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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


Ex  tibris 
[    C.  K.  OGDEN    1 


HARVARD   LECTURES 


ON 


GREEK   SUBJECTS 


HARVARD   LECTURES 


ON 


GREEK    SUBJECTS 


LATE    PROFESSOR    OF    GRKF.K    !N    THE    I'NIVLRSITY    OF    EDINBURGH 


FORMERLY    FELLOW    OF    'IRIXITV    COLL1-T,!'.,    CAMSIKIL".;! 


Eantion 
MAC  MILL  AN    AND    CO.,   LIMITED 

NEW    YORK  :     THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 
1904 


PREFACE 

THESE  Lectures — Public  Lectures  delivered  at 
Harvard  University  in  April  1904 — owe  their 
origin  to  a  generous  gift  made  to  the  University 
by  Mr.  Gardiner  Martin  Lane,  of  the  Class  of 
i  88  i  ;  and  will  remain  associated  in  my  memory 
with  the  recollection  of  infinite  kindness  re- 
ceived during  my  visit  to  Cambridge  and 
Boston. 

The  Lectures,  here  and  there  slightly  ex- 
panded, are,  in  other  respects,  published  almost 
in  the  form  in  which  they  were  delivered.  The 
hearers  to  whom  they  were  originally  addressed 
comprised  not  only  classical  scholars,  but  also 


vi  HARVARD  LECTURES 

the  general  public  ;  and  they  are  now  offered 
to  a  similarly  mixed  body  of  readers. 

The  book  may  be  regarded  as  forming  a 
kind  of  companion  volume  to  Some  Aspects  of 
the  Greek  Genius  (third  edition,  Macmillan 
and  Co.  1904).  Under  various  lights  I  have 
attempted  to  bring  out  something  of  the 
originality  of  Greece.  The  contrast  is  at  the 
outset  drawn  between  Greece  and  two  older 
civilisations  : — that  of  Israel,  dominated  by  a 
great  religious  idea,  and  that  of  Phoenicia, 
given  over  to  the  pursuit  of  material  well- 
being  (I.  and  II.).  In  the  subsequent  lectures 
two  features  of  the  Greek  intellect  come  into 
special  prominence.  First,  a  Love  of  Know- 
ledge, which  not  only  seeks  out  the  facts  of 
nature  and  of  man's  life,  but  persistently  asks 
their  meaning  ;  and  this  belief  in  the  interpreta- 
tive power  of  mind,  working  on  and  transmuting 
all  raw  material  of  knowledge,  is  shown  to 


PREFACE  vi  i 

extend  beyond  the  domain  of  philosophy  or 
of  science,  and  to  give  significance  to  Greek 
theories  of  history  and  Greek  views  on  educa- 
tion (HI.).  Secondly,  a  Critical  Faculty  stand- 
ing in  singularly  close  relation  to  the  Creative 
Faculty.  Art  and  inspiration,  logic  and  intui- 
tion, elsewhere  so  often  disjoined,  enter  into 
perfect  union  in  the  constructive  efforts  of  the 
Greek  imagination.  It  is  but  one  eminent 
example  of  that  balance  of  contrasted  qualities, 
that  reconciliation  of  opposites,  which  meets  us 
at  every  turn  in  the  distinguished  personalities 
of  the  Hellenic  race,  and  which  is  too  often 
thought  of,  in  a  merely  negative  way,  as  the 
avoidance  of  excess,  rather  than  as  the  highest 
outcome  of  an  intense  and  many-sided  vitality 
(IV.).  But  the  critical  instinct,  one  of  the 
primary  endowments  of  the  Greeks,  operates 
also  apart  from  the  constructive  power,  and 
(chiefly  from  the  time  of  Aristotle  onwards) 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


tries  to  penetrate  the  secret  of  the  literary  art. 
Here  we  have  no  longer  the  same  sureness  of 
insight  ; — indeed  the  lack  of  it  is  frequently 
startling.  Nevertheless  there  remains  a  sufficient 
body  of  interesting — and  even  illuminating — 
Criticism,  to  enable  us  to  see,  through  Greek 
eyes,  some  of  those  literary  principles  of  en- 
during value  which  Greece  has  bequeathed 

(V.  and  VI.). 

S.   H.  BUTCHER. 


October  1904. 


CONTENTS 


I.  GREECE  AND  ISRAEL 
II.  GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  .         .  44 

III.  THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  .         .       82 

IV.  ART  AND  INSPIRATION  IN  GREEK  POETRY     129 
V.  GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM     .  .169 

VI.  GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM     .  .219 


I 

GREECE   AND    ISRAEL 

Two  nations,  Greece  and  Israel,  stand  out 
from  all  others  in  the  history  of  the  world, 
and  form  a  striking  contrast  as  representing 
divergent  impulses  and  tendencies  of  human 
nature,  different  ideals  of  perfection.  In  this, 
however,  they  are  alike,  that  each  felt  itself 
to  be  a  peculiar  people,  marked  off  from  the 
surrounding  races  by  distinctions  more  inefface- 
able than  those  of  blood— by  the  possession 
of  intellectual  or  religious  truths  which  deter- 
mined the  bent  and  meaning  of  its  history. 
That  history,  as  it  was  gradually  unfolded, 
became  to  each  an  unfailing  source  of  inspira- 
tion. The  records  and  famous  deeds  of  the 

race    were    invested    with    ethical    significance. 

B 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


In  interpreting  them  each  people  gained  a 
deeper  consciousness  of  its  own  ideal  vocation. 
From  the  heritage  of  the  past  they  drew  fresh 
stores  of  spiritual  energy.  Exclusive  indeed 
they  both  were,  intensely  national  ;  between 
Greeks  and  Barbarians,  between  Israel  and  the 
Heathen  there  could  be  no  intimacy,  no  union. 
For  many  centuries  the  work  of  the  Hellenes 
and  of  Israel  went  forward  at  the  same  time, 
but  in  separate  spheres,  each  nation  unconscious 
of  the  other's  existence.  Had  they  crossed 
one  another's  path,  they  would  have  aroused 
mutual  hatred  and  suspicion  ;  the  Jews  would 
have  been  barbarians  to  the  Greeks,  the  Greeks 
idolaters  to  the  Jews.  Yet  this  very  spirit  of 
exclusiveness  was  one  of  the  conditions  which 
enabled  each  to  nurture  and  bring  to  maturity 
the  life-giving  germ  which  it  bore  within  it. 
In  process  of  time  each  people  burst  the  narrow 
limits  of  its  own  nationality,  and  in  dying  to 
itself,  lived  to  mankind.  Morientes  vivimus 
is  the  epitome  of  each  history.  The  influence 
by  which  both  Jews  and  Greeks  have  acted  on 
all  after  ages  is  one  which  has  survived  the 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL 


outward  forms  of  national  existence  ;  it  belongs 
to  the  mysterious  forces  of  the  spirit.  Through 
humiliation  and  loss  of  independence  they  each 
entered  on  a  career  of  world-wide  empire,  till 
at  length  the  principles  of  Hellenism  became 
those  of  civilisation  itself,  and  the  religion  of 
Judaea  that  of  civilised  humanity. 

The  Jews  were  from  the  outset  conscious  of 
their  separateness,  of  their  peculiar  mission. 
From  the  family  to  the  tribe,  from  the  tribe  to 
the  nation,  they  felt  themselves  to  be  destined 
for  some  high  purpose,  though  the  idea  was 
deepened  and  expanded  as  their  history 
advanced.  With  the  Greeks  it  was  otherwise. 
In  the  Homeric  age  Greeks  and  Barbarians  did 
not  yet  stand  sharply  opposed  ;  and,  though 
during  that  period  and  long  afterwards  many 
elements  of  foreign  civilisations  were  slowly 
absorbed,  yet  in  the  process  of  absorption  they 
were  so  transmuted  that  for  the  Hellenes  the 
net  result  was  a  heightened  sense  of  difference 
between  themselves  and  the  non- Hellenes. 
The  first  impulse,  however,  towards  national 
unity  came,  as  with  the  Jews,  through  religion. 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


The  religious  life  of  primitive  Greece  centred 
at  Dodona  in  Epirus,  the  seat  of  the  oracle  of 
Zeus,  of  whose  cult  we  catch  a  curious  glimpse 
in  the  famous  invocation  of  Achilles  (//.  xvi. 
2  3  3).  Dodona  retained  its  immemorial  sanctity 
far  into  historical  times  ;  but  it  never  formed  a 
meeting-point  for  the  scattered  families  of  the 
Hellenic  race.  At  a  very  early  date  the  Dodo- 
naean  cult  gave  place  to  the  worship  of  Apollo, 
who  made  his  abode  on  the  Eastern  coast  of 
Greece,  at  Parnassus,  with  Delphi  as  his  sanc- 
tuary. Zeus  still  remained  the  supreme  god, 
and  Apollo,  the  youngest  of  the  Olympians, 
became  his  'prophet,'  his  interpreter.  The 
tribal  cults  are  henceforth  merged  in  a  higher 
worship.  A  league  of  states  representing  the 
common  sentiment  of  the  Hellenes  is  associated 
with  the  Delphic  shrine.  Apollo  here  presides 
at  the  Theoxenia — the  festival  celebrating  the 
friendship  of  the  gods.  In  reconciling  the 
local  deities  he  stands  as  the  symbol  of  Hellenic 
fraternity  and  union.  The  nobler  energies  of 
the  race  now  obtain  a  religious  consecration. 
The  Delphic  religion  was  in  its  highest 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL 


intention  an  effort  after  spiritual  freedom  and 
enlightenment.  In  this  respect  it  offers  a 
remarkable  counterpart  to  Hebrew  prophecy. 
It  asserts  the  binding  claim  of  the  moral  law 
alike  over  states  and  individuals.  It  deepens 
the  conception  both  of  guilt  and  purification. 
As  the  Hebrew  prophets  were  charged  with 
guarding  the  spiritual  heritage  of  Israel, 
so  the  Pythian  Apollo  fostered  the  ideal  of 
Hellenic  character  in  religion,  morality,  and 
art.  In  speaking  of  Delphic  prophecy  we 
must  dismiss  the  vulgar  notion  of  merely 
predicting  future  events  or  revealing  secrets. 
This  lower  art  of  soothsaying  was,  no  doubt, 
in  great  demand  in  Greece  at  all  periods  of 
her  history.  Tablets  discovered  in  Epirus  in 
1 877  l  give  examples  of  the  questions  addressed 
by  its  rude  votaries  to  the  oracle  of  Dodona. 
A  certain  Agis  asks  about  some  lost  property 
— mattresses  and  pillows — whether  they  may 
have  been  stolen  by  a  stranger.2  Another 

1  C.  Carapanos,  Dodone  et  ses  Ruines. 

2  ^Trepwret  *A*yt$  At'a  Naor  [/cat  Aiuvav]   vjr£p  rCjv  ffTpu/jidruv 
K[al    T&V    TrpocrJ/ce^aAcuwc,   TO,    d.7rw\oA[ei']    (?  aTroAwAec),    T)   TUV 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


inquires  whether  the  god  advises  sheep-farming 
as  an  investment.1  Even  at  Delphi  some  of 
the  responses  recorded  are  trivial  enough.  But 
the  influence  of  Delphi  must  not  be  judged  by 
such  isolated  utterances.  The  ethical  and 
civilising  purpose  it  served  is  apparent  to  every 
attentive  reader  of  Greek  history  and  literature. 
Apollo's  chief  office  is  not  to  declare  the  future  ; 
nor  is  he  concerned  with  minute  ceremonial 
observances.  He  bears  a  personal  message  to 
the  people  ;  he  is  the  expounder  of  the  divine 
will ;  it  is  part  of  his  function  to  maintain  an 
ethical  ideal  and  to  quicken  the  national  con- 
sciousness. The  pious  inquirer  at  his  shrine 
approaches  him  in  the  confidence  of  glad  com- 
panionship, and  holds  converse  with  him  as  with 
a  living  personality.  The  mind  of  the  supreme 
god  is  declared  not  in  dark  signs  through  the 
voices  of  nature  or  through  perplexing  dreams, 
but  by  human  utterance  and  in  rhythmical 
speech.  Apollo,  the  7rpo^>ijrr)<;  of  Zeus,  has 
human  Trpo^rai  of  his  own.  But  it  is  in 
accordance  with  the  religion  of  Delphi  to 

1  a?  tart.  O.VTOL  irpofiaTftiovri  wvaiov  KO.I  <l><f>t\i/j.ov. 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL 


recognise  not  only  a  direct  guidance  from 
without,  but  also  an  inward  revelation,  telling 
of  clear-felt  duties  and  pointing  to  the  god  in 
the  human  breast.  Apollo,  speaking  from  the 
'  just- judging ' ]  sanctuary,  insists  on  inward 
motive,  on  purity  of  heart  rather  than  on  out- 
ward cleansing,  on  the  spirit  rather  than  on  the 
letter  of  religion.  He  prefers  the  pious  offering 
to  the  sumptuous  sacrifice  ;  he  maintains  the 
cause  of  the  weak  and  the  oppressed  —  of 
women,  slaves,  suppliants  ;  he  inculcates  the 
duty  of  reverence  for  oaths.  But  he  was  also 
the  familiar  friend  and  counsellor  of  the  nation. 
He  took  into  his  keeping  the  civic  life  of 
Greece.  Under  Delphic  supervision  the  colonial 
system  was  organised,  and  missionaries  of 
Greek  culture  were  settled  in  every  land.  The 
express  sanction  of  the  Delphic  oracle  was 
sought  for  the  founding  of  colonies,  such  as 
Byzantium,  Syracuse,  Cyrene.  Apollo,  more- 
over, was  invested  with  all  the  gracious  attributes 
of  knowledge  and  artistic  skill.  He  was  the 
god  of  science,  of  art,  of  poetry  ;  he  presided 

1  Find.  Pyth.  xi.  9. 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


at  the  games  and  festivals.  Under  his  influence 
were  developed  the  contrasted  ideals  that  mark 
the  type  of  Hellene  and  of  Barbarian — the 
Hellene  with  his  self-knowledge  and  self- 
control  ;  his  love  of  ordered  freedom  ;  his  belief 
in  reason  and  in  the  supremacy  of  the  spirit 
over  the  senses :  the  Barbarian  glorying  in 
brute  force,  with  blind  impulses  carrying  him 
now  towards  anarchy,  now  towards  slavery, 
unconscious  of  moral  limitations,  overstepping 
the  bounds  of  law  and  reverence. 

I  am  speaking  of  the  Delphic  worship  on 
its  ideal  side,  apart  from  the  inherent  unrealities 
and  corruptions  in  which  it  was  embedded. 
Yet,  even  from  this  point  of  view,  there  are  strik- 
ing differences  as  well  as  resemblances  between 
Delphic  and  Jewish  prophecy.  The  Delphic 
priestess,  seized  and  subdued  by  an  apparently 
divine  possession,  lifted  out  of  herself  in  trans- 
port, presents  a  contrast  to  the  Hebrew  prophet 
whose  reason  and  senses  remain  undisturbed 
under  stress  of  inspiration.  The  familiar  atti- 
tude, also,  of  the  Greek  towards  his  god  is  as 
unlike  as  can  be  to  the  distant  and  awful 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL 


communion  which  the  Hebrew  prophet  holds 
with  the  Almighty.  Nor  again  does  the  history 
of  the  Hebrew  prophets  afford  any  parallel  to 
the  defection  of  Delphi  from  the  national  cause. 
Even  before  the  Persian  wars  Delphi  had  more 
than  once  yielded  to  the  temptations  which 
beset  an  ambitious  priesthood.  Now,  at  the 
supreme  crisis  of  the  nation's  history,  she  could 
not  rise  above  timid  and  temporising  counsels. 
She  was,  it  must  be  owned,  forced  to  make 
a  difficult  choice.  Her  connexions  over  the 
barbarian  world  were  widely  extended.  The  gifts 
of  the  East  flowed  in  on  her.  Phrygia  and 
Lydia  were  among  her  clients.  Her  material 
interests  forbade  her  to  pronounce  the  clear 
word  which  would  have  put  her  at  the  head 
of  Greek  resistance  to  the  barbarians.  And  so, 
the  place,  which  from  the  eighth  century  onward 
she  had  held  as  the  recognised  conscience  of 
Greece,  she  now  forfeited  and  never  wholly 
regained.  In  politics,  the  championship  of 
the  Panhellenic  cause  was  assumed  by  Athens  ; 
and  outside  the  political  sphere,  it  devolved 
more  and  more  on  poets  and  philosophers  to 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


perpetuate  the  Delphic  tradition  by  an  effort  to 
spiritualise  the  popular  creed  and  reconcile  it 
with  a  purer  morality.  The  case  of  the  Hebrew 
prophets  is  one  of  marked  contrast.  They 
never  ceased  to  be  the  guardians  of  an  ideal 
national  sentiment.  Not  that  they  merely 
reflected  prevalent  opinion.  If  in  a  sense  they 
were  the  spokesmen  of  the  nation,  they  became 
so  only  by  combating  the  will  and  denouncing 
the  vices  of  their  fellow-countrymen.  Between 
prophets  and  people  there  was  an  unending 
conflict.  We  speak  of  the  monotheism  of  the 
Jews  ;  yet  they  were  ever  prone  to  idolatry, 
being  recalled  from  it  only  by  warning  and 
disasters.  We  speak  of  their  spiritual  faculty  ; 
yet  who  more  carnal  than  they? — lovers  of 
pleasure,  lovers  of  ease,  lovers  of  money.  Again 
and  again  they  were  saved  from  themselves  only 
by  their  inspired  teachers,  by  the  austere 
voice  of  prophecy. 

There  were  moments  when  religion  stood 
opposed — as  one  might  think — to  a  larger 
patriotism  ;  and  the  prophets  had  to  bear 
the  hard  reproach  of  appearing  anti-national. 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL 


Jeremiah  was  cast  into  prison  as  a  traitor. 
Two  conflicting  tendencies,  as  Renan  has  shown, 
were  at  work  within  Judaism  :  one,  to  mix  with 
other  nations  and  learn  the  ways  of  the  world  ; 
the  other,  to  shun  all  contact  with  alien  civilisa- 
tions— art,  commerce,  foreign  alliances  being 
regarded  as  so  many  dangers  which  might 
detach  the  people  from  their  true  allegiance. 
The  first  policy — that  of  expansion — was  the 
policy  of  the  kings  ;  the  second,  the  policy  of 
the  prophets.  The  attitude  of  the  prophets 
towards  outside  movements  and  influences  was 
one  of  extreme  circumspection  or  distrust.  But 
the  narrower— we  might  be  inclined  to  say  the 
more  illiberal  view — was,  after  all,  the  truly 
national  one.  Once  we  grant  that  the  peculiar 
mission  of  Israel  was  to  guard  the  principle  of 
monotheism,  and  that  any  premature  attempt  at 
expansion  would  have  meant  absorption  into 
heathendom,  it  follows  that  the  pursuit  of 
secular  aims  and  of  a  many-sided  development 
would  have  been  for  the  nation  the  abandon- 
ment of  her  high  calling. 

Delphi  in  her  earlier  and  better  days  was 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


more  happily  placed  in  relation  to  outside 
currents  of  thought  Vividly  conscious  though 
she  was  of  the  antithesis  between  Greeks  and 
Barbarians,  no  timid  fears  that  Hellenism  might 
be  lost  in  barbarism  checked  her  forward 
energies.  Greece  must  not  be  kept  out  of  the 
general  movement  of  the  world.  Rather  it  was 
dimly  felt  that  the  world  was  one  day  to  be 
hellenised.  The  idea  that  is  openly  expressed 
in  the  fourth  century  B.C.  of  a  larger  Hellenism 
resting  not  on  racial  but  on  spiritual  affinities 
seems  to  have  floated  vaguely  before  the  mind 
at  an  earlier  date.  Delphi  was  long  able  to 
pursue  a  policy  of  progress  and  expansion  with- 
out endangering  either  patriotism  or  religion. 

Here  we  strike  on  the  fundamental  difference 
between  Hebrews  and  Greeks — the  Hebrews 
preoccupied,  dominated  by  a  single  idea,  and 
that  a  religious  one  ;  the  Greeks  moved  by  the 
impulse  for  manifold  culture.  Two  distinct 
individualities  stand  out  in  clear  relief.  To  the 
Hebrews  it  was  committed  to  proclaim  to  man- 
kind the  one  and  supreme  God,  to  keep  alive 
his  pure  worship,  to  assert  the  inexorable  moral 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL  13 


law  in  a  corrupt  and  heathen  world.  For  the 
Greeks  the  paramount  end  was  the  perfection 
of  the  whole  nature,  the  unfolding  of  every 
power  and  capacity,  the  complete  equipment  of 
the  man  and  of  the  citizen  for  secular  existence. 
The  Hebrews  had  no  achievement  to  show  in 
the  purely  secular  sphere  of  thought  and  con- 
duct. They  had  no  art, — if  we  except  music — 
no  science,  no  philosophy,  no  organised  political 
life,  no  civic  activity,  no  public  spirit.  In 
regard  to  plastic  representation,  they  were  pure 
iconoclasts  ;  for  idolatry  was  a  danger  near  and 
menacing.  The  search  for  causes — the  inspir- 
ing principle  of  the  scientific  spirit — was  for 
them  either  an  idle  occupation  of  which  man 
soon  wearies,  as  in  Ecclesiastes,  or  an  encroach- 
ment on  the  rights  of  God.  The  discovery  of 
a  reign  of  law  in  nature,  which  to  the  lonians 
of  the  sixth  century  B.C.  seemed  the  highest 
function  of  the  human  intellect,  was  alien  to 
the  Hebrew  mode  of  thought. 

Poetry  indeed  they  had,  unique  in  its  kind  : 
the  lyrical  utterances  of  the  Psalms,  outpourings 
of  religious  emotion  unsurpassed,  or  rather  un- 


I4  HARVARD  LECTURES  \ 

approached,  in  depth  and  range  of  feeling  ;  that 
sublime  drama,  again,  or  dramatic  lyric,  the 
Book  of  Job ;  the  apocalyptic  visions  of  the 
prophets,  revealed  in  words  such  as  those  which 
Isaiah  the  son  of  Amos  '  saw.'  Yet  if  we  ex- 
cept the  idyll  of  the  Book  of  Ruth  and  the  Song 
of  Solomon — a  beautiful  and  human  love-song, 
which  stands  in  such  curious  isolation  from 
the  other  contents  of  the  volume  with  which  it 
is  bound  up — Hebrew  poetry  is  of  a  different 
order  from  that  of  our  Western  civilisation  ;  it  is 
poetry  lifted  into  another  sphere  and  made  one 
with  religion.  The  epic,  and  the  drama  in  its 
strict  sense,  are  wanting.  We  have  not  the 
laughter  as  well  as  the  tears  of  humanity  ;  no 
airy  structures  of  the  fancy  ;  none  of  the  playful 
ironies  of  existence  ;  no  half  lights  or  subtle 
undertones  ;  none  of  the  rich  variety  of  poetry  in 
its  graceful  and  intermediate  forms.  The  world 
which  Hebrew  poetry  reproduces  is  not  a  second 
world  recreated  out  of  the  elements  of  the  actual, 
though  separate  from  reality  —  a  region  into 

* 

which  we  are  transported  by  the  power  of  imagin- 
ative sympathy.  It  is  the  actual  world  itself. 


