第 10 节
作者:莫莫言      更新:2022-08-21 16:32      字数:9322
  which will not take the trouble to prevent your seeing that it is laughing in
  your face。
  Berenice   the   queen;   on   Ptolemy's   departure   to   the   wars;   vows   her
  beautiful   tresses   to   her   favourite   goddess;   as   the   price   of   her   husband's
  safe return; and duly pays her vow。              The hair is hung up in the temple:
  in a day or two after it has vanished。             Dire is the wrath of Ptolemy; the
  consternation   of   the   priests;   the   scandal   to   religion;   when   Conon;      the
  court…astronomer; luckily searching the heavens; finds the missing tresses
  in an   utterly  unexpected placeas   a  new  constellation of stars;  which   to
  this day bears the title of Coma Berenices。              It is so convenient to believe
  the fact; that everybody believes it accordingly; and Callimachus writes an
  elegy thereon; in which the constellified; or indeed deified tresses; address
  in most melodious and highly…finished Greek; bedizened with concetto on
  concetto; that fair and sacred head whereon they grew; to be shorn from
  which is so dire a sorrow; that apotheosis itself can hardly reconcile them
  to the parting。
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  Worthy; was not all this; of the descendants of the men who fought at
  Marathon       and   Thermopylae?         The    old   Greek    civilisation    was    rotting
  swiftly down; while a fire of God was preparing; slowly and dimly; in that
  unnoticed Italian town of Rome; which was destined to burn up that dead
  world; and all its works。
  Callimachus's       hymns;     those   may    read   who    list。  They     are   highly
  finished   enough;   the   work   of   a   man   who   knew   thoroughly  what   sort   of
  article he intended to make; and what were the most approved methods of
  making   it。   Curious   and   cumbrous   mythological   lore   comes   out   in   every
  other line。 The smartness; the fine epithets; the recondite conceits; the bits
  of effect; are beyond all praise; but as for one spark of life; of poetry; of
  real belief; you will find none; not even in that famous Lavacrum Palladis
  which     Angelo     Poliziano     thought    worth    translating   into   Latin   elegiacs;
  about the same time that the learned Florentine; Antonio Maria Salviano;
  found Berenice's Hair worthy to be paraphrased back from Catullus' Latin
  into   Greek;   to   give   the   world   some   faint   notion   of   the   inestimable   and
  incomparable original。          They  must have had much time on their   hands。
  But   at   the   Revival   of   Letters;   as   was   to   be   expected;   all   works   of   the
  ancients; good and bad; were devoured alike with youthful eagerness by
  the Medicis and the Popes; and it was not; we shall see; for more than one
  century     after;   that  men's    taste  got   sufficiently    matured     to  distinguish
  between      Callimachus       and   the  Homeric      hymns;     or  between     Plato   and
  Proclus。      Yet   Callimachus   and   his   fellows   had   an   effect   on   the   world。
  His writings; as well as those of Philetas; were the model on which Ovid;
  Propertius; Tibullus; formed themselves。
  And   so   I   leave   him;   with   two   hints。  If   any   one   wishes   to   see   the
  justice   of   my   censure;   let   him   read   one   of   the Alexandrian   hymns;   and
  immediately after it; one of those glorious old Homeric hymns to the very
  same      deities;  let  him    contrast    the   insincere    and   fulsome     idolatry   of
  Callimachus   with   the   reverent;   simple   and   manful   anthropomorphism  of
  the Homeristand let him form his own judgment。
  The   other   hint   is   this。 If   Callimachus;   the   founder   of   Alexandrian
  literature; be such as he is; what are his pupils likely to become; at least
  without some infusion of healthier blood; such as in the case of his Roman
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  imitators produced a new and not altogether ignoble school?
