this wonderful size of the
gods. (See the notes on the above-quoted passage in the edition of
Clarke and Ernesti.) But we lose much in majesty by thinking of the
Homeric deities as of ordinary size, as we are accustomed to see them on
canvas in the company of mortals. Although painting is unable to
represent these superhuman dimensions, sculpture to a certain extent
may, and I am convinced that the old masters borrowed from Homer their
conception of the gods in general as well as the colossal size which
they not infrequently gave them. (Herodot. lib. ii. p. 130, edit.
Wessel.) Further remarks upon the use of the colossal, its excellent
effect in sculpture and its want of effect in painting, I reserve for
another place.
NOTE 33, p. 82.
Homer, I acknowledge, sometimes veils his deities in a cloud, but only
when they are not to be seen by other deities. In the fourteenth book of
the Iliad, for instance, where Juno and Sleep, ἠέρα ἐσσαμένω, betake
themselves to Mount Ida, the crafty goddess’s chief care was not to be
discovered by Venus, whose girdle she had borrowed under pretence of a
very different journey. In the same book the love-drunken Jupiter is
obliged to surround himself and his spouse with a golden cloud to
overcome her chaste reluctance.
πῶς κ’ ἔοι, εἴ τις νῶϊ θεῶν αἰειγενετάων
εὕδοντ’ ἀθρήσειε....
She did not fear to be seen by men, but by the gods. And although Homer
makes Jupiter say a few lines further on,—
Ἥρη, μήτε θεῶν τόγε δείδιθι μήτε τιν’ ἀνδρῶν
ὄψεσθαι· τοῖόν τοι ἐγὼ νέφος ἀμφικαλύψω,
χρύσεον.
“Fear thou not that any god or man will look upon us,” that does not
prove that the cloud was needed to conceal them from the eyes of
mortals, but that in this cloud they would be as invisible to the gods
as they always were to men. So, when Minerva puts on the helmet of Pluto
(Iliad, v. 485), which has the same effect of concealment that a cloud
would have, it is not that she may be concealed from the Trojans, who
either see her not at all or under the form of Sthenelus, but simply
that she may not be recognized by Mars.
NOTE 34, p. 87.
Tableaux tirés de l’Iliade, Avert. p. 5. “On est toujours convenu, que
plus un poëme fournissait d’images et d’actions, plus il avait de
supériorité en poésie. Cette réflexion m’avait conduit à penser que le
calcul des différens tableaux, qu’ offrent les poëmes, pouvait servir à
comparer le mérite respectif des poëmes et des poëtes. Le nombre et le
genre des tableaux que présentent ces grands ouvrages, auraient été une
espèce de pierre de touche, ou, plutôt, une balance certaine du mérite
de ces poëmes et du génie de leurs auteurs.”
NOTE 35, p. 88.
What we call poetic pictures, the ancients, as we learn from Longinus,
called “phantasiæ;” and what we call illusion in such pictures, they
named “enargia.” It was therefore said by some one, as Plutarch tells us
(Erot. T. ii. edit. Henr. Steph. p. 1351), that poetic “phantasiæ” were,
on account of their “enargia,” waking dreams: Αἱ ποιητικαὶ φαντασίαι διὰ
τὴν ἐνάργειαν ἐγρηγορότων ἐνύπνια εἰσίν. I could wish that our modern
books upon poetry had used this nomenclature, and avoided the word
picture altogether. We should thus have been spared a multitude of
doubtful rules, whose chief foundation is the coincidence of an
arbitrary term. No one would then have thought of confining poetic
conceptions within the limits of a material picture. But the moment
these conceptions were called a poetic picture, the foundation for the
error was laid.
NOTE 36, p. 89.
Iliad, iv. 105.
αὐτίκ’ ἐσύλα τόξον ἐΰξοον
καὶ τὸ μὲν εὖ κατέθηκε τανυσσάμενος, ποτὶ γαίῃ
ἀγκλίνας·...