I  GREECE  AND  ISRAEL  15 

The  two  living  realities,  God  and  the  Soul,  are 
face  to  face,  engaged  in  everlasting  colloquy. 
We  overhear  voices  of  pleading  and  warning,  of 
pathos  and  hope,  of  repentance  and  forgiveness. 
And  as  with  the  individual  so  with  the  nation. 
All  the  spiritual  experiences  of  the  race,  as 
summed  up  in  an  unforgotten  past,  are  ex- 
pressed in  language  instinct  with  poetic  emotion. 
In  Hebrew  poetry  there  is  a  pervading  sub- 
limity which  has  no  precise  parallel  in  any  other 
literature.  To  the  Greek  poet,  '  Wonders  are 
many  and  nothing  is  more  wonderful  than 
man  '  :  yet  marvellous  as  are  the  achievements 
of  man's  art  and  skill,  his  daring  courage,  his 
civic  inventiveness,  all  fall  short  of  the  moral 
sublimity  he  attains  through  suffering,  by  the 
endurance  of  god-sent  calamity,  and  by  an  un- 
conquerable will.  In  Hebrew  poetry,  lyrical  and 
descriptive,  the  note  of  sublimity  is  of  a  different 
kind.  It  belongs  to  the  domain  of  heaven. 
Man  is  in  himself  '  a  thing  of  nought,'  '  even  as 
a  dream  when  one  awaketh  ' ;  feeble  and  perish- 
able ;  vicissitude  and  decay  are  stamped  on  his 
terrestrial  life.  '  The  earth  shall  reel  to  and  fro 


1 6  HARVARD  LECTURES  \ 

like  a  drunkard,  and  shall  be  removed  like  a 
cottage.'  At  the  sight  of  the  majestic  order  of 
the  universe,  still  more  in  the  contemplation  of 
God's  everlasting  righteousness,  his  unsearchable 
greatness,  there  arises  a  sense  of  awe-struck 
exultation.  '  The  Lord  is  King,  the  earth  may 
be  glad  thereof :  yea  the  multitude  of  the  isles 
may  be  glad  thereof.  Clouds  and  darkness  are 
round  about  him  :  righteousness  and  judgment 
are  the  habitation  of  his  seat.'  'The  Lord  sitteth 
above  the  water-flood  :  the  Lord  remaineth  a 
King  for  ever.'  Essentially  sublime,  too,  are 
the  descriptions  which  suggest  the  omnipotence 
of  the  divine  word.  '  And  God  said,  Let 
there  be  light :  and  there  was  light.'  '  For 
he  spake  and  it  was  done  :  he  commanded 
and  it  stood  fast.'  '  Where  wast  thou  when 
I  laid  the  foundations  of  the  earth  ?  declare, 
if  thou  hast  understanding.  ...  Or  who  laid 
the  corner  stone  thereof,  when  the  morning 
stars  sang  together,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 
shouted  for  joy  ?  Or  who  shut  up  the  sea 
with  doors  .  .  .  and  said,  Hitherto  shalt  thou 
come,  but  no  further  ;  and  here  shall  thy  proud 


I  GREECE  AND  ISRAEL  17 

waves  be  stayed  ? '  He  who  '  commandeth  the 
sun  and  it  riseth  not,  and  sealeth  up  the  stars.' 
Greek  poetry  in  its  more  serious  forms  is 
almost  as  deeply  penetrated  with  theology  as 
is  Hebrew  poetry  with  religion.  The  Hebrew 
poets  seldom  dare  to  dwell  upon  those  problems 
touching  the  moral  government  of  the  world 
which  exercised  a  grave  fascination  over  the 
imaginative  mind  of  Greece.  Yet  at  times 
some  troubled  reflections  escape  their  lips,  as  in 
the  Psalms,  or  in  shorter  outbursts  of  lyrical 
emotion.  In  one  book,  ho\vevcr,  of  the  Bible 
the  cry  of  humanity  utters  itself  in  tones  of 
reasoned  rebellion  and  with  unique  audacity. 
The  Book  of  Job  and  the  PromctJicns  of 
Aeschylus  may  be  placed  side  by  side,  as  the 
two  protests  of  the  ancient  world  against  divine 
oppression — the  one  the  protest  of  monotheism, 
the  other  of  polytheism.  Let  us  glance  for  a 
moment  at  these  two  poems.  They  form  a 
luminous  comment  on  the  contrasted  spirit  of 
the  two  nations. 

The  character  of  Zeus  in    the   Prometheus 
exhibits   every  line  and  colour  of  tyranny  as  it 


18  HARVARD  LECTURES  \ 

was  understood  by  the  Greeks.  Zeus  is  the 
'  new  lord,' l  enforcing  his  will  by  relentless 
ministers,  '  ruling  by  his  own  laws,' 2  '  keeping 
justice  in  his  own  hands,' 3  '  a  harsh  monarch 
and  irresponsible,' 4  distrustful  of  his  friends,5 
malevolent  towards  his  subjects,  ungrateful  to 
those  who  had  done  him  service.  Even  his 
friends  do  not  question  the  judgment  of  his  foes. 
His  character  is  thrown  into  yet  darker  shade 
by  the  appearance  in  the  play  of  lo,  in  whose 
history  is  recorded  one  of  the  distinctive  marks 
of  the  tyrant — a  selfish  and  heartless  love. 
The  two  sufferers,  lo  and  Prometheus,  meet  by 
chance  on  the  rocks  of  Scythia,  the  one  the 
victim  of  the  love  of  Zeus,  the  other  of  his  hate  ; 
the  one  the  very  emblem  of  restless  movement, 
the  other  of  a  chained  captivity.  In  various 
details,  moreover,  the  old  legend  is  so  modified 
as  to  place  in  strong  relief  the  beneficent  effects 
of  Prometheus'  revolt.  A  single  point  may  be 

1  Prom.  96  vtos  rayfe,  cp.  149,  310,  389,  955. 

2  Ib.  403  t'Si'otJ  v6/j.ois  Kparvvuv. 

3  Ib.  187  Trap'  eavrif  TO  SiKaiov  i-^uv. 

*  Ib.  324  rpa-xjus  /J.6vapxos  ovd'  iiirfvBvvos  Kpartl,  cp.  35. 

8  Ib.  224-225. 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL  19 


mentioned.  In  Hesiod  the  theft  of  fire  leads 
indirectly  to  all  the  evils  that  flesh  inherits. 
Till  then,  under  the  rule  of  Cronus  men  were 
as  gods  enjoying  all  happiness  —  ware  6eol 
S'  €%a)ov.  In  the  train  of  civilisation  came  all 
manner  of  woes  and  sicknesses.  It  was  as  it 
were  the  Fall  of  man.  The  age  of  ignorance 
was  the  age  of  gold.  In  Aeschylus,  by  the  act 
of  Prometheus,  the  human  race  so  far  from 
forfeiting  a  state  of  primitive  well-being,  rises 
for  the  first  time  out  of  a  feeble,  timorous  exist- 
ence ;  it  subdues  to  its  own  use  the  forces  of 
nature  ;  '  blind  hopes '  are  planted  in  man's 
heart — the  pledge  of  future  progress.  Nor  did 
Prometheus,  as  some  would  have  it,  by  an  act 
of  impatient  philanthropy  forestall  the  wise 
purposes  of  Zeus.  The  design  of  Zeus  was  to 
sweep  away  the  race.  Prometheus,  therefore, 
rescued  man  not  merely  from  a  life  of  brute 
stagnation,  but  from  death  itself. 

Many  critics  have  maintained  that  in  ranging 
ourselves  on  the  side  of  Prometheus  against 
Zeus  we  are  interpreting  the  drama  in  a  modern 
sense  and  in  a  manner  alien  to  the  thought  of 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


Aeschylus.  But  the  character  of  the  benefactor 
is  drawn  in  outlines  no  less  firm  than  that  of 
the  oppressor  of  mankind  ;  and  the  words  in 
which  Prometheus  sums  up  his  own  history 
accord  with  all  the  facts  of  the  dramatic 
presentation  :  'In  chains  ye  see  me,  an  ill-fated 
god,  the  foe  of  Zeus,  because  I  loved  mortals 
overmuch '  (Sta  rrjv  \Lav  <j>t\6r'rjTa  /Sporty^).1 
Prometheus  embodies  the  Greek  type  of  moral 
heroism  as  truly  as  Zeus  does  that  of  tyranny. 
The  hero  of  Greek  poetry,  the  hero  as  Athens 
loved  to  portray  him,  is  not  only  eminent  for 
courage  or  indomitable  in  his  will-power  ;  he  is 
also  generous  in  sympathy;  pitiful  to  the  weak  ; 
moved  by  a  chivalrous,  a  romantic  impulse  to 
redress  the  wrongs  of  the  world.  Prometheus 
unites  the  two  sides  of  the  heroic  character. 
He  is  tender  as  well  as  magnanimous.  '  Out 
of  the  strong  came  forth  sweetness.'  Towards 
the  Ocean  Nymphs  he  shows  a  delicate  and 
gentle  courtesy.  The  tormented  and  confiding 
lo  pours  her  woe  into  his  ear  ;  and  the  sublime 
sorrow  of  the  god  finds  room  within  it  for  the 

1  Prom.  119-122. 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL 


plaintive  outpourings  of  the  mortal.  And,  as 
'  love  overmuch '  has  been  his  fault,  so  all 
creation,  animate  and  inanimate,  mourns  in 
sympathy  with  him  in  the  splendid  chorus,  lines 

397-435- 

If  this,  then,  is  the  true  reading  of  the  play, 

it  presents  the  struggle  between  two  wills,  each 
equally  unyielding,  the  one  strong  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  physical  power,  the  other  in  moral 
greatness  and  wisdom.  That  Aeschylus  should 
have  placed  Zeus  in  such  a  light  before  an 
Athenian  audience,  has  seemed  to  many  readers 
an  impiety  so  daring  as  to  be  impossible.  But 
let  us  not  lose  sight  of  the  far-off  period  at 
which  the  action  is  imaginatively  laid.  The 
Aeschylean  heroes  are  often  men  in  whose  veins 
the  blood  of  gods  still  runs — 

Koi)7ru>  <r<f>iv  t^rnyAov  cu/xa  Sai[j.6vwv.1 
In  this  play  they  are  not  godlike  men  but 
actual  gods.  We  are  carried  back  to  an  age 
anterior  even  to  the  action  of  the  Iliad.  One 
dynasty  of  gods  has  overthrown  another,  but 
not  without  the  rough  and  lawless  deeds  which 

1  Aesch.  Fr.  146. 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


accompany  such  a  change.  The  sovereignty  of 
Zeus  is  as  yet  insecure.  The  '  new  lord '  of 
Olympus  has  had  a  beginning  ;  he  will  also  have 
an  end  unless  he  mends  his  ways  of  governing. 
The  shadow  of  dispossession  hangs  over  him. 
He  is  subject  to  a  mysterious  power  stronger 
than  himself;  between  his  will  and  the  supreme 
Fate  there  is  still  a  discord.  His  omnipotence 
is  limited  by  this  control.  So  far  is  he  from 
being  omniscient  that  he  is  ignorant  of  the 
secret  on  which  the  permanence  of  his  throne 
depends.  His  reign  is  stained  by  caprice  and 
crime.  This  is  surely  not  the  same  Zeus  that 
is  elsewhere  called  in  Aeschylus,  '  king  of 
kings,'  '  most  blessed  of  the  blest,'  '  all-seeing,' 
'  who  rewards  all  men  according  to  their  works,' 
'  who  guides  men  in  the  path  of  wisdom.' 
Rather,  he  represents  a  passing  epoch  ;  he  is  the 
ruler  of  the  visible  order  of  things  in  an  era 
when  might  and  right  are  not  yet  reconciled. 
The  play  itself  looks  forward  to  a  future  which 
shall  adjust  the  disorders  of  the  present.  We 
cannot  here  discuss  the  difficult  question  of  the 
sequel  ;  but  once  we  admit  that  within  the 


I  GREECE  AND  ISRAEL  23 

mythological  framework  of  the  Greek  religion 
the  supreme  god  might  be  exhibited  as  subject 
to  a  law  of  development,  and  as  growing  from 
lawlessness  into  righteousness  ;  that  even  for 
Zeus  Time  could  be  the  great  Teacher,  in  the 
full  significance  of  Prometheus'  words — 

aAA'   eKStSacr/cet  Trdvd'  o   y/y/iacr/cojj'   xpovos*- 

then,  many  of  the  elements  for  the  future 
reconciliation  are  ready  to  hand.  As  Aeschylus 
elsewhere  sets  the  Eumenides  against  Apollo,  the 
old  against  the  new,  so  in  the  Prometheus  does 
he  set  Zeus  against  the  Titan,  the  new  against 
the  old.  In  each  case  the  strife  must  be  resolved 
in  a  final  harmony.  In  the  Prometheus^  the 
sovereignty  of  the  supreme  god  becomes 
assured  only  when  Wisdom  and  Power  shall 
have  entered  into  indissoluble  union.  Wisdom 
without  Power  is  ineffectual  :  Power  without 
Wisdom,  though  it  may  last  for  a  time,  cannot 
be  enthroned  as  immortal.2  This  is  probably 

1  Prom.  981. 

2  This  view  of  the  Prometheus,  which  I  have  placed  before 
my  pupils  for  more  than  twenty  years,  is,  I  find,  supported  by 
the  authority  of  so  eminent  a  scholar  as  Dissen,  in  a  letter  to 
Welcker  printed  in  Welcker's  Trilogie  1824;  see  an  interesting 


24  HARVARD  LECTURES  I 

the  explanation  of  what  at  first  sight  seems 
the  most  daring  audacity  ever  enacted  on  the 
Greek  stage.  The  mind  of  Aeschylus  loved 
to  move  among  the  dim  forms  of  the  elder 
world.  Before  his  vision  gods  in  their  succession 
came  and  went.  Viewed  in  the  immense 
perspective  of  the  past  the  sway  of  these  gods 
was  almost  as  ephemeral  as  that  of  mortals. 
With  them  too  the  higher  displaced  the  lower. 
Their  story,  like  that  of  humanity,  was  one  of 
moral  growth.  There  was  a  law  of  evolution, 
a  process  of  becoming,  from  which  even  deity 
was  not  exempt.  To  Aeschylus  the  dramatist 
no  theme  could  well  have  been  more  congenial 
than  that  of  the  Prometheus,  giving  scope,  as  it 
did,  for  a  conflict  of  will-power  on  a  scale  of 
such  colossal  grandeur.  But  Aeschylus  the 
profoundly  religious  theologian  would  surely 
have  shrunk  from  a  dramatic  situation  so 
perilous  to  piety,  were  it  not  that  the  fluid 
and  ever- shifting  forms  of  Greek  mythology 

article  in  the  Classical  Review,  March  1904,  by  Janet  Case.  Also 
it  has  been  ably  and  independently  put  forward  by  Professor 
Lewis  Campbell  in  his  introduction  to  the  Prometheus  Bound 
(1890). 


I  GREECE  AND  ISRAEL  25 

lent  themselves  to  the  utmost  freedom  of  poetic 
handling. 

In  passing  to  the  Book  of  Job,  we  observe 
some  points  of  detailed  resemblance  in  the 
setting  of  the  two  poems.  Just  as  Prometheus 
at  the  outset  maintains  silence — one  of  those 
eloquent  Aeschylean  silences — so  too  Job  held 
his  peace  '  seven  days  and  seven  nights  '  ;  and 
then,  like  Prometheus,  reviews  his  life,  proudly 
proclaiming  his  own  innocence.  His  friends 
seek  to  convince  him  that  he  has  done  wrong. 
They  cannot  extort  from  him  the  admission. 
As  compared  with  other  men  he  knows  himself 
to  be  guiltless.  And  as  the  chief  actors  use 
similar  language  about  themselves,  the  language 
they  use  about  the  deity  is  also  in  some  degree 
similar.  In  Prometheus  it  is  an  expression  of 
proud  defiance  towards  one  whom  he  regards 
as  a  tyrant  and  an  upstart,  and  whose  future 
overthrow  he  calmly  contemplates.  In  Job, 
the  voice  of  accusation  seems  to  touch  more 
nearly  on  blasphemy,  as  addressed  to  a  God 
who  was  not  only  supreme,  but  in  the  highest 
sense  righteous.  It  is,  however,  this  very 


26  HARVARD  LECTURES  i 

perfection  of  power  and  goodness  which  adds  a 
sting  to  the  apparent  injustice.  The  feeling  is 
one  of  conflict  and  strange  perplexity.  Almost 
in  the  same  breath  with  passionate  remonstrance 
and  complaint  there  come  accents  of  trust  and 
utter  self-surrender.  It  is  the  sort  of  irony 
which  belongs  to  love.  In  form  an  accusation 
it  is  in  reality  an  expression  of  belief  in  the 
very  attributes  that  are  denied,  an  appeal  to 
the  deity  to  remove  the  inconsistencies  which 
seem  to  darken  his  character,  to  explain 
the  flaws  in  his  own  work,  to  reconcile  his 
goodness  and  his  power.  Hence  the  sudden 
transitions  and  alternations  of  mood.  Now  God 
is  a  hard  adversary  ;  for  man  to  plead  against 
him  is  despair :  yet  plead  he  will,  though  it 
should  be  at  the  cost  of  his  life  (ch.  ix.  20- 
21).  'Thou  knowest  that  I  am  not  wicked' 
(ch.  x.  7) ;  'is  it  good  unto  thee  that  thou 
shouldest  oppress  ? '  (ch.  x.  3).  In  his  anguish 
God  and  his  enemies  seem  ranged  on  one  side 
(ch.  xvi.  7-16).  But  again  by  a  sudden  revulsion 
of  feeling  he  turns  to  God,  whom  he  invokes 
to  be  judge  in  his  own  cause  ;  he  makes  him 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL  27 


his  arbiter  even  while  he  is  his  adversary:  '  Even 
now,  behold,  my  witness  is  in  heaven,  and  he 
that  voucheth  for  me  is  on  high'  (ch.  xvi.  19 
Rev.  Vers.).  He  complains  that  God  hides 
from  him,  that  he  is  not  in  the  East  nor  in  the 
West.  '  Oh  that  I  knew  where  I  might  find 
him  !  that  I  might  come  even  to  his  seat !  I 
would  order  my  cause  before  him.'  '  When  he 
hath  tried  me,  I  shall  come  forth  as  gold  '  (ch. 
xxiii.  i-io).  '  Now  I  have  ordered  my  cause  ;  I 
know  that  I  shall  be  justified  '  (ch.  xiii.  i  8).  The 
sense  of  ill  treatment  and  despair  is  heightened 
in  Job's  case  by  a  special  circumstance. 
Whereas  Prometheus  is  conscious  that  he  is  an 
immortal  and  that  his  victory  in  the  future  is 
assured,  Job  has  no  clear  belief  in  immortality. 
At  the  most,  it  stands  out  dimly  as  a  hope. 
The  old  patriarchal  theory  of  life  was  in  need 
of  no  hereafter.  The  good  man  was  always 
rewarded,  the  bad  man  punished.  But  the 
theory  was  giving  way  ;  it  was  discredited  by 
experience  ;  and  with  the  blank  so  created  the 
whole  scheme  of  things  fell  into  confusion. 
For  commonplace  minds,  such  as  Job's  friends, 


28  HARVARD  LECTURES  \ 

the  old  formulas  still  sufficed.  But  to  those 
who  looked  steadily  on  life  the  discord  between 
merit  and  reward  was  apparent.  How  account 
for  the  divine  misrule  ?  There  are  moments 
when  Job  hints,  as  it  would  seem,  at  a  life  here- 
after as  the  key  to  these  moral  problems  ;  but 
such  rare  glimpses  are  soon  lost  in  deeper 
darkness. 

The  endings  of  the  two  poems  are  signifi- 
cantly different.  The  decisive  contrast  lies  in 
the  characters  of  the  two  deities  whose  justice 
has  been  impugned.  The  God  who  is  the 
antagonist  of  Prometheus  has  power,  but  he  has 
not  goodness  :  the  God  who  is  the  antagonist 
of  Job  is  perfect  in  goodness  as  in  power.  And 
so  Prometheus,  strong  in  conscious  right  and  in 
foreknowledge  of  the  future,  remains  unshaken 
by  persuasions  and  threats.  At  the  close  of  the 
drama,  from  out  of  elemental  ruin — earthquake 
and  lightning  and  tempest — he  utters  his  last 
defiant  words  :  '  Thou  seest  what  unjust  things 
I  suffer.'  Job,  who  in  all  his  troubled  question- 
ings has  never  lost  his  central  trust  in  the  God 
whom  he  has  upbraided,  ends  by  a  retractation  : 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL 


'  I  know  that  thou  canst  do  all  things,  and  that 
no  purpose  of  thine  can  be  restrained  ...  I 
have  uttered  that  which  I  understood  not, 
things  too  wonderful  for  me,  which  I  knew 
not '  (ch.  xlii.  2,  3  Rev.  Vers.).  The  infinite 
mysteries  of  creation,  as  they  are  flashed  before 
him  in  a  series  of  sublime  descriptions  (ch.  xxviii.- 
xli.),  have  subdued  the  heart  as  well  as  the  in- 
tellect. Love,  dormant  throughout,  is  now  fully 
awakened.  Yet  even  for  Job  the  bewildering 
problem  remained  unsolved.  Jehovah's  answer 
had  merely  shown  him  Nature's  immensity  and 
the  nothingness  of  Man. 

While  philosophy  had  for  the  Jews  no  mean- 
ing, history  had  a  deeper  significance  than  it 
bore  to  any  other  people.  It  was  the  chief 
factor  in  their  national  unity,  the  source  from 
which  they  drew  ethical  and  spiritual  enlighten- 
ment Thither  they  turned  as  to  living  oracles 
inscribed  with  the  finger  of  the  Almighty.  To 
history  they  appealed  as  the  supreme  tribunal 
of  God's  justice.  Nor  was  the  history  of  their 
past  merely  a  possession  of  their  own  ;  it  was 
a  treasure  they  held  in  trust  for  the  human  race. 


30  HARVARD  LECTURES  i 

The  story  of  the  Jews  was  part  and  parcel  of 
the  '  book  of  the  generations  of  man.5  Before 
the  eyes  of  the  prophets  history  as  a  whole 
emerged  as  an  orderly  plan,  conceived  in  the 
counsels  of  the  eternal,  slowly  unfolding  itself 
in  the  rise  and  fall  of  empires,  in  startling 
catastrophes,  in  sharp  and  swift  punishments 
which  smite  the  innocent  with  the  guilty  ;  but 
not  less  in  the  normal  processes  of  a  nation's 
life,  its  growth,  its"  decay,  its  obedience,  its 
rebellion,  in  the  seed-time  and  harvest  of  the 
moral  world.  The  great  monarchies,  Egypt, 
Assyria,  Babylonia,  Persia,  pass  across  the  scene. 
Their  fortunes  cross  and  interlock  with  those  of 
the  chosen  race.  Israel  is  the  pivot  on  which 
their  destiny  turns.  In  their  pride  they  boast 
of  victories  not  their  own.  The  Assyrian  says 
'  By  the  strength  of  my  hand  I  have  done  it, 
and  by  my  wisdom '  ;  but  they  are  each  an 
instrument,  though  they  know  it  not,  in  the 
hands  of  the  Almighty,  by  which  he  chastises 
his  forgetful  people  or  re-admits  them  to  his 
favour.  History,  in  a  word,  is  the  drama  in 
which  God  himself  is  the  protagonist,  vindicating 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL  31 


his  justice  and  moral  government  on  the  stage 
of  the  visible  world. 