  Of   Lycophron;   the   fellow…grammarian   and   poet   of   Callimachus;   we
  have   nothing   left   but   the   Cassandra;   a   long   iambic   poem;   stuffed   with
  traditionary learning; and so obscure; that it obtained for him the surname
  of 'Greek text:        skoteinos' the dark one。          I have tried in vain to read it:
  you; if you will; may do the same。
  Philetas;   the   remaining   member   of   the   Alexandrian   Triad;   seems   to
  have been a more simple; genial; and graceful spirit than the other two; to
  whom he was accordingly esteemed inferior。                    Only a few fragments are
  left; but he was not altogether without his influence; for he was; as I have
  just   said;   one    of  the   models     on   which    Propertius     and    Ovid    formed
  themselves; and some; indeed; call him the Father of the Latin elegy; with
  its terseness; grace; and clear epigrammatic form of thought; and; therefore;
  in a great   degree;  of our   modern eighteenth   century  poets; not   a   useless
  excellence; seeing that it is; on the whole; good for him who writes to see
  clearly   what   he   wants   to   say;   and   to   be   able   to   make   his   readers   see   it
  clearly  also。     And   yet   one   natural   strain is   heard   amid   all   this   artificial
  jinglethat of Theocritus。         It is not altogether Alexandrian。           Its sweetest
  notes   were   learnt   amid   the   chestnut   groves   and   orchards;   the   volcanic
  glens and sunny pastures of Sicily; but the intercourse; between the courts
  of   Hiero   and   the   Ptolemies   seems   to   have   been   continual。        Poets   and
  philosophers       moved      freely   from    one   to   the  other;   and    found    a  like
  atmosphere        in   both;   and    in   one   of   Theocritus'      idyls;   two    Sicilian
  gentlemen; crossed in love; agree to sail for Alexandria; and volunteer into
  the army of the great and good king Ptolemy; of whom a sketch is given
  worth reading; as a man noble; generous; and stately; 〃knowing well who
  loves him; and still better who loves him not。〃               He has another encomium
  on    Ptolemy;     more    laboured;    though     not  less   interesting:    but    the   real
  value of Theocritus lies in his power of landscape…painting。
  One can well conceive the delight which his idyls must have given to
  those   dusty   Alexandrians;   pent   up   forever   between   sea   and   sand…hills;
  drinking the tank…water; and never hearing the sound of a running stream
  whirling; too; forever; in all the bustle and intrigue of a great commercial
  and literary city。      Refreshing indeed it must have been to them to hear of
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  those simple joys and simple sorrows of the Sicilian shepherd; in a land
  where toil was but exercise; and mere existence was enjoyment。                     To them;
  and to us also。      I believe Theocritus is one of the poets who will never die。
  He sees men and things; in his own light way; truly; and he describes them
  simply; honestly; with little careless touches of pathos and humour; while
  he   floods   his   whole   scene   with   that   gorgeous   Sicilian   air;   like   one   of
  Titian's pictures; with still sunshine; whispering pines; the lizard sleeping
  on the wall; and the sunburnt cicala shrieking on the spray; the pears and
  apples dropping from the orchard bough; the goats clambering from crag
  to crag after the cistus and the thyme; the brown youths and wanton lasses
  singing under the dark chestnut boughs; or by the leafy arch of some
  Grot   nymph…haunted;   Garlanded   over   with   vine;   and   acanthus;   and
  clambering roses; Cool in the fierce still noon; where the streams glance
  clear in the moss…beds;
  and here and there; beyond the braes and meads; blue glimpses of the
  far…off   summer   sea;   and   all   this   told   in   a   language   and   a   metre   which
  shapes     itself   almost    unconsciously;      wave     after  wave;     into   the  most
  luscious   song。     Doubt   not   that   many   a   soul   then;   was   the   simpler;   and
  purer;   and   better;   for   reading   the   sweet   singer   of   Syracuse。 He   has   his
  immoralities;   but   they   are   the   immoralities   of   his   age:   his   naturalness;
  his sunny calm and cheerfulness; are all his own。
  And now; to leave the poets; and speak of those grammarians to whose
  corrections we owe; I suppose; the texts of the Greek poets as they now
  stand。     They seem to have