αὐτὰρ ὁ σύλα πῶμα φαρέτρης, ἐκ δ’ ἕλετ’ ἰὸν
ἀβλῆτα πτερόεντα, μελαινέων ἕρμ’ ὀδυνάων·
αἶψα δ’ ἐπὶ νευρῇ κατεκόσμει πικρὸν ὀϊστὸν,
ἕλκε δ’ ὁμοῦ γλυφίδας τε λαβὼν καὶ νεῦρα βόεια·
νευρὴν μὲν μαζῷ πέλασεν, τόξον δὲ σίδηρον.
αὐτὰρ ἐπειδὴ κυκλοτερὲς μέγα τόξον ἔτεινεν,
λίγξε βιὸς, νευρὴ δὲ μέγ’ ἴαχεν ἆλτο δ’ ὀϊστὸς
ὀξυβελὴς, καθ’ ὅμιλον ἐπιπτέσθαι μενεαίνων.
To bend that bow the warrior lowered it
And pressed an end against the earth....
Then the Lycian drew aside
The cover from his quiver, taking out
A well-fledged arrow that had never flown,—
A cause of future sorrows. On the string
He laid that fatal arrow....
Grasping the bowstring and the arrow’s notch
He drew them back and forced the string to meet
His breast, the arrow-head to meet the bow,
Till the bow formed a circle. Then it twanged;
The cord gave out a shrilly sound; the shaft
Leaped forth in eager haste to reach the host.—BRYANT.
NOTE 37, p. 108.
Prologue to the Satires, 340.
That not in Fancy’s maze he wandered long,
But stooped to Truth and moralized his song.
Ibid. 148.
... Who could take offence
While pure description held the place of sense?
Warburton’s remark on this last line may have the force of an
explanation by the poet himself. “He uses _pure_ equivocally, to signify
either chaste or empty; and has given in this line what he esteemed the
true character of descriptive poetry, as it is called,—a composition, in
his opinion, as absurd as a feast made up of sauces. The use of a
picturesque imagination is to brighten and adorn good sense: so that to
employ it only in description, is like children’s delighting in a prism
for the sake of its gaudy colors, which, when frugally managed and
artfully disposed, might be made to represent and illustrate the noblest
objects in nature.”
Both poet and commentator seem to have regarded the matter rather from a
moral than an artistic point of view. But so much the better that this
style of poetry seems equally worthless from whichever point it be
viewed.
NOTE 38, p. 108.
Poétique Française, T. ii. p. 501. “J’écrivais ces réflexions avant que
les essais des Allemands dans ce genre (l’Eglogue) fussent connus parmi
nous. Ils ont exécuté ce que j’avais conçu; et s’ils parviennent à
donner plus au moral et moins au détail des peintures physiques, ils
excelleront dans ce genre, plus riche, plus vaste, plus fécond, et
infiniment plus naturel et plus moral que celui de la galanterie
champêtre.”
NOTE 39, p. 115.
I see that Servius attempts to excuse Virgil on other grounds, for the
difference between the two shields has not escaped his notice. “Sane
interest inter hunc et Homeri clypeum; illic enim singula dum fiunt
narrantur; hic vero perfecto opere nascuntur; nam et hic arma prius
accipit Æneas, quam spectaret; ibi postquam omnia narrata sunt, sic a
Thetide deferuntur ad Achillem.” There is a marked difference between
this and the shield of Homer: for there events are narrated one by one
as they are done, here they are known by the finished work; here the
arms are received by Æneas before being seen, there, after all has been
told, they are carried by Thetis to Achilles. (Ad. v. 625, lib. viii.
Æneid.) Why? “For this reason,” says Servius: “because, on the shield of
Æneas, were represented not only the few events referred to by the poet,
but,—
... genus omne futuræ
Stirpis ab Ascanio, pugnataque in ordine bella,
“All the description of his future race from Ascanius, and the battles,
in the order in which they should occur.” It would have been impossible
for the poet, in the same short space of time occupied by Vulcan in his
work, to mention by name the long line of descendants, and to tell of
all their battles in the order of their occurrence. That seems to be the
meaning of Servius’s somewhat obscure words: “Opportune ergo Virgilius,
quia non videtur simul et narrationis celeritas potuisse connecti, et
opus tam velociter expedire, ut ad verbum posset occurrere.” Since
Virgil could bring forward but a small part of “the unnarratable text of
the shield,” and not even that little while Vulcan was at work, he was
obliged to reserve it till the whole was finished. For Virgil’s sake, I
hope that this argument of Servius is baseless. My excuse is much more
creditable to him. What need was there of putting the whole of Roman
history on a shield? With few pictures Homer made his shield an epitome
of all that was happening in the world. It would almost seem that
Virgil, despairing of surpassing the Greek in the design and execution
of his pictures, was determined to exceed him at least in their number,
and that would have been the height of childishness.