Never  has  any  people  been  so  conscious  of 
its  own  spiritual  calling  as  the  Jews  ;  none  has 
had  so  profound  an  intuition  of  the  future. 
They  pondered  their  long  preparation  and 
equipment  for  their  office,  its  unique  design, 
their  repeated  lapses,  their  baffled  hopes,  the 
promises  postponed.  The  outward  trappings 
of  national  existence  fell  away.  All  that 
constitutes  history  in  the  eyes  of  secular  nations 
— war  and  politics,  the  deeds  of  kings,  heroic 
struggles  for  independence — these  things  occu- 
pied an  ever  lessening  space  in  their  annals  ; 
their  only  life  was  the  indestructible  life  of  the 
spirit.  They  were  content  to  suffer  and  to  wait. 
They  had  all  the  tenacity  of  hope.  Disen- 
cumbered of  material  greatness,  they  enlisted 
themselves  on  the  side  of  purely  spiritual  forces. 
It  was  the  prerogative  of  their  race  to  be  '  an 
ensign  to  the  nations,'  to  bear  the  banner  of 
the  true  God. 

The  only  Greek  historian  whose  philosophy 
of  history  recalls  in  some  chief  features  that  of 


32  HARVARD  LECTURES  \ 

the  Jewish  Scriptures  is  Herodotus.  To  him 
the  course  of  the  world,  its  incidents  great  and 
small,  are  under  divine  governance.  The  same 
'  forethought ' l  or  providence  which  is  at  work  in 
maintaining  a  just  balance  of  forces  within  the 
animal  kingdom,  likewise  presides  over  the 
destiny  of  empires.  This  supreme  power  reveals 
its  will  through  various  modes  of  utterance — 
through  oracular  voices,  through  signs,  through 
disturbances  in  the  physical  order  of  nature. 
It  humiliates  human  pride,  it  lures  on  insolence 
to  its  ruin,  it  pursues  the  guilty  through  genera- 
tions. And  as  in  Jewish  history  the  fortunes 
of  Israel  intermingle  with  the  secular  currents 
of  universal  history,  so  in  Herodotus  Greek 
history  is  read  in  its  larger  and  world-wide 
relations.  The  great  military  monarchies  pass 
before  our  eyes  in  a  series  of  apparent  digressions ; 
but  the  main  theme  is  never  forgotten  ;  the 
tragic  action  moves  onward  through  retarding 
incidents,  till  at  last  the  divine  retribution 
hastens  towards  its  goal,  and  all  the  pride  of 
the  East,  gathered  into  one  under  Persia,  flings 

1  irpovolr),  Herod,  iii.  108. 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL 


itself  in   preordained   ruin   on   the  free   land   of 
Hellas. 

The  problems  of  politics  never  exercised  the 
mind  of  Israel.  No  questions  arose  about 
royalty,  aristocracy,  or  democracy,  as  entitled 
to  put  forward  their  several  claims  ;  there  was 
no  thought  of  tempering  the  evils  of  unmixed 
or  extreme  constitutions,  or  of  harmonising 
conflicting  ideals,  such  as  at  an  early  period 
seized  upon  the  reflective  spirit  of  Greece.  The 
Jewish  wars  of  liberation  were  waged  not  for 
political,  but  for  religious  freedom.  It  has  been 
remarked  by  Renan  that  the  Jews  accepted 
with  easy  acquiescence  any  political  regime 
which,  like  that  of  Persia,  was  fairly  tolerant  of 
their  religious  worship.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  mind  of  Israel,  ill-fitted  indeed  to  found  a 
secular  state,  or  to  adjust  the  various  functions 
of  government,  went  out  in  aspiration  towards 
the  citizenship  of  a  larger  country.  The  one- 
ness of  God  carried  with  it,  as  an  implicit  con- 
sequence, the  oneness  of  humanity.  Even  the 
law,  though  in  the  first  instance  a  covenant 

with  a  single  people,  and  in  spite  of  its  minor 

D 


34  HARVARD  LECTURES  \ 

enactments  and  disciplinary  rules,  itself  became 
a  unifying  power.  Its  moral  precepts,  flowing 
from  one  God  as  the  sole  source  of  law,  had 
a  universal  and  binding  force.  And  if  the 
demands  of  the  law  knew  no  restriction  of  race, 
so  its  privileges  were  open  to  all.  No  ancient 
constitution  accorded  to  strangers  such  a 
position  as  they  enjoyed  under  the  Mosaic  code. 
At  Athens  resident  aliens  received  a  more 
humane  and  favoured  treatment  than  in  any 
other  state  in  Greece.  Still,  even  there,  they 
had  no  legal  or  civic  status  ;  access  to  the  courts 
was  secured  to  them  only  through  the  service 
of  a  patron ;  and  though  this  measure  of 
recognition  may  be  put  down  in  part  to  Attic 
^>i\av0p(07rla  or  kindliness,  the  direct  motive 
undoubtedly  was  a  commercial  one.  With  the 
Jews  the  rights  of  the  alien  are  placed  on  a 
clear  religious  basis — the  unity  of  God  involving 
the  brotherhood  of  man.  '  Ye  shall  have  one 
manner  of  law,  as  well  for  the  stranger,  as  for 
one  of  your  own  country  :  for  I  am  the  Lord 
your  God'  (Lev.  xxiv.  22).  The  declaration 
that  '  God  loveth  the  stranger '  (Dent.  x.  1 8) 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL  35 


involved  far-reaching  consequences  which  cannot 
be  extracted  from  the  kindly  religious  sentiment 
expressed  in  the  Homeric  words,  '  the  stranger 
and  the  beggar  are  from  Zeus.'  The  lessons, 
moreover,  of  suffering  and  the  memory  of  the 
house  of  bondage  are  brought  in  to  reinforce 
the  ethical  duty.  '  Thou  shalt  love  him  as 
thyself;  for  ye  were  strangers  in  the  land  of 
Egypt'  (Lev.  xix.  34).  At  the  heart  of 
Judaism  beneath  its  hard  and  often  repelling 
exclusiveness  the  idea  of  universal  humanity 
was  being  matured.  With  the  preaching  of 
the  prophets  in  the  eighth  century  Judaism 
became  essentially  a  social  religion,  a  religion 
of  humanity.  In  the  last  days  of  the  kingdom 
of  Judah  the  feeling  of  compassion  for  the  weak, 
of  sympathy  for  the  poor  and  the  oppressed, 
takes  a  deeper  and  tenderer  tone.  The  sense 
of  the  inequalities  of  life  strike  in  upon  the  mind 
with  a  new  and  piercing  force.  '  To  undo  the 
heavy  burdens  and  let  the  oppressed  go  free '  ; 
'  to  open  the  eyes  of  the  blind  '  ;  '  to  satisfy  the 
afflicted  soul '  ;  to  deliver  suffering  humanity 
from  the  darkness  of  the  prison-house — this 


36  HARVARD  LECTURES  i 

became  the  absorbing  passion  of  the  Hebrew. 
Such  a  moral  enthusiasm  could  recognise  no 
restrictions  of  age  or  country.  In  a  regenerate 
society,  and  under  the  law  of  the  spiritual  king- 
dom foreshadowed  by  the  prophets,  all  barriers 
must  be  broken  down.  The  families  of  the 
earth,  already  united  by  a  common  origin,  are 
henceforth  to  be  united  by  a  common  hope. 
'  For  my  house  shall  be  called  an  house  of 
prayer  for  all  people.' 

Greek  thinkers  no  less  than  Hebrew  prophets 
figure  to  their  imagination  an  ideal  society.  In 
Plato's  Republic  justice  finds  an  earthly  home. 
The  outward  fabric  and  framework  of  the  city 
are  essentially  of  the  Hellenic  type.  In  its 
laws  and  bye-laws,  as  distinct  from  the  moral 
principles  on  which  it  is  based,  it  is  subject  to 
the  usual  Hellenic  limitations — with,  indeed,  one 
notable  exception,  that  war  between  Hellenes 
is  forbidden,  and  that  one  Hellenic  state  may 
not  enslave  another.  But  the  distinction 
between  Greeks  and  barbarians  is  retained  ;  and 
within  the  city  sharp  lines  of  demarcation  are 
drawn.  There  are  full  citizens,  for  the  sake  of 


I  GREECE  AND  ISRAEL  37 

whose  complete  training  in  virtue  and  intellect 
the  state  exists  ;  the  governing  power  resides 
in  their  hands  ;  but  beyond  these  there  is  a 
great  disinherited  class,  of  traders  and  artisans 
who  are  not  true  members  but  only  parts  of 
the  community,  and  of  slaves  who  are  mere 
instruments  for  carrying  out  their  masters'  will. 
So  far  Plato  does  not  rise  above  his  own  age 
and  country.  But  his  real  concern  is  not  with 
the  external  organisation  of  the  state.  The 
secret  he  desires  to  discover  is  the  true  method 
of  training  intellect  and  character: — how  human 
nature  may  be  moulded  into  the  form  of  perfect 
goodness  ;  how  the  highest  natural  endowments, 
the  love  of  beauty,  which  reveals  the  world  of 
art  and  literature,  and  the  love  of  truth,  which 
makes  man  one  with  himself  and  one  with  his 
fellow -men,  may  be  fostered  and  combined. 
Plato  is  under  no  illusions  as  to  any  facile  mode 
of  reforming  society.  The  high  hopes  of  early 
youth  had  been  shattered.  The  lesson  of  Greek 
history  was  to  him  full  of  despair.  Selfishness 
and  corruption,  the  inordinate  assertion  of  the 
individual  without  regard  to  the  welfare  of  the 


38  HARVARD  LECTURES  \ 

whole — this  was  what  confronted  him  in  civic 
life.  The  thinking  man  who  shrinks  from 
engaging  in  the  turmoil  of  faction  may  well  be 
tempted  to  '  hold  his  peace  and  do  his  own 
business,'  '  content  if  only  he  can  live  his  own 
life  and  be  pure  from  evil  or  unrighteousness, 
and  depart  in  peace  and  good  will  with  bright 
hopes.' l 

No  merely  external  changes  could  restore  a 
society  so  deeply  corrupt.  Until  wisdom  and 
beneficence,  knowledge  and  power — the  power 
of  government  combined  with  true  philosophic 
insight — were  united  in  the  same  persons,  man- 
kind could  have  no  release  from  evil.  We  are 
reminded  of  the  union  foreshadowed  in  the 
Prometheus  of  power  and  goodness  in  the  govern- 
ment of  Olympus.  Plato  is  bent  on  arriving 
at  an  intellectual  apprehension  of  the  moral 
forces  which  underlie  all  political  and  social 
improvement.  On  the  one  hand  he  traces  the 
ascent  of  the  soul,  of  the  nobler  philosophic 
nature,  from  the  darkness  to  the  light,  and 
studies  the  law  of  its  upward  progress  ;  on  the 

1  Rep.  vi.  496  D-E. 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL  39 


other  hand  he  gives  a  penetrating  psychological 
analysis  of  the  successive  stages  of  moral  decline 
both  in  states  and  individuals.  The  fervour 
with  which  he  describes  the  power  of  philosophy 
to  raise  and  transform  life,  to  bring  thought 
and  action  into  harmony,  has  the  glow  of 
religious  emotion.  His  words  fall  little  short 
of  Hebrew  prophecy  in  their  intensity.  But 
let  us  not  mistake  his  drift  and  purpose.  He 
has  not  the  directly  operative  aim  of  the  social 
reformer.  He  is  not  seeking  to  ameliorate  the 
outward  conditions  of  existence,  or  to  raise  the 
lot  of  the  poor  and  struggling.  He  is  well 
aware  that  the  earthly  state,  in  which  he  seeks 
to  embody  his  highest  conception  of  justice  or 
human  goodness,  is  an  ideal,  and  that  the 
pattern  of  his  city  is  '  laid  up  in  the  heavens.' 
The  regeneration  of  society  stands  out  before 
him  as  a  far-off  hope.  He  strains  his  eyes  after 
the  heavenly  vision,  but  it  is  the  vision  of  a 
philosopher  not  a  prophet,  of  one  who  is  '  the 
spectator  of  all  time  and  all  being '  ;  for  whom 
the  laws  of  truth  and  conduct  are  the  great 
primary  reality,  towards  which  the  mind  must 


40  HARVARD  LECTURES  i 

strive  in  far-reaching  aspiration,  though  no  era 
of  righteousness  is  as  yet  dawning  on  the  world. 
Yet  he  insists  that  the  ideal  is  none  the  worse 
for  being  merely  an  ideal.  His  belief  never 
wavers  in  the  sovereignty  of  reason,  in  the 
affinity  of  the  human  soul  to  the  divine,  and  in 
the  vision  of  the  Good  as  the  illuminating  power 
of  human  life.  It  is  the  business  of  the 
philosopher  to  open  the  eyes  and  to  direct  the 
groping  steps  of  the  multitude.  '  Could  they 
see  the  philosopher  as  he  is,  they  would 
certainly  accept  him  for  their  guide.' 

The  vision  of  the  prophets  differed  from  the 
vision  even  of  the  greatest  of  the  philosophers 
in  the  ever  increasing  clearness  with  which  its 
reality  was  apprehended.  The  spirit  of  hope,  so 
distinctive  of  the  Jewish  people,  the  invincible 
optimism  which  survived  every  disappointment, 
sustained  them  to  the  last.  They  laid  hold  of 
the  future  as  their  own  possession,  with  a  confi- 
dence unapproached  by  any  other  nation,  unless 
we  may  find  a  distant  parallel  in  the  exhilaration 
of  tone  with  which  the  Roman  poets  forecast 
the  imperial  greatness  of  Rome.  To  the  Greeks 


GREECE  AND  ISRAEL  41 


the  future  is  dim  and  inscrutable;  poets  and 
prose  writers  repeat  with  many  variations  the 
sad  refrain,  '  uncertain  is  the  future  '  ]  —  aSi]\ov 
TO  //.eAAoz/.  '  Forecasts  of  the  future,'  says 
Pindar,  'have  been  doomed  to  blindness.'1  The 
future  is  the  secret  belonging  to  the  gods,  and 
it  were  presumptuous  for  man  to  seek  to  pene- 
trate it.  His  duty  is  to  seize  the  present  with 
its  limitless  possibilities,  and  to  use  it  with  that 
rational  energy  and  forethought  which  are  born 
of  an  enlightened  experience.  It  is  a  temper 
of  mind  wholly  unlike  that  of  the  Jew,  the  loss 
of  whose  earthly  country  seemed  to  point  him 
forward  with  a  more  victorious  certitude  to  '  the 
city  which  hath  foundations,'  to  the  Heavenly 
Jerusalem. 

'He  hath  set  Eternity  in  their  heart':2  so 
might  we  sum  up  the  spirit  of  Israel.  But  the 
Jewish  ideal  simplified  life  by  leaving  half  of  it 
untouched.  It  remained  for  Greece  to  make 
the  earth  a  home,  ordered  and  well  equipped  for 


1  Find.   Ol.    viii.    ad    init.      rSiv   8£   /xeXXocrwv    rerv<p\d3VTau 

(Trans.  Jebb.) 

2  Ecclesiastes  iii.  II  (margin). 


42  HARVARD  LECTURES  \ 

the  race,  if  not  indeed  for  the  individual.  Greece 
supplied  the  lacking  elements  —  art,  science, 
secular  poetry,  philosophy,  political  life,  social 
intercourse.  The  matchless  force  of  the  Greek 
mind  and  its  success  in  so  many  fields  of  human 
activity  is,  as  we  shall  see,  due  above  all  to  this, 
that  it  was  able  harmoniously  to  combine  diverse 
and  even  opposite  qualities.  Hebraism  and 
Hellenism  stand  out  distinct,  the  one  in  all  the 
intensity  of  its  religious  life,  the  other  in  the 
wealth  and  diversity  of  its  secular  gifts  and 
graces. 

Thus  the  sharp  contrasts  of  the  sculptor's  plan 

Showed  the  two  primal  paths  our  race  has  trod  ; — 

Hellas  the  nurse  of  man  complete  as  man, 
Judaea  pregnant  with  the  living  God. 

I  do  not  ask  you  to  estimate  the  value  of  these 
two  factors,  one  against  the  other,  to  compare 
things  so  incommensurable.  Each  people  is  at 
once  the  historical  counterpart  and  the  supple- 
ment of  the  other.  Each  element,  by  contribut- 
ing its  own  portion  to  our  common  Christianity, 
has  added  to  the  inalienable  treasure  of  the 
world.  For  the  present,  however,  our  immediate 


GREECE  AND  1 'SKA EL  43 


concern  is  with  Greece.  Within  these  walls 
the  Hellenes  are,  I  imagine,  a  small  and  peculiar 
people  ;  though  not,  I  hope,  a  dwindling 
minority.  Outside  are  the  larger  ranks  of  the 
non-Hellenes — I  hardly  like  to  call  them  by 
their  Greek  title,  the  Barbarians.  But  the 
Hellenes,  like  the  Hebrews,  have  always  pre- 
vailed "by  the  few,  not  by  the  many.  Nor 
was  it  till  ancient  Hellas  ceased  to  be  an 
independent  nation  that  it  became  one  of  the 
moving  forces  of  the  world's  history.  With 
the  Greeks,  as  with  the  Hebrews,  the  days  of 
their  abasement  have  once  and  again  preceded 
their  greatest  triumphs ;  the  moment  of  apparent 
overthrow  has  been  the  starting-point  for  fresh 
spiritual  or  intellectual  conquest.  That  is  a 
cheering  omen  when  we  are  asked  to  believe 
that  the  study  of  Greek  is  now  an  anachronism, 
and  out  of  keeping  with  our  progressive  civilis- 
ation. 


II 

GREECE  AND   PHOENICIA 

*^ 

IN  this  lecture  I  propose  to  place  side  by  side 
two  contrasted  civilisations — that  of  Phoenicia 
and  that  of  Greece.  The  history  of  Phoenicia 
centres  mainly  round  the  names  of  the  great 
commercial  cities  of  Sidon,  Tyre,  and  at  a  later 
period  Carthage.  I  need  not  remind  you  that 
the  Phoenicians  were  the  pioneers  of  civilisation 
in  the  Mediterranean,  and  did  the  carrying 
trade  of  the  ancient  world.  They  perfected 
the  industrial  discoveries  of  earlier  nations, 
exhibiting  singular  resource  and  ingenuity  in 
developing  such  arts  as  pottery,  glass-making, 
gold-working,  and  the  like.  But  theyalso  started 
new  branches  of  industry  of  their  own,  and,  in 
particular,  by  the  discovery  of  the  purple  dye, 
established  an  immense  trade  in  textile  fabrics. 
44 


GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  45 


Fearless  and  patient  navigators  and  explorers, 
they  felt  their  way  along  the  stepping-stones  of 
the  Greek  archipelago  till  they  pushed  to  the 
furthest  limits  of  the  known  world.  Their 
settlements  extended  over  the  whole  Aegean, 
along  the  African  coast  and  the  western 
Mediterranean,  and  thence  to  the  Atlantic  ; 
they  traded  from  the  coasts  of  Britain  to  those 
of  North -West  India.  Phoenicia  was  the 
'  mart  of  nations  '  ;  '  whose  merchants  '  were 
'  princes,  whose  traffickers  '  were  '  the  honour- 
able of  the  earth.' l  In  the  earliest  glimpse 
we  get  of  them  we  see  their  mariners  touching 
at  every  shore,  exchanging  their  manufactured 
articles  for  the  natural  products  of  the  country, 
and  at  each  point  shipping  some  new  cargo 
for  their  homeward  voyage.  Overtaken  by 
winter  on  a  distant  coast,  they  would  quietly 
wait  there  till  the  return  of  spring  enabled 
them  to  sail  on  calmer  seas.  They  opened  up 
trade  routes  for  overland  as  well  as  maritime 
commerce.  The  Phoenician  merchant  would 
penetrate  into  African  deserts  or  exile  himself 

1  Isaiah  xxiii.  2,  8. 


46  HARVARD  LECTURES  n 

for  years  in  the  bazaars  of  Nineveh  or  Babylon 
to  extend  his  markets.  Starting  from  the 
coast  of  Palestine,  a  mere  handful  of  men,  this 
people  created  a  world-wide  commerce,  main- 
tained themselves  in  scattered  groups  among 
unfriendly  populations,  holding  the  very  out- 
posts of  civilisation,  and  laid  the  foundation  of 
a  great  colonial  dominion.  About  600  B.C. 
Tyrian  sailors,  despatched  on  a  mission  by 
Pharaoh  Necho  of  Egypt,  are  said  to  have 
doubled  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  and  circum- 
navigated Africa. 

'  Those  English  of  antiquity,'  says  a  French 
writer; — but,  as  one  may  hope,  with  only  partial 
truth  in  the  description  ;  for  the  Phoenicians 
amassed  indeed  wealth  untold,  and  secured  a 
monopoly  in  most  of  the  markets  of  the  world  ; 
but  they  drove  hard  bargains  on  the  strength 
of  their  monopoly  ;  they  eked  out  their  gains 
by  kidnapping  and  trafficking  in  slaves.  Wher- 
ever they  appeared  they  were  dreaded  and 
disliked,  though,  for  business  purposes,  they  were 
indispensable.  Unpleasant  names  are  already 
applied  to  them  in  the  Homeric  poems.  This 


GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  47 


was,  perhaps,  partly  due  to  the  instinctive 
antipathy  which  has  always  existed  between 
the  Semitic  and  Aryan  races.  In  part  it  may 
be  traced  to  some  inevitable  misunderstanding 
between  people  who  refuse  to  learn  one  another's 
language.  But,  making  all  allowance  for  these 
facts,  and  speaking  without  any  anti-Semitic 
prejudice,  we  must  own  that  the  Phoenicians 
were  an  inhuman  and  unlovable  race.  They 
were  animated  by  one  passion,  the  greed  of 
gain.  Wealth  was  with  them  the  end  of  life, 
and  not  the  means.  Theirs  was,  in  Bacon's 
phrase,  '  the  Sabbathless  pursuit  of  fortune.' 
They  had  no  larger  horizons,  no  hopes  beyond 
material  advancement.  Every  artifice  of  con- 
cealment was  employed  by  them  to  maintain 
their  monopoly.  With  jealous  exclusiveness 
they  guarded  the  secret  of  their  geographical 
discoveries,  of  their  trade  routes,  of  the  winds 
and  currents.  By  inventing  fabulous  horrors 
they  sought  to  deter  rivals  from  following  in 
their  track,  and  at  times  committed  acts  of 
murderous  cruelty  upon  those  whose  indiscreet 
curiosity  impelled  them  to  pursue  the  quest. 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


To  the  past  and  the  future  they  were  alike 
indifferent  Among  the  articles  of  their  export 
trade  we  may  reckon  the  alphabet,  through 
which  they  conveyed  to  Greece  the  art  of 
writing,  though  they  themselves  never  really 
learnt  to  write.  Enough  for  them  if  they  could 
draw  up  their  tariffs  and  keep  their  accounts. 
Even  of  their  own  history  they  have  left  no 
records;  and  it  is  to  the  research  of  the  Greeks 
that  we  are  almost  wholly  indebted  for  such 
fragments  of  information  as  we  possess.  Litera- 
ture they  had  none.  Their  art  was  merely 
an  imitation  or  reminiscence  of  the  art  of 
others.  The  sense  of  political  unity,  again, 
was  wanting  ;  for  Phoenicia  was  not  a  country 
or  a  continuous  territory,  but  a  series  of  ports. 
Their  municipal  life  was  not  without  the  vigour 
which  is  often  inspired  by  commercial  activity  ; 
and,  on  occasion,  too,  Phoenician  towns  dis- 
played heroic  qualities  in  defending  their 
independence.  But,  speaking  roughly,  we  may 
say  that  civic  discipline  and  loyalty  were 
but  feebly  felt ;  even  the  great  colony  of  Car- 
thage suffered  the  battles  of  the  State  to  be 


GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  49 


fought  mainly  by  mercenaries.  In  the  absence 
of  any  high  ideal  of  personal  or  national  welfare 
the  individual  was  crushed  in  the  onward 
movement  of  material  civilisation. 

