ταδε νυν ἑταἱραις
ταἱς εμαισι τερπνα καλως ἁεἱσω
—SAPPHO, _Frag. II._
[Greek: tade nyn hetairais
tais emaisi terpna kalôs haeisô.]
TO begin with, a girl is, generally speaking, an interesting organism,
and a perfect specimen finds prompt welcome in any cabinet. The type is
not paleozoic; at all events no fossil remains have yet been discovered
in any of the rocks; but Jane Austen may serve in that stead, duly
pinned and labelled archeparthenos.
Not of grizzled spinsters dully staring, in the mummy stage of
existence, out of vitreous eyes furnished by the taxidermist, but of
plump, sound, hearty young girls do we now wish some scientific notes.
Let the withered type-specimens remain in their glass cases for the
benefit of Professor Shelfdust and the English novelists: our heroine
is yet under twenty years of age; she has never heard of sociology and
is marvellously ignorant of the ethics of elopement; but she is as
clever as she is fascinating.
Sappho knew the value of her sex in the bud, when perfect girl nature
was just beginning to let go its charming essentials upon the air.
“τἱς δ’ αγροιωτἱς τοι θἑλγει νοον
ουκ επισταμενα τα βρακε’ εγκην επι των σφνρων?”
“[Greek: tis d’ agroiôtis toi thelgei noon
ouk epistamena ta brake’ enkên epi tôn sphyrôn?]”
“What rustic lass can win your heart
Without a touch of girlish art?”
Or literally: “What rustic maiden, even, can captivate your mind, if
she is not clever at drawing her skirts around her ankles?” There
shows the brush of genius, a fine stroke, like the circle of Giotto,
projecting a complete figure; and it is warm with life. The girl
is pretty, brown as a berry, smiling, and lissomely graceful. Her
sophistication is altogether hereditary. Sidney had her in mind when he
wrote:—
“Gay hair, more gay than straw when harvest lies,
Lips red and plump as cherries’ ruddy side,
Eyes fair and great, like fair great ox’s eyes, . . .
. . . Flesh as soft as wool new dressed,
And yet as hard as brawn made hard by art.”
Like a bird in a bush, the strong, healthy girl shows her decorations
with enthusiastic willingness, yet shyly, flitting betimes and keeping
quite out of reach, while apparently not thinking of danger. Even the
wild lass, saucing Daphnis from the doorway of her cave, knew perfectly
well that he would hang his head and pass by. She was σὑνοφρυς κὁρα
[Greek: synophrys kora]; that is, her eyebrows ran together across her
nose, which was not as unfortunate as Herrick’s sort of girl, who was—
“One of those
That an acre hath of nose.”
Why will the thought of berries come up? Dear old Suckling gave vent to
it thus:—
“No grape that’s kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.”