NOTE 40, p. 118.
“Scuto ejus, in quo Amazonum prœlium cælavit intumescente ambitu parmæ;
ejusdem concava parte deorum et gigantum, dimicationem.”
“Her shield, on the convex side of which he sculptured a battle of the
Amazons, and on the concave side the contest of the gods and giants.”
(Plinius, lib. xxxvi. sect. 4.)
NOTE 41, p. 122.
The first begins at line 483 and goes to line 489; the second extends
from 490 to 509; the third, from 510 to 540; the fourth, from 541 to
549; the fifth, from 550 to 560; the sixth, from 561 to 572; the
seventh, from 573 to 586; the eighth, from 587 to 589; the ninth, from
590 to 605; and the tenth, from 606 to 608. The third picture alone is
not so introduced; but that it is one by itself is evident from the
words introducing the second,—ἐν δὲ δύω ποίησε πόλεις,—as also from the
nature of the subject.
NOTE 42, p. 123.
Iliad, vol. v. obs. p. 61. In this passage Pope makes an entirely false
use of the expression “aerial perspective,” which, in fact, has nothing
to do with the diminishing of the size according to the increased
distance, but refers only to the change of color occasioned by the air
or other medium through which the object is seen. A man capable of this
blunder may justly be supposed ignorant of the whole subject.
NOTE 43, p. 128.
Constantinus Manasses Compend. Chron. p. 20 (edit. Venet). Madame Dacier
was well pleased with this portrait of Manasses, except for its
tautology. “De Helenæ pulchritudine omnium optime Constantinus Manasses;
nisi in eo tautologiam reprehendas.” (Ad Dictyn Cretensem, lib. i. cap.
3, p. 5.) She also quotes, according to Mezeriac (Comment. sur les
Epîtres d’Ovide, T. i. p. 361), the descriptions given by Dares
Phrygius, and Cedrenus, of the beauty of Helen. In the first there is
one trait which sounds rather strange. Dares says that Helen had a mole
between her eyebrows: “notam inter duo supercilia habentem.” But that
could not have been a beauty. I wish the Frenchwoman had given her
opinion. I, for my part, regard the word “nota” as a corruption, and
think that Dares meant to speak of what the Greeks called μεσόφρυον, and
the Latins, “glabella.” He means to say that Helen’s eyebrows did not
meet, but that there was a little space between them. The taste of the
ancients was divided on this point. Some considered this space between
the eyebrows beauty, others not. (Junius de Pictura Vet. lib. iii. cap.
9, p. 245.) Anacreon took a middle course. The eyebrows of his beloved
maiden were neither perceptibly separated, nor were they fully grown
together: they tapered off delicately at a certain point. He says to the
artist who is to paint her (Od. 28):—
τὸ μεσόφρυον δὲ μή μοι
διάκοπτε, μήτε μίσγε,
ἐχέτω δ’ ὅπως ἐκείνη
τὸ λεληθότως σύνοφρυν
βλεφάρων ἴτυν κελαινήν.
This is Pauer’s reading, but the meaning is the same in other versions,
and has been rightly given by Henr. Stephano:—
Supercilii nigrantes
Discrimina nec arcus,
Confundito nec illos:
Sed junge sic ut anceps
Divortium relinquas,
Quale esse cernis ipsi.
But if my interpretation of Dares’ meaning be the true one, what should
we read instead of “notam?” Perhaps “moram.” For certainly “mora” may
mean not only the interval of time before something happens, but also
the impediment, the space between one thing and another.