Let  us  turn  now  to  Greece.  The  Greeks, 
also,  were  born  sailors  and  traders,  who  from  the 
dawn  of  history  looked  upon  the  sea  as  their 
natural  highway,  and  explored  its  paths  in  a 
spirit  in  which  the  love  of  science  and  the  love 
of  adventure  were  equally  blended.  To  them 
might  be  applied  the  name,  ' Aetvavrai?  which 
was  given  to  a  party  of  shipowners  at  Miletus 
who  transacted  their  business  on  board  ship. 
They  too  were  always  afloat — their  home  was 
on  the  sea.  Like  the  Phoenicians,  they  were 
shrewd  men  of  business,  keen  in  the  pursuit  of 
commerce,  eager  to  make  money.  From  the 
Phoenicians  they  learned  all  the  arts  and  handi- 
crafts ;  by  degrees  they  wrested  from  them  the 
secrets  of  their  trade  routes,  and  equipped 
themselves  with  all  the  instruments  of  wealth 
and  civilisation  which  their  jealous  teachers 
sought  to  retain  in  their  own  hands.  But  with 

1   Plutarch  ii.  298  c. 


50  HARVARD  LECTURES  n 

the  Greeks  the  love  of  knowledge  was  stronger 
than  any  instinct  of  monopoly ;  the  love  of 
knowledge  carried  with  it  the  desire  to  impart 
it,  and  in  giving  to  others  they  received  again 
their  own  with  usury.  No  people  was  ever  less 
detached  from  the  practical  affairs  of  life,  less 
insensible  to  outward  utility  ;  yet  they  regarded 
prosperity  as  a  means,  never  as  an  end.  The 
unquiet  spirit  of  gain  did  not  take  possession  of 
their  souls.  Shrewd  traders  and  merchants, 
they  were  yet  idealists.  They  did  not  lose 
sight  of  the  higher  and  distinctively  human 
aims  which  give  life  its  significance.  They  had 
a  standard  of  measure,  a  faculty  of  distinguish- 
ing values ;  the  several  elements  of  national 
welfare  fell  each  into  its  proper  place  and 
order.  The  Greek  states  did  not,  it  is  true, 
all  in  equal  measure  grasp  the  principle  of  the 
subordination  of  the  lower  to  the  higher  aim. 
In  Corinth  and  Aegina,  where  the  Semitic 
instinct  for  trade  was  dominant,  the  distinction 
between  the  material  means  and  the  moral  or 
intellectual  ends  was  not  apprehended  with  the 
same  sureness  or  so  decisively  translated  into 


GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  51 


action  as  at  Athens.  Still  the  fact  remains 
that  Greece  was  aware  of  the  ideal  ends  of  life  ; 
Phoenicia  was  not.  And  so  political  science, 
ignored  by  the  Phoenicians,  became  to  the 
Greeks  the  highest  of  the  practical  sciences, 
the  science  of  man,  not  as  a  trader,  but  as  a 
man,  fulfilling  his  function  as  a  member  of  the 
social  organism,  and  living  with  all  the  fulness 
of  life.  Aristotle  speaks  of  the  State  as  exist- 
ing not  '  for  the  sake  of  mere  life,  but  of  the 
noble  life '  ;  and,  though  the  formula  is  his  own 
and  bears  a  philosophic  stamp,  he  was  but 
following  the  guidance  of  educated  thought  and 
deepening  a  popular  conviction.  Granted  that 
certain  external  conditions  must  be  satisfied 
and  material  wants  supplied,  the  true  aim  of 
civic  existence  still  lies  beyond.  The  State 
was  felt  to  be  no  mere  mechanism  for  the 
getting  of  wealth  ;  its  function  was  to  build  up 
character  and  intellect,  to  unfold  the  powers  of 
the  heart  as  well  as  of  the  head,  to  provide  free 
scope  for  the  exercise  of  human  personality  in 
its  manifold  activities.  An  Athenian  could 
have  said  with  Burke  :  '  The  State  is  a  partner- 


52  HARVARD  LECTURES  \\ 

ship  in  all  science,  in  all  art,  in  every  virtue, 
and  in  all  perfection.'  The  Greek  orators  are 
animated  by  the  same  conception.  Demo- 
sthenes never  wearies  of  insisting  on  the  moral 
basis  of  national  greatness.  Wealth,  population, 
armies,  fleets,  all  the  material  elements  of 
strength,  if  disjoined  from  the  nobler  sources  of 
civic  inspiration,  become  '  useless,  ineffectual, 
unavailing.' l 

Phoenicia  remains  a  lasting  witness  to  the 
instability  of  power  resting  on  a  purely 
commercial  basis  and  unsustained  by  any  lofty 
or  aspiring  aims.  No  more  striking  contrast 
can  be  drawn  than  that  between  Greek  and 
Phoenician  colonisation.  From  the  Phoenicians 
the  Greeks  learnt  all  the  rudiments  of  the 
colonising  art.  But  the  Phoenician  colonies, 
scattered  over  the  Mediterranean  shores,  were 
as  a  rule  little  more  than  trading  stations  and 
factories  planted  along  the  great  international 
routes ;  paying  over,  in  some  cases,  to  the 
mother  city  a  portion  of  their  commercial 
revenues,  but  owning  no  real  allegiance,  and  not 

1  Phil.  iii.  40  dx/)77°"ra>  S-TpaKTa,  dv6vrjTa,. 


GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  53 


infrequently  detached  in  sentiment.  Nor  did 
they  show  much  power  of  self-government  or 
any  aptitude  for  entering  into  political  union 
with  others.  To  keep  on  good  terms  with  the 
native  populations  on  whose  land  they  had 
settled,  and  to  turn  to  profitable  use  the 
resources  of  the  neighbouring  tribes,  was  their 
chief  endeavour.  Carthage,  indeed,  the  greatest 
of  Phoenician  colonies,  displayed  a  magnificent 
and  conquering  energy  ;  but  her  projects  of 
territorial  ambition  in  Sicily,  Sardinia,  and 
Spain  were  precisely  the  occasion  of  her  down- 
fall. 

The  influence  of  Greater  Greece  is  the 
determining  fact  in  the  history  of  the  Hellenic 
people.  Already  in  the  sixth  century  B.C.  the 
coasts  and  islands  were  studded  with  Greek 
towns  from  the  Crimea  to  North  Africa,  from  the 
regions  of  the  Caucasus  to  Lower  Italy,  to  Sicily, 
and  even  to  Gaul.  In  the  Macedonian  period 
the  chain  of  Greek  cities  extended  to  the  Indus. 
Plato  might  speak  of  the  sea  as  '  a  bitter  and 
brackish  neighbour,' l  a  pleasant  thing  enough 

1  Laws  iv.  7°5  A  tt\jUi'p6i'   KO.L  iriKpbv  yeirovrjfj.a. 


54  HARVARD  LECTURES  n 

to  have  near  you,  but  dangerous,  and  likely  to 
bring  in  other  strange  products  besides  foreign 
merchandise.  Nature,  however,  had  marked 
out  a  maritime  destiny  for  the  Hellenes,  and 
their  colonial  activity  was  the  highest  political 
achievement  of  the  race.  Different  motives  led 
the  several  states  to  send  out  colonies.  Greece 
was  a  poor  country — Trevirj  aei  /core  avvrpcxfios 
eVrt:1 — the  growth  of  population  outstripped 
the  means  of  existence,  and  a  foreign  market 
was  necessary  to  supplement  the  food  supply 
and  to  furnish  the  material  for  native  industries. 
But  though  actual  need  was  perhaps  the  most 
frequent  of  the  impelling  causes  of  emigration, 
the  highest  instincts  of  the  race  sought  other 
satisfaction  in  the  colonising  energy.  Each 
founding  of  a  city  was  a  missionary  enterprise. 
The  emigrants  carried  with  them  the  Apolline 
worship  as  the  symbol  of  their  spiritual  unity  ; 
and,  as  we  expressly  read  in  regard  to  the  found- 
ing of  Naxos  (735  B.C.) — the  earliest  of  the 
Greek  colonies  in  Sicily — the  first  act  on  touching 
the  new  shore  was  to  erect  an  altar  to  Apollo 

1  Herod,  vii.  102. 


GREECE    AND  PHOENICIA  55 


Archegetes.1  The  jealousies  which  were  so  rife 
in  the  narrow  cantons  of  Greece  were  softened 
and  sometimes  forgotten  in  absence  from  home. 
The  sense  of  Hellenic  kinship  was  deepened 
and  clarified.  The  Hellenes  became  aware  of 
themselves  as  children  of  one  family,  however 
widely  dispersed  ;  guardians  of  a  common  herit- 
age which  they  were  bound  to  protect  against 
surrounding  barbarism  ;  they  listened  to  one 
Homer,  they  were  nurtured  on  the  same  heroic 
legends  ;  on  the  same  days  they  sacrificed  to 
the  same  gods  as  their  kinsfolk  in  the  mother 
cities  ;  they  lived  under  customs  and  institutions 
similar  in  spirit  to  the  old. 

Great  diversity  of  aim  and  method  prevailed 
in  the  colonising  states.  Corinth,  the  Venice 
of  antiquity,  pursued  a  commercial  policy,  and 
that  policy  rested  on  a  colonial  basis.  Athens, 
entering  much  later  on  the  field  of  colonial 
expansion,  kept  larger  political  and  social  ends 
in  view.  Her  colonial  empire,  growing  out  of  a 
religious  federal  union,  owed  its  final  and  distinc- 
tive form  to  the  part  the  city  played  in  repelling 

1   Thucyd.  vii.  3.  I. 


56  HARVARD  LECTURES  \\ 

the  common  danger  which  menaced  Greece 
during  the  Persian  wars.  Even  into  the  work 
of  colonisation  Athens  sought  to  introduce  a 
large  and  comprehensive  spirit.  A  salient 
example  occurs  in  the  history  of  Magna 
Graecia,  the  home  of  so  many  novel  and  in- 
teresting experiments  in  social  organisation. 
After  the  destruction  of  Sybaris,  the  new  city 
(henceforth  named  Thurii)  was  restored  under 
the  guidance  of  Pericles,  who  desired  to  make 
it  a  Panhellenic  community  :  from  the  outset 
it  comprised  not  Athenians  only  but  Arcadians, 
Eleans,  and  Boeotians.  But  widely  as  the 
states  of  Greece  differed  as  colonising  agencies, 
Hellenic  colonisation,  viewed  generally,  had  one 
notable  characteristic.  Fitting  in  with  the 
spirit  of  adventure  and  the  disinterested  curio- 
sity of  a  restless  and  daring  intellect,  it  carried 
men  into  the  heart  of  every  science.  With  the 
enlargement  of  the  physical  horizon  new  in- 
tellectual needs  sprang  up.  The  art  of  naviga- 
tion demanded  a  closer  study  of  astronomy  and 
mathematics.  The  opening  up  of  unknown 
lands,  the  importation  of  unfamiliar  products, 


GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  57 


the  acquaintance  gained  with  alien  civilisations, 
whetted  the  desire  for  anthropological  and  his- 
torical research.  We  can  observe  the  fascinat- 
ing influence  of  geographical  discoveries  on 
the  imagination  of  a  poet  such  as  Aeschylus. 
We  are  reminded  of  the  effect  of  similar  ex- 
plorations on  our  own  Elizabethan  age.  Indeed, 
the  versatile  colonial  intellect  of  Greece,  with 
its  many-sided  and,  as  it  might  seem,  incom- 
patible activities,  produced  a  type  of  character 
which  it  is  not  too  fanciful  to  compare  with  so 
romantic  a  personality  as  that  of  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  who  was  '  poet,  historian,  chemist, 
soldier,  philosopher,  courtier.' 

The  intellectual  movement  of  the  Greek 
world  during  the  sixth  century,  and  down  to 
about  the  middle  of  the  fifth  century,  radiates 
from  Greater  Greece.  The  philosophic  intellect 
of  Ionia  led  the  way.  All  the  early  philosophers 
are  lonians  by  birth — Thales,  Anaximander, 
Anaximenes,  Anaxagoras,  Pythagoras,  Xeno- 
phanes,  Heraclitus  ;  and  of  these  the  first  three 
belong  to  one  city  Miletus.  That  same  Miletus, 
which  from  the  eighth  century  onwards  sent  forth 


58  HARVARD  LECTURES  n 

intrepid  mariners,  who  penetrated  to  the  remotest 
corners  of  the  Euxine,  planting  some  eighty 
settlements  along  the  'inhospitable'  shores,  also 
made  fearless  excursions  into  the  domain  of 
physical  science,  and  gave  to  western  Europe 
its  first  speculative  impulse.  In  philosophy,  the 
colonies  of  Southern  Italy  and  Sicily  followed 
the  Ionian  lead.  In  poetry,  the  earliest  outburst 
of  inspired  song  after  Homer  came  from  the 
island  of  Lesbos.  Sicily  gave  birth  to  comedy, 
to  dramatic  dialogue,  to  rhetoric.  The  smaller 
islands  contributed  their  share.  Ceos  produced 
the  great  Simonides  ;  Samos,  Pythagoras  ;  Cos, 
Hippocrates,  the  father  of  medicine  ;  a  century 
later  Crete  gave  to  the  world  the  Cynic 
Diogenes  ;  and  Melos,  the  '  atheist '  Diagoras. 
Withdraw  from  Greece  the  colonies  of  her  own 
blood,  and  you  rob  her  of  some  of  her  greatest 
names  ;  not  only  those  just  mentioned,  but 
also  Terpander,  Archilochus,  Mimnermus,  Arion, 
Alcaeus,  Sappho,  Stesichorus,  Anacreon,  Ibycus, 
Bacchylides,  Epicharmus,  Empedocles,  Herod- 
otus, Hellanicus,  Gorgias — I  need  not  complete 
the  list. 


GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  59 


In  the  colonies  again  the  most  diverse 
political  experiments  were  tried.  The  old 
forms  of  constitution  proved  to  be  too  rigid 
for  the  new  countries.  Difficult  problems  pre- 
sented themselves  and  pressed  for  practical 
solution.  All  the  adaptive  powers  of  the  race, 
their  rich  and  flexible  intelligence,  their  evrpa- 
TreXia,  were  called  into  play.  Rival  centres  of 
industry  or  culture  each  acquired  a  distinctive 
character.  The  literature,  the  art,  the  mode  of 
thought  of  the  several  colonies  took  their  own 
local  colouring.  The  marvel  is  that  at  a  dis- 
tance from  home,  a  mere  handful  of  strangers, 
they  were  not  merged  in  the  prevailing  barbar- 
ism ;  that  they  did  not  '  forget  their  language, 
forget  their  poets,  and  their  gods.' l  As  it  was, 
they  not  only  maintained  their  Hellenism  de- 
spite all  diversity  of  developments,  but  enriched 
the  common  stock  by  a  ceaseless  output  of  ideas. 
The  sacred  fire  taken  from  the  hearth  of  the 
metropolis  city,  they  kept  alive,  and  from  it 
kindled  new  and  illuminating  thoughts  which 
they  transmitted  to  the  land  of  their  origin. 

1  Perrot,  Histoire  de  f  Art  dans  I'  Antiquite,  vii.  299. 


60  HARVARD  LECTURES  n 

The  history  of  Greek  art l  offers  multiplied 
instances  of  this  vital  and  effective  interaction 
between  the  colonies  and  the  mother  city.  A 
colony,  free  from  the  hampering  traditions  of  a 
school,  aided,  it  might  be,  by  the  discovery  of  a 
new  material  as  the  medium  of  artistic  expression, 
would  strike  out  some  bold  experiment  which 
only  received  its  finished  form  in  the  old  home. 
Among  the  causes  which  acted  as  a  powerful 
stimulus  on  artistic  production  none  ranks 
higher  than  the  agonistic  contests  of  Greece. 
The  desire  to  win  national  renown  in  this  field 
of  coveted  achievement  created  a  civic  rivalry, 
intense  in  character  and  of  far-reaching  con- 
sequence. Each  state  was  eager  to  know  and 
appropriate  the  best  results  that  had  elsewhere 
been  accomplished.  Hence  there  was  an  un- 
limited interchange  of  art  products  extending 
even  to  the  outlying  regions  of  Hellenism. 
Famous  artists  travelled  with  their  wares.  Not 
only  were  the  great  religious  and  social  centres, 
such  as  Olympia,  Delphi,  Delos,  Miletus  reposi- 

1  Here  I  am  much  indebted  to  hints   kindly  given  me  by 
Professor  Waldstein. 


GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  61 


tories — we  might  almost  say  museums — where 
works  of  art  could  be  viewed,  but  minor  locali- 
ties also  took  a  pride  in  acquiring  masterpieces 
representing  well-known  individuals  or  different 
schools.  This  free  trade  in  art  had  in  it  an 
educative  and  expansive  force ;  it  gave  unity 
no  less  than  variety  to  artistic  culture  ;  it 
quickened  the  sense  of  Hellenic  patriotism  ;  it 
had  an  influence  analogous  to  that  exercised  by 
the  poetic  recitations  of  the  wandering  rhap- 
sodists  on  the  thought,  the  language,  and  the 
sentiment  of  Greece. 

Here  I  can  do  no  more  than  allude  to  the 
topic.  For  the  detail  we  should  recall  the 
history  of  sculpture  from  the  second  half  of  the 
seventh  century  onward,  especially  in  connex- 
ion with  Chios,  Crete,  Samos,  and  other  islands, 
whence  the  hereditary  craft  of  certain  families 
and  schools  found  its  way  to  the  Grecian  main- 
land. To  Glaucus  of  Chios  is  attributed  the 
invention  of  soldering  iron  ;  to  Melas  of  Chios, 
the  first  working  of  marble — an  art  which  he 
bequeathed  to  his  son  Micciades  and  his  direct 
descendants,  Archermus,  Bupalus,  and  Athennis. 


62  HARVARD  LECTURES  n 

In  Samos  the  art  of  bronze-casting  originated 
with  Rhoecus  and  his  son  Theodorus.  Crete 
produced  a  well-known  school  of  sculpture,  the 
earliest  names  being  those  of  Dipoenus  and 
Scyllis,  who  travelled  through  Greece  proper, 
visiting  Sicyon,  Argos,  Cleonae,  and  Ambracia, 
and  there  introduced  their  new  methods.  Later, 
during  the  second  half  of  the  sixth  century 
and  the  first  half  of  the  fifth,  we  note  the  fresh 
and  daring  originality  displayed  in  sculpture 
by  Sicily — pre-eminently  in  the  earlier  metopes 
from  Selinus  —  and  also  by  Magna  Graecia. 
Pythagoras  of  Rhegium,  a  rival  of  Myron  of 
Eleutherae,  and  famous  chiefly  as  the  sculptor 
of  Olympic  victors,  introduced  his  principles  of 
'  symmetry  and  rhythm '  ;  he  marks  the  last 
step  in  the  process  of  emancipation  from  archaic 
and  hieratic  bonds,  which  prepared  the  way  for 
the  age  of  Phidias.  Another  colonial  sculptor 
of  genius  was  a  contemporary  of  Phidias — 
Paeonius  of  Mende,  near  Aenus  in  the  Thracian 
Chersonese.  His  Nike,  discovered  at  Olympia 
in  1875,  exhibits  an  original  spirit  which  un- 
doubtedly influenced  the  art  of  the  fifth  century. 


GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  63 


Again,  in  painting,  Polygnotus  of  Thasos,  under 
whom  were  executed  the  great  mural  decorations 
at  Athens,  appears  to  have  held  with  Cimon  a 
position  similar  to  that  of  Phidias  with  Pericles. 
In  the  Periclean  age  itself  one  of  the  most 
distinctive  features  of  Attic  art  is  its  breadth 
of  view,  its  large  hospitality,  its  power  of 
assimilating  every  fruitful  element  of  artistic 
taste  and  culture  which  came  to  it  from  all 
other  Hellenic  centres.  Even  in  the  following 
period,  when  Argos  and  Sicyon  and  Athens 
took  the  lead,  it  is  worth  remembering  that 
among  sculptors  Scopas  was  a  Parian  ;  and  in 
the  fourth  century,  when  painting  reached  its 
highest  point,  the  masters  of  the  art  were 
Zeuxis  from  Heraclea,  Parrhasius  from  Ephesus, 
and  Apelles  from  Colophon. 

In  that  enchanted  island  of  Sicily,  which 
for  more  than  a  thousand  years  was  the  battle- 
ground of  southern  Europe,  swept  by  a  long 
succession  of  conquering  races,  Greeks  and 
Phoenicians  confronted  one  another  for  centuries. 
At  certain  critical  moments  of  history  Phoenicia 
threatened  to  engulf  our  Western  civilisation. 


64  HARVARD  LECTURES  n 

Yet  to-day,  go  where  we  may  through  the 
island,  it  is  Greece  that  speaks  to  us,  in  her 
theatres  and  temples,  in  her  ruined  columns 
and  along  deserted  shores.  The  voice  of  Greek 
poets,  Greek  philosophers  and  historians,  who 
lived  or  died  there,  is  still  heard  in  the  undying 
pages  of  the  past.  As  for  Phoenicia,  in  Sicily 
as  elsewhere,  her  memorial  has  perished  with 
her.  In  her  day  she  did  some  humble,  but 
real,  service  to  mankind  in  helping  forward, 
though  with  a  reluctant  hand,  a  more  gifted 
people  on  the  road  of  material  progress.  To 
her  they  owed  their  first  lessons  in  shipbuilding 
and  navigation,  their  knowledge  of  some  of  the 
lesser  arts  and  crafts,  and,  as  it  would  seem, 
certain  practical  applications  of  arithmetic. 
But,  with  all  her  wealth,  she  passed  away,  as 
was  foretold  by  Ezekiel  in  his  doom  of  Tyre, 
and  the  vestiges  of  her  that  remain  have  an 
antiquarian,  not  a  human  interest. 