Ego inquieta montium jaceam mora,
is the wish of the raving Hercules in Seneca, which Gronovius very well
explains thus: “Optat se medium jacere inter duas Symplegades, illarum
velut moram, impedimentum, obicem; qui eas moretur, vetet aut satis
arcte conjungi, aut rursus distrahi.” The same poet uses “laceratorum
moræ” in the sense of “juncturæ.” (Schrœderus ad. v. 762. Thyest.)
NOTE 44, p. 131.
Dialogo della Pittura, intitolata l’Aretino: Firenze 1735, p. 178. “Se
vogliono i Pittori senza fatica trovare un perfetto esempio di bella
Donna, legiano quelle Stanze dell’ Ariosto, nelle quali egli discrive
mirabilmente le belezze della Fata Alcina; e vedranno parimente, quanto
i buoni Poeti siano ancora essi Pittori.”
NOTE 45, p. 131.
Ibid. “Ecco, che, quanto alla proporzione, l’ingeniosissimo Ariosto
assegna la migliore, che sappiano formar le mani de’ più eccellenti
Pittori, usando questa voce industri, per dinotar la diligenza, che
conviene al buono artefice.”
NOTE 46, p. 132.
Ibid. “Qui l’Ariosto colorisce, e in questo suo colorire dimostra essere
un Titiano.”
NOTE 47, p. 132.
Ibid. “Poteva l’Ariosto nella guisa, che ha detto chioma bionda, dir
chioma d’oro: ma gli parve forse, che havrebbe havuto troppo del
Poetico. Da che si può ritrar, che ’l Pittore dee imitar l’oro, e non
metterlo (come fanno i Miniatori) nelle sue Pitture, in modo, che si
possa dire, que’ capelli non sono d’oro, ma par che risplendano, come
l’oro.” What Dolce goes on to quote from Athenæus is remarkable, but
happens to be a misquotation. I shall speak of it in another place.
NOTE 48, p. 132.
Ibid. “Il naso, che discende giù, havendo peraventura la considerazione
a quelle forme de’ nasi, che si veggono ne’ ritratti delle belle Romane
antiche.”
NOTE 49, p. 143.
Pliny says of Apelles (lib. xxxv. sect. 36): “Fecit et Dianam
sacrificantium Virginum choro mixtam; quibus vicisse Homeri versus
videtur id ipsum describentis.” “He also made a Diana surrounded by a
band of virgins performing a sacrifice; a work in which he would seem to
have surpassed the verses of Homer describing the same thing.” This
praise may be perfectly just; for beautiful nymphs surrounding a
beautiful goddess, who towers above them by the whole height of her
majestic brow, form a theme more fitting the painter than the poet. But
I am somewhat suspicious of the word “sacrificantium.” What have the
nymphs of Diana to do with offering sacrifices? Is that the occupation
assigned them by Homer? By no means. They roam with the goddess over
hills and through forest; they hunt, play, dance. (Odyss. vi. 102–106).
οἵη δ’ Ἄρτεμις εἰσὶ κατ’ οὔρεος ἰοχέαιρα
ἢ κατὰ Τηΰγετον περιμήκετον, ἢ Ἐρύμανθον
τερπομένη κάπροισι καὶ ὠκείῃς ἐλάφοισι·
τῇ δὲ θ’ ἅμα Νύμφαι, κοῦραι Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο
ἀγρονόμοι παίζουσι·...
As when o’er Erymanth Diana roves
Or wide Taygetus’s resounding groves;
A sylvan train the huntress queen surrounds,
Her rattling quiver from her shoulder sounds;
Fierce in the sport along the mountain brow,
They bay the boar or chase the bounding roe.
High o’er the lawn with more majestic pace,
Above the nymphs she treads with stately grace.—POPE.
Pliny, therefore, can hardly have written “sacrificantium,” rather
“venantium” (hunting), or something like it; perhaps “sylvis vagantium”
(roaming the woods), which corresponds more nearly in number of letters
to the altered word. “Saltantium” (bounding), approaches most nearly to
the παίζουσι of Homer. Virgil, also, in his imitation of this passage,
represents the nymphs as dancing. (Æneid, i. 497, 498.)
Qualis in Eurotæ ripis, aut per juga Cynthi
Exercet Diana choros....
Such on Eurotas’ banks or Cynthus’ height
Diana seems; and so she charms the sight,
When in the dance the graceful goddess leads
The choir of nymphs and overtops their heads.—DRYDEN.
Spence gives a remarkable criticism on this passage. (Polymetis, dial.
viii.) “This Diana,” he says, “both in the picture and in the
descriptions, was the Diana Venatrix, though she was not represented,
either by Virgil or Apelles or Homer, as hunting with her nymphs; but as
employed with them in that sort of dances which of old were regarded as
very solemn acts of devotion.” In a note he adds, “The expression of
παίζειν, used by Homer on this occasion, is scarce proper for hunting;
as that of “choros exercere,” in Virgil, should be understood of the
religious dances of old, because dancing, in the old Roman idea of it,
was indecent, even for men, in public, unless it were the sort of dances
used in honor of Mars or Bacchus or some other of their gods.” Spence
supposes that those solemn dances are here referred to, which, among the
ancients, were counted among the acts of religion. “It is in consequence
of this,” he says, “that Pliny, in speaking of Diana’s nymphs on this
very occasion, uses the word “sacrificare” of them, which quite
determines these dances of theirs to have been of the religious kind.”
He forgets that, in Virgil, Diana joins in the dance, “exercet Diana
choros.” If this were a religious dance, in whose honor did Diana dance
it? in her own, or in honor of some other deity? Both suppositions are
absurd. If the old Romans did hold dancing in general to be unbecoming
in a grave person, was that a reason why their poets should transfer the
national gravity to the manners of the gods, which were very differently
represented by the old Greek poets? When Horace says of Venus (Od. iv.
lib. i.),—
Jam Cytherea choros ducit Venus, imminente luna;
Junctæque Nymphis Gratiæ decentes
Alterno terram quatiunt pede....
“Now Cytherean Venus leads the bands, under the shining moon, and the
fair graces, joined with the nymphs, beat the ground with alternate
feet,”—were these, likewise, sacred, religious dances? But it is wasting
words to argue against such a conceit.
NOTE 50, p. 145.
Plinius, lib. xxxiv. sect. 19. “Ipse tamen corporum tenus curiosus,
animi sensus non expressisse videtur, capillum quoque et pubem non
emendatius fecisse, quam rudis antiquitas instituisset.
“Hic primus nervos et venas expressit, capillumque diligentius.”
NOTE 51, p. 162.
The Connoisseur, vol. i. no. 21. The beauty of Knonmquaiha is thus
described. “He was struck with the glossy hue of her complexion, which
shone like the jetty down on the black hogs of Hessaqua; he was ravished
with the prest gristle of her nose; and his eyes dwelt with admiration
on the flaccid beauties of her breasts, which descended to her navel.”
And how were these charms set off by art? “She made a varnish of the fat
of goats mixed with soot, with which she anointed her whole body as she
stood beneath the rays of the sun; her locks were clotted with melted
grease, and powdered with the yellow dust of Buchu; her face, which
shone like the polished ebony, was beautifully varied with spots of red
earth, and appeared like the sable curtain of the night bespangled with
stars; she sprinkled her limbs with wood-ashes, and perfumed them with
the dung of Stinkbingsem. Her arms and legs were entwined with the
shining entrails of an heifer; from her neck there hung a pouch composed
of the stomach of a kid; the wings of an ostrich overshadowed the fleshy
promontories behind; and before she wore an apron formed of the shaggy
ears of a lion.”
Here is further the marriage ceremony of the loving pair. “The Surri, or
Chief Priest, approached them, and, in a deep voice, chanted the nuptial
rites to the melodious grumbling of the Gom-Gom; and, at the same time
(according to the manner of Caffraria), bedewed them plentifully with
the urinary benediction. The bride and bridegroom rubbed in the precious
stream with ecstasy, while the briny drops trickled from their bodies,
like the oozy surge from the rocks of Chirigriqua.”
NOTE 52, p. 166.