It  is  just  this  human  quality,  lacking  in  the 
Phoenicians,  which  marks  so  conspicuously  the 
Hellenic  temperament.  There  is  in  it  a  natural 
expansiveness,  a  desire  to  enter  into  kindly 


ii  GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  65 

human     relations     with     others,     to     exchange 
greetings  with  the  stranger  on  the  road,  to  give 
utterance    to    the    passing    thought    or    fugitive 
emotion  ;   or,  if  oral  utterance  is   impossible,  to 
make  writing   serve  the   turn  of  speech,  and   so 
bind   together  in   friendly  intimacy  the   present 
and  the  absent,  the  living  and  the  dead.      Even 
inanimate   objects   are  drawn  into   the  circle   of 
this  genial   human   intercourse.      A   bowl    fore- 
stalls your  curiosity  by  telling  you   something 
of  its  personal  history.      A  word  or  jotting  on 
a  piece  of  pottery — sometimes  a  mere  "  vrpocr- 
ayopevw  " — carries  the  message  of  the  artist  to 
his    friend.      Or    again,    a    fragment    inscribed 
with   the  name  of  an  Athenian  youth   calls  up 
a  tender  reminiscence  of  old  friendship  when  it 
is   found   far  from  Athens   in  the  rock-tombs  of 
Etruria.     The  "^aipe,"  again,  that  is  uttered  over 
the    departed    is    repeated    on    the    sepulchral 
slab  ;   and    not   infrequently  the   farewell    word 
is  expanded   into  a  brief  dialogue  between   the 
dead  man  and   the   surviving  friend,  or   even  a 
chance    wayfarer.      Such     sepulchral    greetings 
have  a  memorial  value  of  a  very  special   kind. 


66  HARVARD  LECTURES  n 

Unlike  more  formal  monumental  inscriptions, 
they  are  the  direct  address  of  person  to  person  ; 
they  make  an  immediate  appeal  to  the  heart 
for  the  very  reason  that  they  are  so  simple,  so 
spontaneous  ;  as  if  the  unspoken  thought  had 
been  intercepted  before  it  reached  the  lips,  and 
had  taken  external  shape  while  yet  upon  its 
way. 

In  all  these  instances  mind  is  not  subjected 
to  things  material  ;  it  is  the  inner  world  that 
dominates  the  outward.  This  is  of  a  piece 
with  other  characteristics  already  noted.  In 
Plato's  ideal  commonwealth  material  well-being 
does  not  occupy  a  commanding  place.  The 
true  constituent  elements  of  happiness  are 
moral  and  intellectual.  It  is  only  in  the 
Utopias  of  the  comic  poets  that  material  enjoy- 
ments come  into  the  foreground  of  the  picture. 
In  one  of  the  fragments  of  Pherecrates 1  (a 
contemporary  of  Aristophanes),  human  beings 
are  by  the  bounty  of  Plutus  equipped  with  all 
good  things  without  any  effort  of  their  own  : 
'  Of  their  own  accord  rivers  of  black  broth, 

1  ap.  Athen.  vi.  97. 


GREECE  .-/AY)  PHOENICIA  67 


gushing  and  gurgling,  will  flow  along  the  high- 
ways from  the  springs  of  1'lutus.  .  .  .  From 
the  roofs  rivulets  will  run  of  the  juice  of  the 
grape  with  cheese-cakes  and  hot  soup  and 
omelets  made  of  lilies  and  anemones.'  Some 
rabbinical  descriptions  of  the  material  happiness 
that  will  prevail  in  the  visible  kingdom  of  God 
do  not  fall  far  short  of  this  comic  paradise. 
The  rivers  will  flow  with  wine  and  honey  ;  the 
trees  will  grow  bread  and  delicacies  ;  in  certain 
districts  springs  will  break  forth  which  will 
cure  all  diseases  ;  suffering  will  cease,  and  men 
will  be  very  long-lived,  if  they  die  at  all.  Even 
if  we  admit  that  'a  good  dose  of  materialism 
may  be  necessary  for  religion  that  we  may  not 
starve  the  world,'  still  Judaism,  even  in  its 
loftiest  moments,  is  a  little  too  much  inclined 
to  hanker  after  material  delights,  and  to  express 
itself  in  a  form  which  would  have  shocked  the 
ideal  sentiment  of  Greece.  Take  again  the 
enjoyment  of  a  Greek  festival.  The  occasion 
was  not,  as  with  other  nations,  one  for  eating 
and  drinking.  The  people  shared  the  more 
refined  tastes  of  their  gods,  who,  at  the  agonistic 


68  HARVARD  LECTURES  n 

and  dramatic  festivals,  came  forth  for  the  day 
from  their  sanctuaries,  and  mingled  gladly 
with  the  throng  of  worshippers,  demanding 
from  them  no  costly  banquets,  but  perfected 
human  powers  dedicated  to  the  service  of 
religion  :  physical  manhood  with  all  its  dis- 
ciplined skill  ;  powers  too  of  intellect  and 
imagination,  expressing  themselves  in  diverse 
forms  of  poetry  and  music.  Similarly  in  the 
great  national  athletic  contests,  so  long  as  the 
finer  instinct  of  Greece  prevailed  over  Asiatic 
ostentation,  the  reward  of  the  victor  had 
no  material  value  ;  the  wreath  of  wild  olive, 
laurel,  or  parsley,  with  which  he  was  crowned, 
was  but  the  symbol  of  his  consecration,  nor 
did  he  retain  it  as  a  personal  possession  ;  it 
was  hung  up  in  the  shrine  of  the  local  deity. 

The  Greek  way  of  regarding  private  luxury 
offers  a  similar  note  of  idealism.  Money 
lavished  on  purely  personal  enjoyment  was 
counted  vulgar,  oriental,  inhuman.  It  was  an 
offence  against  good  taste,  a  violation  of  the 
law  of  measure  and  self-restraint,  the  glorifica- 
tion of  the  individual  on  his  selfish  side.  It 


GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  69 


implied  a  failure  to  discern  the  true  ends  which 
make  social  existence  desirable.  The  famous 
saying  of  Pericles,  '  We  are  lovers  of  the 
beautiful,  but  without  extravagance '  (§CKoK,a- 
\ovp,ev  jap  ytier'  e^reA-eta?),  may  be  taken  as  the 
motto  of  the  private  life  of  the  Periclean  age. 
Refinement  and  simplicity — such  was  the  ideal 
union.  Mere  economy  had  no  attraction  for  a 
Greek,  the  real  question  being  not  the  amount 
you  spend,  but  the  occasion  of  the  outlay  and 
the  end  in  view.  As  for  meanness,  it  was 
viewed  with  special  disfavour.  \Ve  ma}-  recall 
the  man  in  Aristotle's  Ethics,  who,  having  spent 
liberally  on  a  fitting  object,  then  spoils  the 
whole  effect  for  the  sake  of  a  trifle  (ei>  fjuicpw  TO 
Ka\bv  ttTToXet).1  But,  of  all  forms  of  meanness, 
the  worst  was  that  which  was  combined  with 
display  ;  of  which  we  have  an  example  in  a 
fragment  of  a  comic  poet,  where  an  economical 
person  boasts  that  he  had  invited  his  guests  to 
a  wedding  breakfast  on  the  express  understand- 
ing that  they  were  each  to  bring  their  own  food. 
Large  outlay  on  rare  and  interesting  occasions 

1  Eth.  Nic.  iv.  2.  21. 


70  HARVARD  LECTURES 


even  in  private  life  meets  with  approval  from 
Aristotle  ;  and  one  of  the  most  characteristically 
Greek  features  in  his  description  of  such  justifi- 
able outlay  is  that  not  only  is  the  outlay  on  the 
great  scale,  it  is  also  in  the  grand  manner. 
The  total  effect  is  impressive  ;  it  depends  not 
on  the  amount  expended,  but  on  a  certain 
harmonious  and  aesthetic  quality  that  affects 
the  imagination.1 

Great  outlay,  according  to  the  old  ideal  of 
Athens,  should  be  limited  to  public  objects. 
In  the  next  generation,  Demosthenes  looks  back 
with  regret  to  the  lost  simplicity  of  private  life. 
In  earlier  Athens,  he  says,  the  houses  of 
Miltiades  and  Themistocles  differed  in  no  way 
from  those  of  the  ordinary  citizen,  while  the 
public  buildings  and  temples  were  on  a  scale  of 
grandeur  and  magnificence  that  no  future  ages 
could  surpass.2  The  vast  sums  spent  on  the 
Parthenon  and  other  edifices  have,  indeed,  been 
criticised  by  some  modern  economists  as  so 
much  wealth  locked  up  in  bricks  and  mortar — 
as  unproductive  expenditure  which  contributed 

1  Eth.  NIC.  iv.  2.  10.  2  Dem.  Olynth.  iii.  25-26. 


GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  71 


to  the  ruin  of  Athens.  From  the  narrow 
financial  point  of  view  it  may  be  difficult  to 
justify  such  expenditure.  But,  if  we  try  to  look 
at  it  in  the  Athenian  spirit,  is  there  not  much 
to  be  said  in  its  defence  ?  Simplicity  in  the 
home,  splendour  in  the  city — that  was  the 
principle.  To  spend  largely  on  our  private 
selves,  on  our  personal  satisfaction,  was  luxury, 
and  culpable  luxury.  To  incur  great  outlay 
for  worthy  objects  which  transcend  self  and 
minister  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  community, 
was  praiseworthy  munificence.  The  individual 
man  and  his  material  surroundings  passed  away; 
the  city  was  the  enduring  reality  ;  it  was  in 
some  sense  a  spiritual  fabric,  the  embodiment 
of  the  people's  nobler  aspirations,  of  their  higher, 
their  collective  self.  All  the  efforts  of  art  might 
worthily  be  expended  in  its  service  ;  that  wealth 
was  not  wasted  which  added  to  its  beauty  and 
dignity,  and  inspired  in  the  citizens  a  passionate 
and  admiring  attachment.  Here,  again,  the 
Athenians  look  beyond  material  interest  or  profit, 
and  estimate  the  value  of  a  thing  in  relation  to 
ideal  ends,  which  are  above  the  world  of  sense. 


72  HARVARD  LECTURES 


This  conviction  that  the  things  of  the  mind 
have  a  worth,  an  inherent  dignity,  which  cannot 
be  measured  in  terms  of  money,  is  at  the  root 
of  many  Greek  ideas  on  education.  If  we 
would  pursue  knowledge  aright,  we  must  love 
it  disinterestedly.  Even  learning  may  be 
followed  in  the  spirit  of  a  shopkeeper  ;  and  the 
intellectual  vulgarity  thus  fostered  is  more 
ignoble  than  the  frank  avowal  of  money-getting 
as  in  itself  the  end.  Nothing  is  so  truly  de- 
grading as  the  intrusion  of  lower  and  mercenary 
motives  into  the  sphere  of  the  higher  activities. 
Plato l  distinguishes  between  the  education 
which  aims  only  at  outward  and  worldly  success 
and  the  true,  the  liberal  education,  which  fits 
men  for  perfect  citizenship.  '  We  are  not  now 
speaking  of  education  in  the  narrower  sense,  but 
of  that  other  education  in  virtue  from  youth 
upwards,  which  makes  a  man  eagerly  pursue 
the  ideal  perfection  of  citizenship,  and  teaches 
him  how  rightly  to  rule  and  how  to  obey.  This 
is  the  only  education  which,  upon  our  view, 
deserves  the  name  ;  that  other  sort  of  training 

1  Laws  i.  643  K-644  A. 


GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA 


which  aims  at  the  acquisition  of  wealth  or 
bodily  strength,  or  mere  cleverness  apart  from 
intelligence  and  justice,  is  mean  and  illiberal, 
and  is  not  worthy  to  be  called  education 
at  all.' 

The  superior  value  of  leisure  in  the  Hellenic 
scheme  of  life  as  compared  with  work  connects 
itself  with  this  high  ideal  of  citizenship.  Leisure 
is  the  Hellenic  starting-point,  the  normal  condi- 
tion of  the  citizen,  the  prerogative  of  freemen. 
Without  leisure  there  is  no  freedom.  '  We 
work,'  says  Aristotle,  '  in  order  that  we  may 
have  leisure.' 1  At  first  sight  this  may  bear 
some  resemblance  to  the  schoolboy  view  of  the 
working  term  as  being  of  the  nature  of  an 
interruption,  an  infelicitous  break,  in  the  holi- 
days. But  leisure  to  the  Greek  thinker  means 
not  the  opposite  of  activity — for  activity  is  of 
the  essence  of  life  —  but  a  special  form  of 
activity  ;  an  activity  not  evoked  by  external 
needs,  but  free,  spontaneous,  and  delightful  ;  an 
ordered  energy  which  stimulates  all  the  vital 
and  mental  powers.  It  is  an  energy  strenuous 

1  Nic.  Eth.  x.  7-  6  d<r%oAoi'>/ue$a  yo-p  '"/a  <T)(Q\&fali.ev. 


74  HARVARD  LECTURES  u 

and  productive,  released  from  the  bondage  of 
mechanical  routine,  and  satisfying  at  once  the 
instinct  for  conduct,  the  instinct  for  knowledge, 
and  the  instinct  for  beauty.  Hence  the 
organised  enjoyment  of  leisure  was  elevated  by 
the  Greeks  into  a  national  art,  and  associated 
with  religion  and  politics.  The  games,  the 
festivals,  the  dramatic  performances  provided 
the  community  with  a  refined  recreation  which 
was  the  birthright  and  privilege  of  all.  Greek 
leisure,  then,  was  not  idleness.  With  the  more 
finely  endowed  natures  it  led  to  philosophy. 
There  is  a  passage  in  Plato's  Symposium  l  where 
Apollodorus,  a  pupil  of  Socrates,  is  speaking  of 
his  love  of  philosophic  conversation.  '  But 
when  I  hear  other  discourses,  especially  those 
of  rich  men  and  traders,  they  are  irksome  to 
me.  I  pity  you  who  are  my  companions,  be- 
cause you  always  think  that  you  are  hard  at 
work  when  you  are  really  doing  nothing ' 
(oieaOe  n  Troieiv  ovSev  TrotoOz/re?).  So  the  mere 
money-maker  is  the  idler ;  it  is  he  who  is 
engaged  in  unproductive  labour.  The  '  lover 
1  Symp.  173  c. 


GREECE  AND  rHOENlCIA  75 


of  wisdom  '  is  the  true  worker  ;  he  consecrates 
his  leisure  to  ends  that  are  human  and  delight- 
ful. It  is  half  playfully  said,  but  one  sees  the 
meaning.  And  it  reminds  one  a  little  of  a  passage 
in  R.  L.  Stevenson's  Inland  Voyage,  where  he 
tells  of  the  evening  he  spent  at  the  Club-house 
of  the  Royal  Sport  Naiitique  in  Brussels.  '  We 
are  all  employed  in  commerce  during  the  day  ; 
but  in  the  evening,  i'0}>crj-vous,  nous  somuics 
serieux ! '  'These,'  says  Stevenson,  'were  the 
words.  They  were  all  employed  over  the 
frivolous  mercantile  concerns  of  Belgium  during 
the  day  ;  but  in  the  evening  they  found  some 
hours  for  the  serious  concerns  of  life.  I  may 
have  a  wrong  idea  of  wisdom,  but  I  think  that 
was  a  very  wise  remark.'  It  was  only  in  the 
decay  of  civic  life,  when  thought  was  divorced 
from  action,  and  cloistered  learning  had  become 
the  fashion  of  a  few,  that  cr%oX>;  or  leisure  came 
to  denote  a  busy  trifling,  and  the  adjective 
'  scholastic '  was  accepted  as  equivalent  to 
'  pedantic.' 

With  the  ideal  view  of  leisure  went  a  corre- 
sponding  ideal   conception  of  friendship.      The 


76  HARVARD  LECTURES  n 

intellectual  employment  of  leisure  consisted 
mainly  in  oral  discussion  on  the  deeper  problems 
of  human  life.  Only  through  the  strife  of  con- 
versation and  the  kindling  contact  of  mind  with 
mind  could  truth  be  elicited.  An  atmosphere 
of  intimacy  was  the  first  condition  of  dis- 
interested learning.  Friendship  and  philosophy 
were  linked  together  in  inseparable  union,  and 
perfect  friendship  became  in  itself  a  mode  of 
mental  illumination.  A  man's  '  wits  and 
understanding,'  says  Bacon,  '  do  clarify  and 
break  up  in  the  communicating  and  discoursing 
with  another.'  Friendship  '  maketh  daylight 
in  the  understanding  out  of  darkness  and 
confusion  of  thoughts.'  That  is  a  genuine 
Hellenic  sentiment.  The  friendships  of  Greece 
are  still  proverbial  ;  and  so  important  a  factor 
did  friendship  form  in  social  intercourse, 
especially  when  the  loss  of  freedom  had  robbed 
politics  of  its  chief  interest,  that  the  rules  to  be 
found  in  the  later  Greek  writers  for  the  making 
of  friends  are  as  numerous  as  the  modern 
prescriptions  for  making  happy  marriages. 
Such  phrases  as  '  he  who  has  friends  has  no 


GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  77 


friend  ' l  point  to  the  high  demands  implied  in 
perfect  friendship.  The  friendship  between 
good  men  as  sketched  by  Aristotle ~  glows  with 
an  eloquence  which  surprises  us  in  a  writer  so 
studiously  quiet  in  tone,  and  deserves  to  stand 
beside  the  impassioned  chapter  describing'  the 
bliss  of  philosophic  speculation.  Friendship,  he 
tells  us,  is  realised  in  that  partnership  of  speech 
and  thought  in  which  the  distinctive  life  of  man 
consists,  a  life  that  is  social,  not  merely 
gregarious — '  that  is  what  living  together 
means  ;  it  is  not  as  with  cattle  herding  on  the 
same  spot.'  To  know  that  you  have  a  good 
man  as  your  friend  quickens  the  play  of  vital 
energy  ;  it  promotes  the  vivid  consciousness  of 
life  which  is  the  essence  of  happiness.  Your 
friend  is  different  from  you  and  yet  identified 
with  you  ;  and  in  the  spectacle  of  his  noble 
actions  and  the  sympathetic  sense  of  his  existence 
your  own  sense  of  personality  is  ennobled.  It 
is  even  a  friend's  privilege  to  give  up  wealth, 

1  Diog.    Lacrt.    v.   21  w  <pi\oi.  ov8eis  </H'\OJ.     So   Eth.   End. 
1245  b  2O  oudels  </>i'Xos  $  TroAAot  <j>i\oi. 

2  Eth.  NIC.  ix.  ch.  8  and  9. 


78  HARVARD  LECTURES  n 

station,  life  itself,  for  the  sake  of  his  friend,  and 
so  achieve  the  true  self-love,  realising  his  higher 
self  through  self-sacrifice.  '  He  will  prefer,' 
says  Aristotle,  '  the  intense  joy  of  a  brief 
moment  to  the  feeble  satisfaction  of  an  age, 
one  glorious  year  of  life  to  many  years  of  trivial 
existence,  one  great  and  glorious  deed  to  many 
insignificant  actions.'  l  Friendship  is  for  Aris- 
totle the  glorified  form  of  human  intercourse. 

I  am  far  from  suggesting  that  these  Greek 
ideals,  just  as  they  stand,  can  be  transferred  to 
our  own  age  and  country.  In  many  points  of 
detail  the  Greek  way  cannot  be  our  way. 
Some  lines  of  necessary  divergence  will  at  once 
have  occurred  to  you  while  I  have  been  speak- 
ing. Under  the  stress  of  our  industrial  life 
the  principles  here  indicated  will  need  adjust- 
ment, adaptation,  limitation.  But  the  principles 
themselves,  I  would  submit,  are  profoundly  and 
permanently  true.  And,  in  the  task  of  education, 
perhaps,  as  much  as  in  any  department  of  civic 


1  Eth.  Nic.  ch.  9.  9  6\iyov  yap  xpttvov  i)cr6i]i><u  ff(J>b5pa  fj.d\\ov 
eXoir'  &v  1)  TroXiV  rip^fia,  xai  /3iukrcu  KaXiDs  tviavrbv  r)  w6XX'  Zrr) 
TVXOVTWS,  Kal  fiiav  irpa^tv  KCL\T)V  Kai  fj.eydXtjv  T)  TroXXaj  KOL 


GREECE  AND  PHOENICIA  79 


life,  we  need  a  reminder  that  there  arc  certain 
ideals  of  character,  certain  paramount  ends  of 
conduct,  which  should  underlie  and  determine  all 
our  efforts.  We  are  tempted,  perhaps,  to  fix 
our  eyes  on  the  machinery  of  education,  on  the 
subjects  of  instruction,  on  the  direct  mercantile 
results  of  our  system,  on  our  own  immediate 
ends  as  the  teachers  of  this  or  that  branch  of 
knowledge.  But  sometimes  we  may  do  well 
to  test  and  revise  our  standards  ;  to  ask  our- 
selves what,  after  all,  we  arc  aiming  at,  what 
kind  of  human  being  we  desire  to  produce. 

It  was  part  of  the  beneficent  function  of 
Greece  to  emphasise  this  idea.  The  Greeks,  as 
I  have  tried  to  show,  introduced  a  large  and 
humanising  conception  into  the  one-sidcdness  of 
an  earlier  civilisation  with  which  they  came  in 
contact.  They  had  a  perception  of  what  Isaiah 
calls  '  the  things  by  which  men  live.'  They 
knew  that  '  man  does  not  live  by  bread  alone,' 
that  livelihood  is  not  life,  that  mere  wealth  is 
not  well-being.  The  satisfaction  of  material 
wants  is  not  the  end  of  human  endeavour.  The 
wealth  of  nations,  like  the  happiness  of 


So  HARVARD  LECTURES  n 

individuals,  has   its  source  deeper  than   in   the 
accumulation    of    riches    or    the    expansion    of 
commerce.      The  true  value  of  the  goods  of  life 
is  determined  by  the  sense  of  life  as  a  whole, 
and  by  their  relation  to  the  higher  and  distinc- 
tively human  ends  of  existence.      All  this  may 
be  called    idealism.       I    have  here  omitted    all 
reference  to  the  ideal  creations  of  Greek  poetry, 
to  those  features  of  character  which  lift  the  men 
and  women  of  Homer  or  Sophocles  above  the 
trivial  and  the  real,  and  which,  in  spite  of  all 
moral    flaws    and    imperfections,  make    us   feel 
that    they   belong   to    a   humanity    nobler  and 
richer  than  the  people  of  our  everyday  world — 
that  they  are  real  and  concrete  personalities,  and 
yet  ideal  types.      Nor,  again,  have  I  mentioned 
the  heroic  figures  who  stand  out  at  intervals  in 
the  pages  of  Greek  history — men  who  responded 
to  great  calls  of  duty  and  showed   a  splendid 
disregard  of  consequences  ;  rare  and  exceptional 
men     such     as     inspired    the     biographies     of 
Plutarch.    I  speak  of  idealism  in  a  more  restricted 
sense.      We  have  seen  how  the  breath  of  poetry 
touches  the  common  affairs  of  life,  disengaging 


ii  GREECE  ANH   PHOENICIA  81 

the  things  of  the  mind  from  the  things  of  sense. 
It  is  partly  poetry,  partly  philosophy  ;  for  the 
Hellenic  people  felt  by  a  poetic  instinct  truths 
which  their  philosophers  arrived  at  by  reflection 
and  analysis.  It  was  these  truths  that  gave 
meaning  and  reality  to  the  public  and  private 
life  of  the  Greeks — their  institutions,  their  ex- 
ternal surroundings,  their  recreations — to  their 
estimate  of  human  personality  and  human 
fellowship,  so  that  the  practical  world  was  for 
them  lit  up  by  an  imaginative  ideal. 


Ill 

THE   GREEK    LOVE   OF   KNOWLEDGE 

No  one  can  read  Homer  without  being  aware 
that  the  spirit  of  man  has  here  shaken  off 
the  torpor  of  an  earlier  world  and  has  asserted 
its  freedom.  There  is  no  brooding  sense  of 
mystery  ;  none  of  those  oppressive  secrets  with 
which  the  atmosphere  of  Oriental  poetry  is 
charged.  A  fresh  and  lucid  intelligence  looks 
out  upon  the  universe.  There  is  the  desire  to 
see  each  object  as  it  is,  to  catch  it  in  some 
characteristic  moment  of  grace  or  beauty.  And 
the  thing  seen  is  not  felt  to  be  truly  understood 
until  it  has  taken  shape  in  words,  and  the  exact 
impression  conveyed  to  the  eye  has  been  trans- 
mitted to  another  mind.  A  single  epithet,  one 
revealing  word  in  Homer  will  often  open  up  to 

us  the  very  heart  of  the  object  ;   its  inmost  and 
82 


83 


permanent  character  will  stand  out  in  clear-cut 
outline.      Nothing    is    too    great,    nothing    too 

O  O  '  O 

trivial,  to  be  worth  describing — the  sea,  the 
dawn,  the  nightly  heavens,  the  vineyard,  the 
winter  torrent,  the  piece  of  armour,  the 
wool -basket,  the  brooch,  the  chasing  on  a 
bowl.  Over  each  and  all  of  these  the  poet 
lingers  with  manifest  enjoyment.  There  is  but 
a  single  exception  to  the  rule  of  minute  delinea- 
tion. In  the  description  of  the  human  person 
the  outward  qualities  are  but  lightly  touched. 
Beauty  and  stature — these  arc  noted  in  general 
terms  ;  the  colour  of  the  hair  is  sometimes 
added  ;  not  unfrequently,  it  would  seem,  as  a 
racial  characteristic.  But  the  portraiture  of 
the  individual  is  not  drawn  with  any  exactitude. 
There  is  no  inventory  of  the  features  of  men  or 
of  fair  women,  as  there  is  in  the  Greek  poets  of 
the  decline  or  in  modern  novels.  Man  is  some- 
thing different  from  a  curious  bit  of  workman- 
ship that  delights  the  eye.  He  is  a  '  speaker 
of  words  and  a  doer  of  deeds,'  and  his  true 
delineation  is  in  speech  and  action,  in  thought 
and  emotion. 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


Again,  though  each  thing,  great  and  small, 
has  its  interest,  the  great  and  the  small  are  not 
of  equal  importance.  There  is  already  a  sense 
of  relative  values  ;  the  critical  spirit  is  awake. 
The  naivete  of  Homeric  society  must  not  lead 
us  to  think  of  Homer  as  representing  rude  and 
primitive  thought.  Homer  stands  out  against 
a  vast  background  of  civilisation.  The  language 
itself  is  in  the  highest  degree  developed — 
flexible  and  expressive,  with  a  fine  play  of 
particles  conveying  delicate  shades  of  feeling 
and  suggestion.  Homeric  men  are  talkative  ; 
each  passing  mood  seeks  some  form  of  utter- 
ance ;  but  garrulous  they  are  not.  They  wish 
to  speak,  but  they  have  always  something  to 
say.  They  are  bent  on  making  their  feelings 
and  actions  intelligible.  They  endeavour  to 
present  their  case  to  themselves  as  it  presents 
itself  to  the  minds  of  others.  They  appeal  both 
to  living  witnesses  and  to  the  experience  of  the 
past ;  they  compare  and  they  contrast ;  they 
bring  the  outer  and  the  inner  world  into 
significant  connexion  ;  they  enforce  their 
arguments  by  sayings  containing  the  condensed 


THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  85 


wisdom  of  life.  Homeric  discourse,  with  the 
marvellous  resources  of  its  vocabulary,  its 
structural  coherence,  its  intimate  union  of 
reason  and  passion,  has  in  it  all  the  germs  of 
future  Greek  oratory. 

Moreover,  the  poet  aims  at  being  more  than 
entertaining.  He  sings  to  an  audience  who 
desire  to  extend  their  knowledge  of  the  facts 
of  life,  to  be  instructed  in  its  lessons,  to  enlarge 
their  outlook.  Gladly  they  allow  themselves  to 
be  carried  into  the  region  of  the  unknown. 
Common  reality  does  not  suffice.  They  crave 
for  something  beyond  it.  But  the  world  of 
the  imagination  is  no  nebulous  abode  of  fancy  ; 
it  is  still  the  real  world,  though  enriched  and 
transfigured,  and  throbbing  with  an  intenser 
life.  Through  known  adventures  they  pass 
imperceptibly  into  an  undiscovered  country- 
strange  and  yet  familiar — in  which  they  still 
find  themselves  at  home.  Poetry  is  not  for 
them,  as  it  so  often  is  for  us,  an  escape  from 
reality,  a  refuge  from  world-weariness. 

Strabo     observes     that     '  to     construct     an 
empty    teratology    or   tale    of    marvels    on    no 


86  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

basis  of  truth  is  not  Homeric '  ; l  and  that  '  the 
Odyssey  like  the  Iliad  is  a  transference  of  actual 
events  to  the  domain  of  poetry.' 2 

He  insists,  in  particular,  that  '  the  more 
Homeric  critics'  (ol  'O^piKwrepoi) — as  opposed 
to  Eratosthenes  and  his  school — '  following 
the  poems  verse  by  verse '  (rot?  CTTCO-IV  d/co\o- 
dovvTes')  were  aware  that  the  geography  of 
Homer  is  not  invented  ;  that  he  is  '  the  leader 
of  geographical  knowledge '  (ap^yertj<;  rrjf 
yewypcKfriJcrjs  e/jUTretpia^,3  and  that  his  stories 
are  accurate,  more  accurate  than  those  of 
later  ages.4  Strabo  has,  of  course,  an  ex- 
cessive belief  in  the  scientific  accuracy  of 
Homer  ;  still  the  Odyssey  is  a  truly  remarkable 
geographical  document,  and  recent  investiga- 
tions tend  to  heighten  its  value  as  a  record  of 
early  travel.  The  desire  indeed  to  identify 
Homeric  localities  and  even  personages,  has 

1  Strabo  i.  2.  9  £K  fjLrjdevbs  d'  d\7)0ovs  dvavreiv  Kevrjv  reparo- 
\oyiav    ovx  '0/j.r)pii<6i'.       Cp.    i.    2.    1J    TO    d£    irdvra    irXdrrfiv 
ov  irida.vbv,   ovd'  'OfirjptKov. 

2  Ib.    iii.    2.    13    ware   Kal   TJ}V   'OSv<rfftiav    KaOdirep   Kal   rrjv 
'IKidSa  dirb  rdv  ffv/jL^dvruv  ^frayayelv  ets 

3  Ib.  i.  I.  2.  4  Ib.  i.  2.  7. 


7 HE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  K'NOl^f.KPCE  87 


led  to  some  strange  results  both  in  ancient  and 
modern  times.  An  ingenious  writer,  who  has 
translated  the  Odyssey,  convinced  himself  that 
the  authoress  of  the  poem  was  '  a  very  young 
woman  who  lived  at  a  place  now  called  Trapani, 
and  introduced  herself  into  the  work  under  the 
name  of  Nausicaa ' — the  would-be  princess  being 
in  truth  a  '  practised  washerwoman,'  who  in 
several  passages  betrays  a  suspicious  famili- 
arity with  that  art.  But,  apart  from  such 
extravagances  of  criticism,  the  Odyssey  in  all 
its  geographical  bearings  has  lately  been  made 
the  subject  of  a  fascinating  and  exhaustive 
inquiry  by  M.  Victor  Berard  in  his  two  volumes 
entitled,  Les  PJicniciens  ct  fOdyssec.  What- 
ever may  be  thought  of  his  Phoenician  theories, 
and  rash  as  we  may  regard  some  of  his  attempts 
at  locating  the  scenes  described  in  the  poem, 
M.  Berard  has  shown  with  a  wealth  of  illustra- 
tive material  and  under  entirely  new  lights, 
how  precise  an  acquaintance  the  poet  had 
with  the  navigation  of  the  Mediterranean, 
with  its  winds  and  currents,  the  coasts  and 
islands,  and  with  the  habits  of  those  early 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


mariners.1  Even  when  we  pass  into  the  outer 
zone  of  the  wanderings  of  Odysseus,  there 
are  links  of  connexion  with  reality.  And  we 
can  imagine  with  what  avidity  the  seafaring 
population  of  traders,  pirates,  and  sailors  on 
their  return  home  from  their  voyages  listened 
to  the  recitation  of  the  Odyssey — to  the 
description  of  places  lying  on  fabulous  shores 
or  bordering  on  the  world  of  fairyland,  yet 
calling  up  frequent  reminiscences  of  the  actual 
lands  they  had  themselves  visited,  and  of  perils 
they  had  encountered. 

The  close  correspondence  in  the  Odyssey 
between  poetic  fancy  and  the  realities  of  a 
mariner's  life  may  be  illustrated  by  a  few 
examples  taken  from  M.  Berard.  In  Book  ii. 
212  ff.2  Telemachus  asks  the  suitors  for  a 
ship  and  twenty  comrades,  that  he  may  go  to 
Sparta  and  sandy  Pylos  to  inquire  about  his 
father's  return.  They  refuse.  Athene,  how- 
ever, under  the  form  of  Mentor  equips  the 

1  Cp.   Strabo  i.  2.   20  KO.V  rois   K\i/juKri   fit  KO.V  rois  di/e^ots 
5ia.fpa.ivei.  rb  iro\v/j.a.6fs  TO  irtpi  rrfv  yeuypa<J>iai>  "0/A-rjpos. 

2  Berard,  vol.  i.  p.  64  ff. 


THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE 


expedition.  Some  hours  after  sunset  Mentor 
and  Telemachus  set  sail.  The  time  is  marked 
by  line  388  :— 

SureTO  T  ?yeA.ios  cr/ctowi'To  re  Tracrai  ayi'iou — 
a  formula  occurring,  in  connexion  with  travel, 
seven  times  in  the  Odyssey,  and  denoting, 
apparently,  the  dead  of  night.  Athene  sent 
them  '  a  favouring  gale,  a  fresh  wind  from 
the  North  West  (aKpaij  Zetyvpov}  singing 
over  the  wine -dark  sea.'  Next  morning  at 
dawn  they  reach  Pylos.  Turn  now  to  the 
official  'Sailing  Directions'  of  to-day.  In 
these  Greek  waters,  we  are  told,  land  and  sea 
breezes  follow  one  another  alternately.  The 
sea  breeze  springs  up  each  morning  about  10 
A.M.  During  the  day,  therefore,  it  keeps  the 
ships  locked  in  the  harbour.  At  sunset  it  falls. 
Then  for  several  hours  there  is  a  calm.  To- 
wards 1 1  P.M.  the  land  breeze  rises.  Hence, 
this  ship  of  Telemachus  leaving  Ithaca  about 
i  i  P.M.,  sails  almost  before  the  wind  to  the 
Peloponnese.  The  wind  and  the  pilot  do  the 
work.  At  early  dawn  the  mariners  easily  make 
the  harbour.  Later,  it  would  be  more  difficult, 


go  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

for — see  again  '  Sailing  Directions  ' — the  land 
breeze  then  freshens,  and  does  not  fall  till 
about  9  A.M.  The  poet  who  described  this 
voyage  of  Telemachus  wrote,  we  cannot  doubt, 
with  all  the  knowledge  of  a  skipper.1 

One  more  example  may  be  added.J  In 
Book  V.  295-296,  after  Odysseus  had  quitted 
the  island  of  Calypso,  as  he  approaches  the 
Phaeacian  coast  a  tempest  arises  : 

crvv  8'  Ev/ads  re   Xdro?  re   OTecTov  Zc</>upos  re  Svcra^s 
KOI   Bope?;s   aiOprfffveTijS  /zeya   Ku//.a   KiAivStoV. 

'  The  South  East  and  South  West  wind 
clashed  and  the  stormy  North  West,  and  the 
North  East  that  is  born  in  the  bright  air, 
rolling  onwards  a  great  wave.'  Here  we  have 
four  winds,  Eurus,  Notus,  Zephyrus,  Boreas. 
Finally  Boreas  prevails  (383-392).  It  lasts 
two  days  and  two  nights  ;  then  it  falls,  and  a 

1  The  same  custom  of  embarking  at  night  is  found  in  three 
other  places  in  the  Odyssey  : — iv.  780  fif.,  where  the  sailors  go  to 
waylay  Telemachus  on  his  return;  xiii.  24  ff.,  describing  the 
convoy  of  Odysseus  from  Phaeacia ;  xv.  389  ff.,  Eumaeus' 
story  of  the  Phoenician  merchant-ship  quitting  the  isle  of  Syria 
— the  same  formula  being  there  used  (xv.  471)  as  in  ii.  388 

r   rjeXios  K.T.\. 
Berard,  vol.  i.  p.  481  ff. 


THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  91 


'  windless  calm '  comes  on.  This  was  on  the 
morning  of  the  third  day. 

Again  we  look  at  our  '  Sailing  Directions.' 
'  It  frequently  happens,'  we  read,  '  that  winds 
from  the  N.E.,  N.W.,  and  S.E.  blow  at  the  same 
time  in  different  parts  of  the  Adriatic.  The 
wind  called  Bora  is  most  to  be  feared  and 
demands  active  and  incessant  watch.  ...  Its 
most  furious  blasts  are  announced  by  the 
following  symptoms — a  black  and  compact 
cloud,  surmounted  by  another  cloud  more 
light  and  fleecy,  covers  the  horizon  in  the  N.K. 
(cp.  aWpr)<yevGTr)<i}.  ...  In  summer  it  never 
lasts  more  than  three  days.' l 

This,  says  Berard,  is  not  the  storm  of 
literature,  but  a  genuine  Adriatic  storm. 
Virgil's  storms  always  last  three  clays :  that 
was  part  of  his  poetic  furniture  : 

Tres  adeo  incertos  caeca  caligine  soles 
Erramus  pelago,  totidem  sine  sidere  nodes.'2 

The  poet  of  the  Odyssey  knows  what  he  relates  ; 
he  is  minutely  accurate  in  each  detail  ;  and  the 

1  Instructions  Nantiques,  No.  706. 
2  Aen.  iii.  203-204. 


92  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

Adriatic  storm,  as  he  describes  it,  off  the 
Phaeacian  coast,  is  a  curious  confirmation  of 
the  old  tradition  that  the  island  of  Phaeacia  is 
none  other  than  Corfu. 

The  love  of  knowledge  (TO  <£>tXo/m#e9),  says 
Plato,1  is  as  marked  a  characteristic  of  the 
Greeks  as  is  the  love  of  money  (TO  <j)i\o^pi]/jia- 
TOV)  of  the  Phoenicians  and  Egyptians.  From 
the  dawn  of  history  to  know  seemed  to  the 
Greeks  to  be  in  itself  a  good  thing  apart  from 
all  results.  They  had  a  keen -eyed  and  dis- 
interested curiosity  for  the  facts  of  outward 
nature,  for  man — his  ways  and  his  works  — 
for  Greeks  and  Barbarians,  for  the  laws  and 
institutions  of  other  countries.  They  had  the 
traveller's  mind,  alert  in  observing  and  record- 
ing every  human  invention  and  discovery.  One 
thing  alone  they  viewed  with  unconcern — the 
language  of  the  foreigner.  Up  to  the  time  of 
Alexander,  the  Scythian  Anacharsis  is  the  only 
traveller  of  whom  we  read  as  having  thought  it 

1  Rep.  iv.  435  E.  Cp.  Laws  v.  747  c,  where  the  contrast 
between  ao<pia,  and  Travovpyia  is  noted  as  a  similar  race  distinc- 
tion. 


THE  GREEK  LOVE  Of-   KNOWLEDGE 


worth  his  while  to  learn  any  language  other 
than  his  own.  Neither  Herodotus,  nor  Dcmo- 
critus,  nor  Plato,  availed  themselves,  as  far  as 
we  know,  of  any  such  linguistic  aid  in  their 
researches.  Greek  seemed  to  them  the  only 
human  language  ;  and  even  a  sceptical  philos- 
opher like  Epicurus  felt  no  doubt  that  the  gods, 
if  they  spoke  at  all,  spoke  in  Greek.  The 
neglect  of  foreign  languages  led  to  conse- 
quences more  serious  than  the  absurd  etymo- 
logical guesses  that  found  acceptance  in  G recce. 
The  notion  that  Greek  words  represented  the 
original  and  natural  names  of  things  gave  rise 
to  mistaken  theories  as  to  the  relation  of 
language  and  thought.  Even  so  great  a 
thinker  as  Plato  fell  a  victim  to  fallacies  which 
could  hardly  have  misled  him  had  he  been 
familiar  with  the  grammar  of  any  other  tongue. 
But  the  open  eye  and  the  open  mind  arc 
not  all  that  is  required  to  discover  truth.  The 
Greeks  soon  became  aware  that,  in  order 
to  see  rightly,  the  facts  must  be  looked  for 
in  a  special  way.  '  The  god  of  Delphi,'  says 
Hcraclitus,  '  neither  speaks  nor  conceals,  but 


94  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

gives  a  sign.' l  And  again,  '  Nature  loves  to 
hide.' 2  She  must  be  tracked,  therefore,  into  her 
inmost  recesses.  Her  secret  must  be  wrested 
from  her  unawares.  In  the  process  of  initiation 
into  her  mysteries  no  one  can  succeed  who  is 
faint-hearted  in  the  search.  '  Unless  a  man  has 
good  hope  ' — once  more  to  quote  Heraclitus — 
'  he  shall  not  find  out  the  unexpected.' 3  Truth 
assumes  paradoxical  forms.  It  is  the  incredible 
which  happens,  and  the  investigator  must  be 
on  the  look-out  for  surprises.  But  the  stage  of 
wonder  is  only  the  initial  stage  in  scientific 
inquiry.  '  We  begin,'  says  Aristotle,4  '  by 
wondering  that  a  thing  should  be  so,  just  as 
marionettes  appear  wonderful  to  those  who 
have  not  yet  investigated  the  cause  '  ;  in  the 
end  we  should  be  astonished  if  things  were  not 
as  they  are :  '  there  is  nothing  that  would 
astonish  a  geometrician  more  than  if  the 

1  Heracl.  Fr.   1 1  [93]  oure  \tyei  otfre  KpvTTTft  dXXd  (rrj/jiatvfi. 

2  Ib.  10  [123]  <f>vffis  Kpuirrecrdai  <f>t\eT. 

3  Ib.  7  [18]  tav  /J.T)  HXirrjai,  av£\inaTov  OVK  i^evp-ffcffi. 

4  Arisl.  Met.  i.  2.  983  a  12-20.     Cp.  Plat.    Theaet.  p.    155  n 
fjLaXa.    yap    <t>i\o<r6<jx>v    TOVTO    rb    TrdOos,    TO    ^ai'judfetv  •     ov    yap 


THE  GREEK  LOVE   OF  KNOWLEDGE  95 


diagonal  should  prove  to  be  commensurate 
with  the  side.'  The  progress  of  science  from 
the  unexpected  to  the  inevitable,  as  here 
described  by  Aristotle,  is  not  unlike  his  account 
of  the  evolution  of  a  dramatic  action — the  most 
impressive  tragic  effect  being  that  which  arises 
from  the  shock  of  surprise  at  an  unlooked  for 
event  followed  by  the  discover}'  of  necessary 
sequence  :  the  catastrophe,  however  startling, 
could  not  have  been  otherwise  than  it  was  : 
the  end  was  already  implicit  in  the  beginning.1 
From  the  outset  Greek  thinkers  looked 
slightingly  on  that  multifarious  learning  which 
holds  together  a  mass  of  unrelated  facts,  but 
never  reaches  to  the  central  truth  of  things. 
As  soon  as  they  began  to  think  at  all,  they 
directed  their  energies  to  the  search  for  causes, 
the  discovery  of  law  throughout  the  universe. 
They  are  tempted  at  times  to  be  too  much 
elated  by  their  own  successes,  to  accept  a  hasty 
generalisation,  to  be  over-confident  in  the  power 
of  a  formula  ;  they  cannot  decipher  '  the  long 

1  Poet.  ix.   II    1452  a  2-3  (the  union  of  the  irapa  ryv  So^av 
with  the  5t'  (L\\r)\a). 


96  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

and  difficult  language  of  facts.' l  Yet  the  facts 
are  looked  at  steadily,  the  data  of  experience  are 
interrogated,  sifted,  collated,  by  methods  indeed 
still  imperfect,  but  without  bias  or  partiality. 
We  can  see  the  writers  at  their  task,  revising 
and  testing  each  judgment,  and  reviewing  their 
conclusions.  What  a  refreshing  candour,  for 
instance,  it  is  when  a  physician,  in  one  of  the 
Hippocratic  writings  (a  treatise  On  Diet  in 
Acute  Diseases)  introduces  a  point  he  had  over- 
looked in  the  words,  '  This  argument  will  be  of 
assistance  to  my  opponent.'  Everywhere  there 
is  the  same  invincible  desire  not  to  rest  in  out- 
ward appearances,  but  to  penetrate  to  reality,  to 
interpret  phenomena,  to  make  the  words  of 
nature  and  of  man  intelligible.  Mere  beliefs 
or  opinions — the  image  is  that  of  Plato,2  though 
he  shares  the  thought  with  many  of  his  pre- 
decessors— are,  like  the  statues  of  Daedalus, 
runaway  things  :  not  until  they  have  been  tied 
down  by  the  chain  of  causal  sequence  do  they 

1  Plat.  Polit.  278  D  TCIS  TUH»  irpa.yfJ.dTwv  /ua/cpas  »cai  /J.T)  paSt'ons 
Xa/Jas. 

2  Meno,  p.  97  £-98  A. 


111  THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE          97 

stand  fast  and  become  in  the  true  sense  know- 
ledge. '  Rather,'  said  Democritus,1  '  would  I 
discover  the  cause  of  one  fact  than  become 
King  of  the  Persians.' 