The Sea-Voyage, act iii. scene 1. A French pirate ship is thrown upon a
desert island. Avarice and envy cause quarrels among the men, and a
couple of wretches, who had long suffered extreme want on the island,
seize a favorable opportunity to put to sea in the ship. Robbed thus of
their whole stock of provisions, the miserable men see death, in its
worst forms, staring them in the face, and express to each other their
hunger and despair as follows:—
_Lamure._ Oh, what a tempest have I in my stomach!
How my empty guts cry out! My wounds ache,
Would they would bleed again, that I might get
Something to quench my thirst!
_Franville._ O Lamure, the happiness my dogs had
When I kept house at home! They had a storehouse,
A storehouse of most blessed bones and crusts.
Happy crusts! Oh, how sharp hunger pinches me!
_Lamure._ How now, what news?
_Morillar._ Hast any meat yet?
_Franville._ Not a bit that I can see.
Here be goodly quarries, but they be cruel hard
To gnaw. I ha’ got some mud, we’ll eat it with spoons;
Very good thick mud; but it stinks damnably.
There’s old rotten trunks of trees, too,
But not a leaf nor blossom in all the island.
_Lamure._ How it looks!
_Morillar._ It stinks too.
_Lamure._ It may be poison.
_Franville._ Let it be any thing,
So I can get it down. Why, man,
Poison’s a princely dish!
_Morillar._ Hast thou no biscuit?
No crumbs left in thy pocket? Here is my doublet,
Give me but three small crumbs.
_Franville._ Not for three kingdoms,
If I were master of ’em. Oh, Lamure,
But one poor joint of mutton we ha’ scorned, man!
_Lamure._ Thou speak’st of paradise;
Or but the snuffs of those healths,
We have lewdly at midnight flung away.
_Morillar._ Ah, but to lick the glasses!
But this is nothing, compared with the next scene, when the ship’s
surgeon enters.
_Franville._ Here comes the surgeon. What
Hast thou discovered? Smile, smile, and comfort us.
_Surgeon._ I am expiring,
Smile they that can. I can find nothing, gentlemen,
Here’s nothing can be meat without a miracle.
Oh, that I had my boxes and my lints now,
My stupes, my tents, and those sweet helps of nature!
What dainty dishes could I make of them!
_Morillar._ Hast ne’er an old suppository?
_Surgeon._ Oh, would I had, sir!
_Lamure._ Or but the paper where such a cordial
Potion, or pills hath been entombed!
_Franville._ Or the best bladder, where a cooling glister?
_Morillar._ Hast thou no searcloths left?
Nor any old poultices?
_Franville._ We care not to what it hath been ministered.
_Surgeon._ Sure I have none of these dainties, gentlemen.
_Franville._ Where’s the great wen
Thou cut’st from Hugh the sailor’s shoulder?
That would serve now for a most princely banquet.
_Surgeon._ Ay, if we had it, gentlemen.
I flung it overboard, slave that I was.
_Lamure._ A most improvident villain!
NOTE 53, p. 177.
Æneid, lib. ii. 7, and especially lib. xi. 183. We might safely,
therefore, add such a work to the list of lost writings by this author.
NOTE 54, p. 179.
Consult the list of inscriptions on ancient works of art in Mar. Gudius.
(ad Phædri fab. v. lib. i.), and, in connection with that, the
correction made by Gronovius. (Præf. ad Tom. ix. Thesauri Antiq. Græc.)
NOTE 55, p. 182.
He at least expressly promises to do so: “quæ suis locis reddam” (which
I shall speak of in their proper place). But if this was not wholly
forgotten, it was at least done very cursorily, and not at all in the
way this promise had led us to expect. When he writes (lib. xxxv. sect.