The  love  of  knowledge  worked  on  the  Greeks 
with  a  potent  spell.  It  came  to  them  as  did 
the  Sirens'  voice  to  Odysseus,  luring  him  with 
the  promise  that  he  should  know  all  things — 
the  things  that  have  been  and  those  that  are 
t,o  be.'2  They  were,  ho\vever,  partly  conscious 
of  the  peril.  And  we  find  in  them  that  the 
spirit  of  inquiry,  daring  indeed  and  far-reach- 
ing, was  generally  combined  with  reverence. 
It  is  not  the  timid  Oriental  fear  that  man  might 
find  out  too  much  and  so  incur  the  jealousy  of 
the  gods — though  of  this  feeling  traces  may  be 
detected  ;  chiefly,  however,  embedded  in  ancient 
strata  of  mythology :  it  is  a  feeling  rarely 
hinted  at  in  literature.  The  reverence  I  speak 
of  is  rather  that  restraining  instinct  which 
reminds  man  of  the  limits  assigned  to  human 

1  Democr.  ap.  Eus.  Pr.  Ev.  xiv.  27.  3  A^o/v-ptros  yovv  aiVos 
a>s  (fiaaiv  HXeye  f3ov\«T0a.i  fj.a\\ov  fj-lav  evpelv  airioXoyiai'  T)  rr\v 
llepffwv  ol  (3aai\eiav  yevtffOai. 

-  Odyss.  xii.  189-191. 

H 


98  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

faculties,  and  tells  him  that  the  utmost  scope  of 
his  powers  cannot  avail  completely  to  grasp 
the  eternal  order  of  the  universe.  Man  cannot 
place  himself  at  the  centre  and  see  as  far  as 
the  circumference.  Empedocles  strikes  this 
note  in  memorable  verses  : J 

'  Straitened  are  the  powers  that  are  shed 
through  the  limbs  of  men  ;  many  the  strange 
accidents  that  befal  them,  and  blunt  the 
edge  of  thought  ;  brief  is  the  span  of  that 
life  in  death  which  they  behold — swift  death  to 
which  they  are  doomed  ;  then  are  they  whirled 
away,  and  like  a  vapour  fly  aloft,  each  persuaded 
only  of  that  on  which  he  has  himself  chanced  to 
light,  driven  this  way  and  that.  But  the  whole — 
man  boasts  that  he  has  found  it:  all  idly;  for  these 
things  no  eye  hath  seen,  nor  ear  heard,  neither 
may  they  be  grasped  by  the  mind.  Thou,  then, 
since  thou  hast  strayed  hither,  shalt  learn  no 
more  than  human  wisdom  may  discern.  But, 
O  ye  gods,  turn  aside  from  my  tongue  the  mad- 
ness of  these  men.  Hallow  my  lips  and  cause 

1  Emped.   36-49.     In  this  passage  some  of  the  readings  are 
doubtful. 


THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE          99 


to  flow  from  them  the  stream  of  holy  words. 
And  thee,  I  beseech,  O  Muse,  much -wooed 
maiden  white-armed,  tell  me  the  things  that  the 
creatures  of  a  day  may  hear.  From  the 
House  of  Holiness  speed  me  on  my  way  and 
guide  thy  willing  car.' 

As  in  conduct  the  pride  (y  {3  pis')  which  thrust 
itself  into  a  sphere  not  its  own,  and  violated  the 
rights  of  others- — gods  or  men — was  condemned  ; 
so  too  the  feeling  prevailed,  though  less 
frequently  asserted,  that  the  intellect  should 
beware  of  over-stepping  its  proper  limitations. 
Here  too  it  was  right  to  exercise  the  quality  of 
temperate  self-restraint  (crc0<j>po<rvvr)*).  Take 
again  the  magnificent  opening  lines  of  the  poem 
of  Parmenides — the  poet  whose  sight  was 
'  straining  straight  at  the  rays  of  the  sun.' x 
The  youthful  inquirer  is  borne  in  the  chariot  of 
thought  to  the  house  of  the  goddess  Wisdom. 
The  daughters  of  the  Sun  show  the  way.  At 
their  entreaty  the  portals  of  the  paths  of  night 
and  day  are  flung  open  by  Retributive  Justice 
who  holds  the  keys.  The  goddess  receives 

1   Farm.    144  cuel  TraTrraifovcra.  Trpbs  av-yas  TjeAi'oto. 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


him  graciously  and  proceeds  to  expound  to  him 
both  truth  and  error — '  the  unshaken  heart  of 
persuasive  truth  '  and  the  vain  fancies  of  mortals. 
The  reverential  awe  with  which  the  search  for 
Truth  is  here  described  is  rare  in  the  mouth 
either  of  poet  or  philosopher.  But  an  ethical 
sense — a  sense  of  moral  limitations — akin  to 
religious  emotion,  is  conspicuous  in  the  early 
Ionian  philosophy.  The  great  idea  which  Ionia 
contributed  to  human  thought  was  that  of  the 
universal  rule  of  law.  It  is  one  and  the  same 
law  that  runs  through  the  physical  and  the 
moral  world  :  '  The  Sun  will  not  overpass 
his  bounds,  or  the  Erinnyes,  the  ministers  of 
justice,  will  find  him  out.' l  The  link  is  not  yet 
broken  between  nature  and  man.  The  cosmic 
order  rests  on  moral  sanctions,  on  certain 
principles  of  limitation  divinely  ordained  ;  it  is 
the  embodiment  of  supreme  Justice  —  that 
Justice  whose  earthly  counterpart  seemed  to 
later  Greek  thinkers  to  stand  at  the  summit  of 
all  the  virtues  : — '  neither  Evening  nor  Morning 

1  Heraclit.   Fr.   29  [94]  "HXtos  oi>x  virep^<rerai  utrpa  •   el  8t 
fir),  'Epivves  fjnv  Sixr)!  tiriKovpoi 


THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE         101 


Star  so  wonderful.' :      The  thought  is  not  unlike 
that  of  Wordsworth's  lines  : 

Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong  ; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens  through   Thee  are  fresh 
and  strong. 

Greek  scientific  knowledge,  however,  grew 
up  under  secular  influences,  not  as  in  the  East 
under  the  shadow  of  the  temple.  There  was 
in  Greece  no  separate  and  leisured  class  of 
priests  and  scholars  ;  no  sacred  books  which 
hampered  the  free  play  of  intellect.  Even 
medicine,  which  is  slow  to  detach  itself  from 
magic,  was  developed  in  an  atmosphere  of  lay- 
thought,  partly  through  the  philosophic 
investigation  of  nature,  partly  by  the  close 
study  of  health  and  disease  in  those  families  of 
physicians  in  which  the  art  was  hereditary. 
Fortunately  for  the  Greeks  they  were  able  to 
utilise  the  scientific  observations  made  in  Egypt 
and  Chaldaea  by  an  organised  priesthood,  while 
they  themselves  dispensed  with  the  teaching  of 

1  Arist.  Nic.  Eth.  v.  I.  15  KCU  dia  TOVTO  TroXAd/cts  KpaTiffTos 
rdv  a.p£T(av  etccu  doKel  17  BiKaioffuvr),  /cat  ovd'  effwepos  ovd'  iyos 
ovru) 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


the  priests.  All  the  accumulated  lore  of  the 
earlier  civilisations  they  appropriated,  making  it 
the  starting-point  for  fresh  inquiry.  But  they 
never  rested  in  unverified  tradition.  Even  re- 
ligious cosmogonies  they  do  not  take  ready-made. 
Science  followed  the  ebb  and  flow  of  thought ; 
its  free  movement  was  unhampered  ;  its  truths 
were  not  conveyed  through  hieratic  channels 
and  never  hardened  into  lifeless  dogmas. 

Thus  Greek  science,  Greek  philosophy,  is  the 
awakening  of  the  lay  mind.  The  Greeks  dared 
to  ask  the  question  '  Why  ?  '  The  fact  was  not 
enough  ;  they  sought  out  the  cause  (TO  &IOTI) 
behind  the  fact  (TO  OTI).  Their  answer  to  the 
'  Why  ? '  is  often  wrong  ;  but  no  anxious 
scruples,  no  priestly  authority  deterred  them 
from  venturing  into  the  hidden  domain  of 
causes.  In  the  abstract  mathematical  sciences 
they  were  the  first  to  ask  the  Why  of  things,  and 
seldom  failed  to  hit  on  the  true  answer.  One 
of  the  facts  long  known  to  Chinese,  Hindoo, 
and  Egyptian  architects  was  that  if  the  sides  of 
a  triangle  are  represented  numerically  by  3,  4, 
and  5,  the  sides  whose  lengths  are  3  and  4,  are 


THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE 


perpendicular  to  one  another.  Century  upon 
century  passed  before  any  one  asked  the 
question,  Why  is  this  so  ?  In  a  dialogue 
written  by  a  Chinese  emperor,  Tchaou-kong, 
about  i  100  B.C.,  in  which  the  emperor  himself 
takes  a  part,  his  interlocutor  reveals  to  him  the 
property  of  this  famous  triangle.  '  Indeed  ! 
wonderful ! '  exclaimed  the  emperor ;  but  it 
never  occurred  to  him  to  ask  the  reason  : — 
the  wonder  in  which  philosophy  begins  some- 
times stops  short  of  philosophy.  Not  till  the 
Greeks  appeared  in  history  was  the  reason 
asked  and  the  answer  given.  Greek  geometry 
was,  in  short,  a  new  thing  in  the  history  of  the 
human  mind.  Geometry,  according  to  Herodotus, 
was  born  in  Egypt  ;  but  it  was  geometry  as  an 
applied  science,  practical  in  its  aims,  and  such 
as  was  requisite  for  the  arts  of  building  and  land- 
surveying.  Theoretic  geometry  the  Greeks 
created  for  themselves  ;  and  so  rapid  was  their 
advance  that  by  the  fifth  century  B.C.,  as  it 
would  seem,  the  greater  part  of  what  is  con- 
tained in  the  elements  of  Euclid  had  attained 
to  demonstrative  and  logical  form.  The  kind 


104  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

of  geometry  which  the  Greeks  discovered  is 
characteristic  of  the  idealist  temperament  so 
conspicuous  in  their  art  and  literature.  Lines 
which  have  length  without  breadth,  which  are 
absolutely  straight  or  curved,  indicate  at  once 
that  we  are  in  the  region  of  pure  thought.  The 
conditions  of  empirical  reality  are  neglected  ; 
the  mind  is  striving  towards  ideal  forms. 
Pythagoras,  we  are  told,  offered  a  sacrifice  to  the 
gods  in  joy  at  a  mathematical  discovery.  In 
what  earlier  civilisation  was  mathematics 
pursued  with  this  disinterested  ardour  ? 

The  Jews  as  well  as  the  Greeks  felt  that  the 
paramount  need  of  humanity  was  knowledge — 
that  man  should  know  the  truth  about  himself 
and  his  relation  to  the  power  outside  him. 
But  the  Greek,  with  unwearied  insistence, 
asked  himself,  What  is  knowledge  ?  Can  it  be 
attained,  and  how  ?  No  problem  appeared  to 
him  more  difficult.  It  was  looked  at  from  every 
side  by  a  succession  of  great  thinkers.  Many 
and  various  were  the  answers.  To  the  Jews,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  answer  was  not  remote  or 
difficult ;  there  was  but  one  knowledge  and 


THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE 


that  the  highest :  '  The  word  is  very  nigh  unto 
thee,  in  thy  mouth  and  in  thy  heart,  that  thou 
mayest  do  it.'  It  had  been  revealed  to  them  by 
the  divine  voice ;  repeated  at  ever}*  crisis  of 
their  marvellous  history  ;  written  indelibly  on 
the  conscience  of  the  nation  ;  it  was  indeed 
the  secret  of  which  they  were  the  repository,  to 
be  guarded  inviolate  and  disclosed  in  due  time  to 
the  world.  The  knowledge  of  the  Lord  was 
the  beginning  and  end  of  wisdom.  And  the 
words  of  this  wisdom — so  ran  the  command — 
'ye  shall  teach  your  children,  speaking  of  them 
when  thou  sittest  in  thine  house,  and  when  thou 
walkest  by  the  way,  when  thou  liest  down  and 
when  thou  risest  up.  And  thou  shalt  write  them 
upon  the  door-posts  of  thine  house,  and  upon 
thy  gates.' 

The  Greeks,  like  the  Jews,  had  their  sacred 
volume.  Already  in  the  seventh  century  B.C. 
at  the  Delian  festival  and  in  many  other  parts 
of  the  Hellenic  world,  they  assembled  to  hear 
their  minstrels  recite  the  Homeric  poems.  At 
Athens,  from  the  sixth  century  onward,  a  public 
recitation  of  Homer  was  held  every  fourth  year 


io6  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

at  the  Panathenaic  festival.  It  was  analogous 
to  the  Jewish  provision  that  once  in  every  seven 
years  the  law  was  to  be  read  at  the  Feast  of 
Tabernacles  in  the  hearing  of  all  Israel.  In 
444  B.C.  we  read  of  Ezra  on  his  return  from 
Babylon  to  Jerusalem  renewing  the  old  observ- 
ance and  reading  the  book  of  the  law  to  the 
assembled  people  ;  and  it  is  curious  to  reflect 
that  at  Athens  at  the  same  time,  in  the  Periclean 
era,  the  corresponding  custom  continued  to 
exist.  But  there  was  this  difference.  Whereas 
for  each  nation,  Jews  and  Greeks  alike,  the 
reading  of  their  own  ancient  volume  served  to 
heighten  the  sense  of  spiritual  kinship  and  to 
create  an  ideal  of  conduct  :  to  the  Greeks  the 
Homeric  poems  had  now  become  but  one  among 
many  means  of  satisfying  the  needs  of  thought 
and  imagination.  The  popular  mind  still  found 
in  them  the  knowledge  of  all  things  human  and 
divine ;  but  the  deeper  and  pressing  intellectual 
problems  that  had  arisen,  met  with  no  solution 
there.  The  drama  was  already  presenting  its 
own  interpretations  of  human  destiny  ;  philo- 
sophy had  entered  on  its  long  quarrel  with 


in  THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  h'XOin.EDGE         107 

poetry ;  Socrates  had  started  speculation  on 
the  road  that  it  was  to  pursue  for  centuries. 
Received  traditions  were  now  being  questioned. 
The  Why  of  duty,  no  less  than  the  meaning  of 
knowledge,  was  being  subjected  to  discussion. 
Thus  the  Homeric  poems,  while  the}7  never 
ceased  to  be  the  inspiration  of  the  race,  had  lost 
their  unique  authority.  Meanwhile  to  the  Jews 
the  law,  in  the  widest  sense  of  the  word,  was 
still  the  one  book  on  which  to  meditate  day  and 
night.  Nor  was  the  knowledge  of  it  a  thing  to 
be  received  with  languid  or  otiose  mind,  or  in  the 
quietude  of  religious  rapture.  Man's  bliss  was  to 
exercise  himself  therein,  to  go  back  upon  it  in  his 
inmost  thoughts,  to  drink  deeply  of  those  inex- 
haustible springs.  The  intervals  of  sacred  leisure 
which  were  enjoyed  by  all  classes  within  the 
community,  were  devoted  to  the  deepening  of 
the  religious  life  ;  for  the  outward  observance 
of  the  Sabbath  and  the  non-performance  of 
thirty-nine  various  kinds  of  work  afterwards 
enumerated  by  the  Rabbis  did  not  exhaust  the 
significance  of  the  day  to  pious  minds.  More- 
over, as  this  knowledge  was  to  be  translated 


io8  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

into  action,  and  adapted  to  all  circumstances  as 
the  vivifying  principle  of  conduct,  it  became 
necessary  not  to  rest  satisfied  with  the  letter  of 
the  law,  but  to  pass  beyond  the  unwritten  word, 
and  divine  the  things  that  were  unsaid, — or  in 
the  later  Rabbinical  phrase,  '  the  commands 
left  to  the  human  heart.'  There  remained  a 
multitude  of  details  outside  the  province  of 
strict  law,  in  which,  as  with  the  Greeks,  the  rules 
of  conduct  could  only  be  discovered  by  im- 
mediate perception — by  what  Aristotle  calls 
aicrOrja-is — that  delicate  and  sensitive  faculty 
which  intuitively  apprehends  the  facts  of  the 
particular  case.  Still  the  greater  issues  of  life 
were  once  for  all  determined,  and  there  was  no 
riddle  left  for  the  wise  man  to  solve. 

Aristotle,  like  the  Jew,  places  the  supreme 
bliss  of  man  in  a  certain  mode  of  knowing  and 
thinking.  But  the  human  Reason  is  with  him 
the  one  instrument  by  which  this  highest  know- 
ledge is  to  be  attained.  It  is  a  thing  either 
intrinsically  divine  or  the  divinest  gift  that  we 
possess.  Alone  it  is  loved  for  its  own  sake  ;  of 
all  our  activities  it  is  the  most  continuous,  the 


THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KXO IV LEDGE         109 


most  pleasurable,  the  least  dependent  on  ex- 
ternal conditions.  Man's  felicity  consists  in 
the  exercise  of  this  sovereign  faculty  with  such 
untiring  vigour  as  our  human  condition  admits. 
Such  a  life  of  speculation  is  the  noblest  employ- 
ment of  leisure.  It  is  an  energy  which  is  also 
tranquillity,  an  activity  of  mind  that  is  set  free 
from  mechanical  occupations  and  the  pressure 
of  material  needs,  and  directed  inward,  not  upon 
ends  external  to  itself ; — the  deep  repose  of 
the  soul  in  the  contemplation  of  truth.  It  is  a 
life  higher  than  human  ;  nor  can  we  live  it  save 
in  virtue  of  the  divine  principle  inherent  in  us. 
'  Let  us  not  listen  therefore  to  those  who  tell  us 
that  as  men  and  mortals  we  should  mind  only 
the  things  of  man  and  of  mortality  ;  but,  so  far 
as  we  may,  we  should  bear  ourselves  as  im- 
mortals (dOavari^eiv\  and  do  all  that  in  us  lies 
to  live  in  accord  with  that  element  within  us, 
that  sovereign  principle  of  Reason,  which  is  our 
true  self,  and  which  in  capacity  and  dignity- 
stands  supreme.' 1  Here  we  have  the  love  of 
knowledge  in  its  highest  Greek  conception, 
1  Arist.  Nic.  Eth.  x.  7.  8  :  see  the  whole  chapter. 


i io  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

touched  with  religious  emotion,  and  almost 
carried  into  the  sphere  of  mysticism.  I  need 
not  stay  to  enlarge  on  the  divergence  between 
this  ideal  and  that  suggested  by  the  words  of 
the  Hebrew  prophet :  '  Let  not  the  wise  man 
glory  in  his  wisdom,  neither  let  the  mighty  man 
glory  in  his  might  .  .  .  :  but  let  him  that  glorieth 
glory  in  this,  that  he  understandeth  and  knoweth 
me,  that  I  am  the  Lord  which  exercise  loving- 
kindness,  judgment,  and  righteousness  in  the 
earth.' 

Consider,  again,  how  the  Greeks  regarded 
the  facts  of  history.  They  felt,  first  of  all,  the 
intellectual  curiosity  to  know  what  had  really 
happened.  A  fact  was  interesting  because  it 
was  true.  The  past  was  in  itself  worthy 
of  investigation,  of  tolerant  and  sympathetic 
inquiry.  We  have  here  "la-Topia"  in  its  primary 
sense  as  the  search  for  truth.  But  no  Greek 
could  treat  history  as  a  mere  succession  of  facts, 
a  chance  sequence  of  events.  An  explanation 
of  the  facts  must  be  sought,  some  unifying 
principle  discovered.  Particulars  must  be 
viewed  in  larger  relations.  The  interpretative 


THE  G KEEK  LOVE   OF  KNOWLEDGE 


force  of  mind  must  be  brought  to  bear  upon 
them,  and  their  hidden  meaning  extracted.  It 
is  not  the  facts,  but  the  meaning  of  the  facts, 
that  is  of  paramount  interest  ;  the  facts  must,  if 
possible,  be  made  into  truths.  And  it  is  re- 
markable with  what  intellectual  insight  the 
great  historians  of  Greece  do  actually  ap- 
prehend the  wider  significance  of  the  special 
chapters  in  Greek  history  which  they  severally 
narrate. 

The  conflict  of  Greece  and  Persia  was  for 
Herodotus  the  culminating  point  of  a  great 
drama,  a  clash  of  forces  rendered  inevitable  by 
events  that  had  been  long  preparing  in  the 
kingdoms  of  the  East.  Thucydides  saw  in  the 
Peloponnesian  war  and  in  the  tragedy  of  the 
Athenian  downfall,  an  inner  crisis  affecting 
national  character.  Polybius  recognised  that 
with  the  empire  of  Rome  new  historical  per- 
spectives were  opened  up,  and  countries  hither- 
to disconnected  drawn  into  the  current  of 
universal  history.  Each  of  these  writers  was  in 
his  own  way  a  philosophic  historian.  We 
have  already  seen  in  what  sense  this  is  true  of 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


Herodotus.1  To  penetrate  the  mind  of  Thucy- 
dides  is  a  less  easy  task.  In  his  austere  reserve 
he  is  far  removed  from  the  ingenuous  charm 
and  candour  of  Herodotus.  He  is  not  ready 
to  come  forward  and  reason  with  us.  He  has 
no  intimate  confidences  to  bestow.  He  offers 
few  reflections  containing  a  moral  judgment. 
While  the  moral  impression  is  clear  and  sharp, 
the  award  of  praise  or  blame  is  left  to  the 
reader.  Thucydides  is  concerned  with  under- 
standing rather  than  with  judging  ;  his  aim  is 
to  throw  light  on  the  laws  of  human  action 
and  the  permanent  principles  of  conduct  ; 
to  enable  the  statesman  to  direct  the  present 
and  in  some  measure  to  forecast  the  future. 
He  is  under  no  illusions.  Psychological  facts 
are  often  unlovely  enough  :  he  records  them 
coldly :  but  to  regard  him  as  cynically  in- 
different is  to  misread  the  severe  impartiality  of 
his  art.  He  felt  the  sombre  fascination  of  the 
Peloponnesian  war,  its  terror  and  grandeur. 
Great  passions  were  there  aroused,  destructive 
energies  let  loose,  issuing  in  deeds  both  of 

1  Supr.  p.  32. 


THE  GREEK  LOl'E  OF  KNOWLEDGE 


savagery  and  heroism.  The  outward  events 
were  for  the  historian  a  material  which  must  be 
rendered  in  terms  of  mind.  His  philosophic 
impulse  shows  itself  in  tracing  causes  ;  not  final 
causes,  as  with  Herodotus  ;  but  the  secondary 
causes  which  are  revealed  on  the  stage  of  human 
life  and  in  the  heart  of  the  actors.  He  does  not 
profess  to  read  the  purposes  of  a  supernatural 
power.  Neither  destiny  nor  chance  is  for  him 
the  governing  force  of  the  world.  Events  have 
their  roots  in  character,  of  which  they  are  the 
outcome  ;  it  is  here  that  we  must  seek  their 
inner  meaning.  They  are  not  mere  startling  or 
dramatic  incidents,  but  phenomena  whose  reason 
lies  deep  in  the  moral  disposition  of  nations 
and  individuals,  and  the  law  of  whose  succession 
can  be  discovered.  The  great  agent  in  shaping 
outward  circumstances  is  the  human  will.  The 
historian,  therefore,  who  would  interpret  the 
world  of  facts  must  analyse  the  various  forms 
in  which  mind  manifests  itself,  must  study  its 
laws  and  reach  the  vital  forces  which  are  at 
work  below  the  surface.  History  is  a  scroll 

written  by  human  intelligence  in  the  large   and 

I 


ii4  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

legible  letters  of  the  past.  Thus,  Thucydides 
is  a  philosophic  historian,  but  he  expounds  no 
theory :  he  remains  a  historian,  he  is  not  a 
philosopher — a  historian,  however,  of  imagin- 
ative insight  who  brings  out  both  the  poetry  and 
the  philosophy  latent  in  the  facts. 