39), “Lysippus quoque Æginæ picturæ suæ inscripsit, ἐνέκαυσεν; quod
profecto non fecisset, nisi encaustica inventa,” he evidently uses
ἐνέκαυσεν to prove something quite different. If he meant, as Hardouin
supposes, to indicate in this passage one of the works whose inscription
was written in definite past time, it would have been worth his while to
put in a word to that effect. Hardouin finds reference to the other two
works in the following passage: “Idem (Divus Augustus) in Curia quoque,
quam in Comitio consecrabat, duas tabulas impressit parieti: Nemeam
sedentem supra leonem, palmigeram ipsam, adstante cum baculo sene, cujus
supra caput tabula bigæ dependet. Nicias scripsit se inussisse; tali
enim usus est verbo. Alterius tabulæ admiratio est, puberem filium seni
patri similem esse, salva ætatis differentia, supervolante aquila
draconem complexa. Philochares hoc suum opus esse testatus est.” (Lib.
xxxv. sect. 10.) Two different pictures are here described which
Augustus had set up in the newly built senate-house. The second was by
Philochares, the first by Nicias. All that is said of the picture by
Philochares is plain and clear, but there are certain difficulties in
regard to the other. It represented Nemea seated on a lion, a
palm-branch in her hand, and near her an old man with a staff: “cujus
supra caput tabula bigæ dependet.” What is the meaning of that? “over
his head hung a tablet on which was painted a two-horse chariot.” That
is the only meaning the words will bear. Was there, then, a smaller
picture hung over the large one? and were both by Nicias? Hardouin must
so have understood it, else where were the two pictures by Nicias, since
the other is expressly ascribed to Philochares? “Inscripsit Nicias
igitur geminæ huic tabulæ suum nomen in hunc modum: Ὁ ΝΙΚΙΑΣ ΕΝΕΚΑΥΣΕΝ:
atque adeo e tribus operibus, quæ absolute fuisse inscripta, ILLE FECIT,
indicavit Præfatio ad Titum, duo hæc sunt Niciae.” I should like to ask
Hardouin one question. If Nicias had really used the indefinite, and not
the definite past tense, and Pliny had merely wished to say that the
master, instead of γράφειν, had used ἐγκαίειν, would he not still have
been obliged to say in Latin, “Nicias scripsit se inussisse?” But I will
not insist upon this point. Pliny may really have meant to indicate here
one of the three works before referred to. But who will be induced to
believe that there were two pictures, placed one above the other? Not I
for one. The words “cujus supra caput tabula bigæ dependet” must be a
corruption. “Tabula bigæ,” a picture of a two-horse chariot, does not
sound much like Pliny, although Pliny does elsewhere use “biga” in the
singular. What sort of a two-horse chariot? Such as were used in the
races at the Nemæan games, so that this little picture should, from its
subject, be related to the chief one? That cannot be; for not two but
four horse chariots were usual in the Nemæan games. (Schmidius in Prol.
ad Nemeonicas, p. 2.) At one time, I thought that Pliny might, instead
of “bigæ,” have written a Greek word, πτυχίον, which the copyists did
not understand. For we know, from a passage in Antigonus Carystius,
quoted by Zenobius (conf. Gronovius, T. ix. Antiquit. Græc. Præf. p. 7),
that the old artists did not always put their name on the work itself,
but sometimes on a separate tablet, attached to the picture or statue,
and this tablet was called πτυχίον. The word “tabula, tabella,” might
have been written in the margin in explanation of the Greek word, and at
last have crept into the text. πτυχίον was turned into “bigæ,” and so we
get “tabula bigæ.” This πτυχίον agrees perfectly with what follows; for
the next sentence contains what was written on it. The whole passage
would then read thus: “cujus supra caput πτυχίον dependet, quo Nicias
scripsit se inussisse.” My correction is rather a bold one, I
acknowledge. Need a critic feel obliged to suggest the proper reading
for every passage that he can prove to be corrupted? I will rest content
with having done the latter, and leave the former to some more skilful
hand. But to return to the subject under discussion. If Pliny be here
speaking of but a single picture by Nicias, on which he had inscribed
his name in definite past time, and if the second picture thus inscribed
be the above-mentioned one of Lysippus, where is the third? That I
cannot tell. If I might look for it elsewhere among the old writers, the
question were easily answered. But it ought to be found in Pliny; and
there, I repeat, I am entirely unable to discover it.
NOTE 56, p. 186.
Thus Statius says “obnixa pectora” (Thebaid. lib. vi. v. 863):
... rumpunt obnixa furentes
Pectora.
which the old commentator of Barths explains by “summa vi contra
nitentia.” Thus Ovid says (Halievt. v. ii.), “obnixa fronte,” when
describing the “scarus” trying to force its way through the fish-trap,
not with his head, but with his tail.
Non audet radiis obnixa occurrere fronte.
NOTE 57, p. 192.
Geschichte der Kunst, part ii. p. 328. “He produced the Antigone, his
first tragedy, in the third year of the seventy-seventh Olympiad.” The
time is tolerably exact, but it is quite a mistake to suppose that this
first tragedy was the Antigone. Neither is it so called by Samuel Petit,
whom Winkelmann quotes in a note. He expressly puts the Antigone in the
third year of the eighty-fourth Olympiad. The following year, Sophocles
went with Pericles to Samos, and the year of this expedition can be
determined with exactness. In my life of Sophocles, I show, from a
comparison with a passage of the elder Pliny, that the first tragedy of
this author was probably Triptolemus. (Lib. xviii. sect. 12.) Pliny is
speaking of the various excellence of the fruits of different countries,
and concludes thus: “Hæ fuere sententiæ, Alexandro magno regnante, cum
clarissima fuit Græcia, atque in toto terrarum orbe potentissima; ita
tamen ut ante mortem ejus annis fere CXLV. Sophocles poeta in fabula
Triptolemo frumentum Italicum ante cuncta laudaverit, ad verbum
translata sententia:
Et fortunatam Italiam frumento canere candido.”
He is here not necessarily speaking of the first tragedy of Sophocles,
to be sure. But the date of that, fixed by Plutarch, the scholiast, and
the Arundelian marbles, as the seventy-seventh Olympiad, corresponds so
exactly with the date assigned by Pliny to the Triptolemus, that we can
hardly help regarding that as the first of Sophocles’ tragedies. The
calculation is easily made. Alexander died in the hundred and fourteenth
Olympiad. One hundred and forty-five years cover thirty-six Olympiads
and one year, which subtracted from the total, gives seventy-seven. The
Triptolemus of Sophocles appeared in the seventy-seventh Olympiad; the
last year of this same Olympiad is the date of his first tragedy: we may
naturally conclude, therefore, that these tragedies are one. I show at
the same time that Petit might have spared himself the writing of the
whole half of the chapter in his “Miscellanea” which Winkelmann quotes
(xviii. lib. iii.). In the passage of Pliny, which he thinks to amend,
it is quite unnecessary to change the name of the Archon Aphepsion into
Demotion, or ἀνεψιός. He need only have looked from the third to the
fourth year of the seventy-seventh Olympiad to find that the Archon of
that year was called Aphepsion by the ancient authors quite as often as
Phædon, if not oftener. He is called Phædon by Diodorus Siculus,
Dionysius Halicarnassus, and the anonymous author of the table of the
Olympiads; while the Arundelian marbles, Apollodorus, and, quoting him,
Diogenes Laertius, call him Aphepsion. Plutarch calls him by both names;
Phædon in the life of Theseus and Aphepsion in the life of Cimon. It is
therefore probable, as Palmerius supposes, “Aphepsionem et Phædonem
Archontas fuisse eponymos; scilicet, uno in magistratu mortuo, suffectus
fuit alter.” (Exercit. p. 452.) This reminds me that Winkelmann, in his
first work on the imitation of Greek art, allowed an error to creep in
with regard to Sophocles. “The most beautiful of the youths danced naked
in the theatre, and Sophocles, the great Sophocles, was in his youth the
first to show himself thus to his fellow-citizens.” Sophocles never
danced naked on the stage. He danced around the trophies after the
victory of Salamis, according to some authorities naked, but according
to others clothed. (Athen. lib. i. p. m. 20.) Sophocles was one of the
boys who was brought for safety to Salamis, and on this island it
pleased the tragic muse to assemble her three favorites in a gradation
typical of their future career. The bold Æschylus helped gain the
victory; the blooming Sophocles danced around the trophies; and on the
same happy island, on the very day of the victory, Euripides was born.