Polybius,  writing  between  two  and  three 
centuries  later,  derives  his  guiding  principles 
direct  from  Thucydides.  He  narrates  the 
struggle  between  Rome  and  Carthage  for  the 
supremacy  of  the  world  ;  and  his  design  is  to 
exhibit  the  organic  unity  of  history,  the  idea  of  a 
universal  history  corresponding,  as  he  conceived 
it,  to  the  fact  of  universal  empire.  It  is  this 
'  clear  oecumenical  view,'  says  Freeman,  '  which 
makes  him  the  teacher  of  all  time.'  Unfortun- 
ately his  style  is  a  serious  deterrent  to  the  reader. 
We  long  for  the  ease,  the  finished  grace,  the  flow- 
ing simplicity  of  Herodotus  ;  or  again,  for  the 
terse  and  rapid  phrase  of  Thucydides,  the  energy, 
the  precision  of  each  single  word,  the  sentence 
packed  with  thought.  Polybius  has  lost  the 
Greek  artistic  feeling  for  writing,  the  delicate 
sense  of  proportion,  the  faculty  of  reserve.  The 


THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE 


freshness  and  distinction  of  the  .Attic  idiom  are 
gone.  He  writes  with  an  insipid  and  colourless 
monotony.  In  arranging  his  materials  he  is 
equally  inartistic.  He  is  always  anticipating 
objections  and  digressing  ;  he  wearies  you  with 
dilating  on  the  excellence  of  his  own  method;  he 
even  assures  you  that  the  size  and  price  of  his 
book  ought  not  to  keep  people  from  buying  it. 
Yet  admirable  as  is  the  substance  of  his  writing, 
he  pays  the  penalty  attaching  to  neglect  of 
form  —  he  is  read  by  the  few.  His  interest, 
however,  for  us  here  is  that,  while  he  intends 
his  history  to  be  a  practical  treatise,  containing 
useful  lessons  for  men  of  affairs,  he  is  true  to 
the  philosophic  tradition  he  has  inherited  from 
Thucydides,  in  his  persistent  effort  to  exhibit 
the  relations  of  cause  and  effect  through  the 
texture  of  the  narrative.  In  particular,  he  is  at 
pains  to  search  out  the  true  cause  of  an  event, 
as  distinguished  from  the  occasion  of  its  happen- 
ing ;  and  such  causes  he  follows  back  to  their 
source  in  character.  National  life,  like  indi- 
vidual life,  has  for  him  an  ethical  basis  ;  it  is  in 
character,  and  the  institutions  that  grow  out  of 


n6  HARVARD  LECTURES 


character,  that  the  true  movement  of  a  people's 
history  is  revealed. 

The  idea  that  the  true  causes  of  events 
lie  deep  in  character  was  appropriated  as  a 
theory  of  history  by  Polybius  :  Demosthenes 
had  long  ago  received  it  from  Thucydides  as 
an  inspiring  motive  of  civic  eloquence.1  The 
Athenians,  when  defeated  by  Philip,  were  wont 
to  lay  the  blame  on  their  politicians  or  their 
generals,  on  adverse  winds,  on  unkindly  fortune. 
Demosthenes  carries  the  failure  back  to  them- 
selves— to  their  own  indolence  and  improvi- 
dence. He  will  not  be  put  off  with  superficial 
explanations.  Character  with  him  is  all  in  all. 
Every  Philippic  oration  is  instinct  with  the 
thought.  '  Is  Philip  dead  ?  No,  he  is  only 
ill.  Dead  or  ill,  what  difference  to  you  ?  If 
anything  befals  him,  you  will  instantly  create 
another  Philip  for  yourselves.' 2  Or  again  : 
'  Always  letting  slip  the  present  and  imagining 
that  the  future  will  take  care  of  itself,  it  is  we 
that  have  made  Philip  great  and  exalted  him 

1  See  S.    H.    Butcher,  Demosthenes   (Macmillan   and   Co.), 
p.  144.  2  Phil.  i.  ii. 


THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE        117 


to  a  height  of  power  above  that  of  any  previous 
king  of  Macedon.' l  Men  who  can  hope  to 
succeed  must  have  a  mind  that  can  anticipate 
and  control  outward  circumstances  :  but  in 
politics,  as  in  war,  the  Athenians  '  wait  upon 
events ' ;  they  begin  to  think  when  the  time 
has  come  for  action  ;  they  strike  after  the  blow 
has  fallen.2 

The  use  of  opportunity,  the  strong  man's 
ability  to  seize  the  present  and  to  shape  the 
future,  is  a  favourite  topic  of  Demosthenes. 
Its  full  significance  may  best  be  read  in  con- 
nexion with  the  Greek  idea  of  Kairos  (/catpos) 
in  literature  and  art.  No  other  nation  has 
distinguished  so  subtly  the  different  forms 
under  which  time  can  be  logically  conceived. 
Chronos  (%povo<i)  is  time  viewed  in  its  extension, 
as  a  succession  of  moments,  the  external  frame- 
work of  action.  Under  this  aspect  of  simple 
duration  Time  achieves,  it  is  true,  a  silent  work 
of  its  own.  Man  cannot  ignore  its  revealing 
power.  He  looks  on  and  almost  unconsciously 
learns  his  lesson.  The  arts,  the  sciences,  come 

1   Olynth.  \.  9.  -  Phil.  \.  39-41. 


ii8  HARVARD  LECTURES  m 

into  being  under  its  gradual  influence.  '  Time 
as  it  ages  teaches  all  things  '  l  ;  '  Time  alone 
is  the  proof  of  real  truth,'  2  the  '  touch-stone 
of  every  deed,'  3  the  one  '  wisest  thing.'  4  The 
phrases  in  which  Aristotle  describes  Time  as 
agent  or  joint-agent  in  the  work  of  progres- 
sive discovery,5  bear  an  impressive  resemblance 
to  the  thought  and  language  of  Bacon.  C/ironos, 
however,  remained  on  the  whole  too  abstract, 
too  indeterminate  to  admit  easily  of  personal 
embodiment  in  literature  or  art.  It  was 
otherwise  with  Kairos  —  a  word  which  has,  I 
believe,  no  single  or  precise  equivalent  in  any 

1  Aesch.  P.  V.  981  : 

dXX'  ^/c5i5d<rK«  travB'  6  yrjpda'Kuv  X/WPOS. 

2  Find.  01.  xi.  59-61  : 

8  r  f^ 


Xpbvos. 

3  Simon,  of  Cos  Fr.  175  : 

oi>K  ZaTiv  /j.eifav  /Sdcraj/oy  xP^vov  oiidfvbs  Hpyov. 

4  A  saying   of  Thales   (quoted    Plut.   Conv.  vii  Sap.  9)   in 
answer  to   the  question  ri  ffo<pu>ra.Tov  ;  —  Xpovos    '   TO.   fitv   yap 
evpriKev    euros   ijd-r),   TO.    5£   fvp-fjfffi.     Cp.    Bacon  Aphor.    xxxii. 
'  Sapientissima  autem  res  tempus  (ut  ab  antiquis  dictum  est)  et 
novorum  casuum  quotidie  auctor  et  inventor.' 

5  Arist.  Nic.   Eth.  i.    7-    r7  56£ete  $'  SLV  .   .   .   6   \pbvos   TWV 
rotoijTUv  evpeTrjs  T)  ffvvepybs  dyaQbs  elvai. 


in  THE  GRKEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE         119 

other  language.  Kairos  is  that  immediate 
present  which  is  what  we  make  it  ;  Time 
charged  with  opportunity  ;  our  own  possession, 
to  be  seized  and  vitalised  by  human  energy  ; 
momentous,  effectual,  decisive  ;  Time  the  inert 
transformed  into  purposeful  activity.  Not 
only  did  the  poet  Ion  compose  a  hymn  to 
Kairos  in  which  he  is  called  the  youngest  child 
of  Zeus — opportunity  being  truly  thought  of 
as  the  latest  and  god-given  gift — but  in  art  the 
rendering  of  Kairos  is  various  and  interesting. 
Sometimes  he  is  a  youth  pressing  forward  with 
wings  on  his  feet  and  back,  holding  a  pair  of 
scales,  which  he  inclines  with  a  slight  touch  of 
the  riijht  hand  to  one  side.  His  hair  is  long 

o  o 

in  front  and  bald  behind  ;  he  must  be  grasped, 
if  at  all,  by  the  fore-lock.  In  one  relief,  where 
Kairos  occupies  the  centre,  Regret  (Merdvoia) 
is  represented  as  a  shrinking  and  dejected 
form  who  stands  beside  an  old  man,  symbol- 
ising the  sadness  felt  over  the  lost  moment 
that  cannot  be  recalled.  In  the  palaestra — 
and  here  he  is  most  at  home — Kairos  appears 
in  the  guise  of  a  Hermes,  an  athlete  god.  It 


120  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

is  Kairos  who  seizes  the  lucky  moment  in  the 
wrestling  bout  ;  Kairos  who  with  his  chariot- 
wheels  closely  grazes  the  goal  ;  Kairos  to 
whom  men  offered  sacrifice  as  they  entered  the 
stadium.  Kairos  is  the  god  of  the  man  with 
a  mind  swift  but  sure  in  decision,  and  with 
a  body  trained  to  be  the  mind's  obedient 
servant.  The  sense  of  the  opportune  that  is 
here  suggested  is  as  unlike  as  possible  to  what 
is  commonly  known  as  '  opportunism '  ;  it  is 
'  the  triumphant  flash  of  daring  and  right 
judgment';  it  goes  with  high  originality  and 
initiative,  and  reaches  even  to  the  point  of 
genius. 

Thucydides  and  Demosthenes  had  the  same 
ideal  of  statesmanship.  Great  men  are  those 
in  whom  the  power  of  the  spirit  dominates 
matter.  Their  strong  intelligence,  free  from 
illusion,  their  calm  and  clear  reflection  does  not 
issue  in  any  hesitating  purpose  ;  it  leads  direct 
to  action.  They  know  how  to  seize  occasion  ; 
they  are  masters  of  things  outward  ;  they  go 
boldly  forth  to  meet  the  incalculable  thing  we 
call  fortune ;  they  thrust  obstacles  aside  or 


THE  GREEK  LOVE   OF  KNOWLEDGE 


fall,  if  needs  must  be,  in  the  attempt.  It  is  a 
view  akin  to  that  of  tragedy,  where  external 
actions  and  events  are  but  the  setting  in  which 
character  is  displayed  ;  where,  in  a  much  more 
complete  and  deeper  sense,  man  can  prove 
himself  to  be  not  the  creature,  but  the  lord  of 
circumstances,  which  he  moulds  in  the  strength 
of  his  spiritual  energy.  Just  as  in  the  region 
of  creative  art  the  imagination  impresses  its 
own  form  on  the  lifeless  elements,  remaking 
them  with  its  touch  ;  so  too  the  Greek  philo- 
sopher, historian,  orator,  each  proclaims  in 
divers  ways  the  supremacy  of  spiritual  over 
material  forces  ;  each  brings  some  new  outlying 
territory  under  the  domain  of  reason. 

We  have  followed  the  working  of  the  Greek 
intellect  as  revealed  not  in  a  passive  reception 
of  ideas,  but  in  the  energetic  action  it  brings  to 
bear  on  all  that  comes  within  its  range :  it 
correlates,  interprets,  unifies  the  facts  of  ex- 
perience ;  translates  outward  things  into  terms 
of  spirit,  transmuting  all  dead  material.  The 
views  of  Greek  thinkers  on  Education  are  in 
accord  with  this  attitude  of  mind.  With  all 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


their  restless  curiosity,  their  insatiable  love  of 
knowledge,  they  had  no  respect  for  mere 
erudition.  '  Wealth  of  thought,  not  wealth 
of  learning '  was  the  thing  they  coveted  : — 
7TO\vvotr]v,  ov  TroXvfJbaOirjv  acricelv  xptf,  is  the 
striking  saying  of  Democritus.1  Heraclitus, 
Plato,  Aristotle,  all  speak  in  similar  depreciatory 
terms  of  mere  '  polymaths  ' — men  of  multifarious 
learning,  untouched  by  the  quickening  force  of 
reason.  Extensive  reading,  the  acquisition  of 
facts,  the  storing  of  them  in  the  memory — all 
this  is  possible  without  any  discipline  or 
enlargement  of  mind.  In  order  that  learning 
may  become  wisdom  two  conditions  must  be 
satisfied.  First,  the  facts  must  be  assimilated 
and  interpreted  ;  the  formative  power  of  thought 
must  work  upon  the  material  of  knowledge. 
And,  secondly,  learning  must  be  humanised. 
True  learning  is  bound  up  with  human  fellow- 
ship. It  is  a  partnership  in  which  there  is 
give  and  take,  a  joint  search  and  joint  discovery. 
To  the  Greeks  the  subject  taught  seemed  of 

1  Democr.   ap.  Stob.   iii.   4.   8l.     Cp.  Ib.   iroXXot  7roXi'/t<x0&s 
vjov  OVK  Zxovffl' 


THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE         123 


less  importance  than  the  man  who  taught  it. 
The  teacher's  office  was  to  show  the  right 
method  of  learning.  lie  himself  is  a  learner, 
who  in  and  through  learning  becomes  a  teacher. 
Just  as  Greek  poetry,  more  than  that  of  any 
other  nation,  is  the  expression  of  the  people's 
collective  life,  so  Greek  learning  draws  its 
inspiration  not  so  much  from  solitary  study  as 
from  noble  companionship  and  ideal  human 
intercourse.  Education,  as  the  Greeks  con- 
ceived it,  was  based  on  broad  and  deep 
sympathy — sympathy  of  intellect  and  character, 
and  sympathy  of  aim.  The  Pythagorean 
motto  Koiva  ra  rwv  (f)i\a)v,  '  Friends  have  all 
things  in  common,'  might  have  been  written 
over  every  Greek  class-room.  The  love  of 
truth,  the  spirit  of  joint  investigation,  the 
'  following  of  the  argument  whithersoever  it 
leads  ' — this  was  the  bond  of  union,  the  prized 
possession  of  the  brotherhood  of  learning. 

There  is  one  salient  difference  between 
education  as  understood  by  the  Greeks  and 
the  popular  idea  of  education  in  our  own  day. 
To  the  Greeks  education  was  primarily  a  train- 


124  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

ing  of  faculty  that  should  fit  men  for  the 
exercise  of  thought  and  the  duties  of  citizen- 
ship. The  modern  world  looks  rather  to  the 
acquisition  of  some  skill  or  knowledge  that  is 
needed  for  a  career ;  it  thinks  more  of  the 
product  than  of  the  process.  Acquaintance 
with  facts  counts  more  with  the  modern  ; 
mental  completeness  and  grasp  are  primary 
with  the  Greek.  But  that  mental  completeness 
was  not  to  be  won  through  intellectual  dis- 
cipline alone  ;  it  meant  also  a  discipline  and 
moulding  of  character,  a  training  in  public 
spirit,  a  suppression  of  the  individual,  a  devotion 
to  civic  ends.  The  Greek  Paideia  (TraiSeia)  in 
its  full  sense  involves  the  union  of  intellectual 
and  moral  qualities.  It  is  on  the  one  hand 
mental  illumination,  an  enlarged  outlook  on 
life ;  but  it  also  implies  a  refinement  and 
delicacy  of  feeling,  a  deepening  of  the  sympa- 
thetic emotions,  a  scorn  of  what  is  self-seeking, 
ignoble,  dishonourable — a  scorn  bred  of  loving 
familiarity  with  poets  and  philosophers,  with 
all  that  is  fortifying  in  thought  or  elevating  in 
imagination.  Our  nearest  equivalent  for  this 


THE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE         125 


generous  and  many-sided  training  is  Culture  ; 
but  unfortunately  the  word  has  acquired  a 
tinge  of  meaning  that  is  alien  to  the  Greek 
Paideia.  Culture  to  many  minds  suggests 
a  kind  of  polish,  a  superficial  refinement. 
Besides,  it  has  about  it  an  air  of  exclusiveness  ; 
it  is  thought  of  as  the  privilege  of  a  favoured 
few.  The  man  of  learning  in  modern  times  is 
too  apt  to  remain  in  seclusion  ;  he  seems  to  be 
shut  up  within  a  charmed  circle,  in  possession 
of  a  secret  hidden  from  the  many  ;  and  the 
impression  not  unfrequently  left  on  outsiders 
by  the  life  of  learned  isolation  is  conveyed  in 
the  remark  of  a  French  writer,  that  '  every  man 
of  learning  is  more  or  less  of  a  corpse.'  Now 
Greek  culture  in  its  ideal  form  is  a  connecting 
link  between  learning  and  citizenship  ;  it  is  a 
meeting-point  of  virtue  and  knowledge,  an  out- 
come of  character,  an  attitude  of  the  whole 
mind  towards  life.  The  intellectual  elite  are 
not  estranged  from  the  life  of  the  community. 
Learning  is  thus  humanised  ;  instead  of  a  dead 
weight  of  erudition  it  becomes  a  living  force,  a 
civilising  and  liberating  power.  We  have  here 


126  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

the  spirit  of  a  University  in  its  true  conception. 
One  chief  function  of  academic  training  should 
be  to  foster  this  broad  view  of  learning  ;  and, 
in  so  doing,  incidentally  to  disprove  the  saying  : 
'  Gentlemen  are  untaught  by  the  World  what 
they  have  been  taught  by  the  College.' a 

A  tincture  of  Greek  is,  fortunately,  no 
longer  regarded  as  a  hall-mark  of  good  breed- 
ing, or  a  sign  that  one  has  acquired  at  College 
a  few  gentlemanly  vices.  And  the  popular 
mind  has,  therefore,  jumped  to  the  conclusion 
that  Greek  has  ceased  to  have  any  value  ex- 
cept to  furnish  barbarous  compounds  for  the 
advertisement  of  a  new  umbrella  or  of  a  quack- 
medicine.  The  call  to  burn  our  unlawful  books 
of  Greek  is  heard  from  many  sides.  But  those 
who  care  for  the  deeper  principles  of  education 
will  never  cease  to  go  back  to  what  the  Greeks 
have  said  or  hinted  on  this  theme.  All  great 
teachers  have  been  Greek  in  spirit.  Educa- 
tion, in  the  Greek  view,  is  the  antithesis  of  any 
mere  specialism,  and  that  in  two  senses.  It 
emancipates  us  from  the  narrowing  influence 

1  Berkeley,  Minute  Phil.  Dial.  v.  24. 


7'HE  GREEK  LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE         127 


of  a  trade  or  a  purely  professional  calling,  and 
lifts  us  into  the  higher  air  of  liberal  studies. 
But  also,  even  within  the  domain  of  learning, 
we  are  reminded  that  expert  knowledge  may 
itself  become  a  contraction  of  the  intellect  ; 
and  that  the  thoroughness  of  the  craftsman, 
the  minute  work  of  the  investigator,  must  not 
lead  the  teacher  to  miss  the  larger  relations  of 
his  subject,  and  lose  sight  of  the  whole.  Nor 
can  we  forget  that  the  man  himself  is  behind 
what  he  says  or  writes.  Plato  observes  that 
for  the  higher  forms  of  literary  composition  the 
name  of  writer  or  author  is  an  inadequate 
description  :  the  title  is  well  enough  for  one 
who  has  nothing  in  him  greater  than  the 
phrases  he  puts  on  paper  (TOV  //,?)  e-^ovra 
TifAKarepa  wv  crvveOtj/cev  ?'}  eypa-^ev}.1  And  a 
similar  remark  may  be  made  about  the  teacher. 
As  Life  is  something  beyond  Literature,  so 
Personality  is  something  beyond  Learning. 
The  teacher  who  leaves  an  impress  on  other 
minds  is  greater  than  his  own  knowledge, 
greater  than  the  information  he  conveys.  This 

1   Plat.  Phaedr.  278  b-E. 


128  HARVARD  LECTURES  in 

is  true  of  all  teachers  who  have  in  any  degree 
succeeded  in  making  their  appeal  to  that 
mighty  and  half-utilised  force — the  idealistic 
impulses  of  youth  ;  and  from  this  point  of 
view  Teaching — as  I  believe  some  one  has  said 
— while  it  is  the  vilest  of  trades  becomes  the 
noblest  of  professions. 


IV 

ART    AND     INSPIRATION     IN     GREEK 
POETRY 

GREEK  literature  is  the  one  entirely  original 
literature  of  Europe.  With  no  models  before 
their  eyes  to  provoke  imitation  or  rivalry,  the 
Greeks  created  almost  every  form  of  literary- 
art — the  epic,  the  lyric,  the  elegy,  the  drama, 
the  dialogue,  the  idyll,  the  romantic  novel, 
history,  and  oratory  ;  and  the  permanence  of 
the  types  so  created  shows  that  they  rest  on 
no  arbitrary  rules  or  on  the  mannerisms  of  a 
people,  but  answer  to  certain  artistic  laws  of 
the  human  mind.  We  who  see  for  the  most 
part  only  the  perfected  forms,  are  apt  to 
forget  what  varied  and  repeated  experiments, 
what  frequent  failures,  must  have  gone  to  the 

making  of  each  of  these  types.      In  the  Poetics 
129  K 


130  HARVARD  LECTURES  iv 

Aristotle  notes  the  gradual  and  tentative  pro- 
cess by  which  special  metres  proved  them- 
selves adapted  to  the  several  kinds  of  poetry  — 
the  iambic  to  tragedy,  the  hexameter  to  epic 
song.  They  are  instances,  as  we  should  say, 
of  the  survival  of  the  fittest  :  CLTTO  rfjf  Treipas 
TJppoKev1  —  that  is  Aristotle's  phrase.  The 
process  here  indicated  was  a  familiar  idea  to 
the  Greeks.  Popular  observation  summed  it 
up  in  the  simple  proverbial  form,  ireipa  apiarov, 
1  nothing  like  experiment.'  It  is  the  sentiment 
which  Herodotus  puts  into  the  mouth  of 
Mardonius  :  '  Nothing  comes  of  its  own  accord 
to  men,  but  all  things  by  experiment.'  2  On 
the  same  principle  tragedy  itself,  as  Aristotle 
remarks,  '  having  passed  through  many  changes 
found  its  natural  form,  and  there  it  stopped.'  3 
Man's  selective  instinct,  working  tentatively, 

1  Arist.  Poet,  xxiv.  5  fit  3£  fj.t-rpov  TO  ijpwiKov  dirb  TT?S  irfipas 
.      Cp.    iv.    9    tv    ols    KO.I    TO    dpfj.6rToi>    [ia/j.pe'iov]    ri\6e 


2  Herod,  vii.  9  a.irr6(jia.Toi>  yap  ov5ev,   d\X'  dirb  ircipys  iravTO. 
OptinroLffi  <f>i\^et  yeveffBai. 

3    Arist.    Poet.    iv.     12    TroXXds    /xera/SoXds    /uera,3aXoiVa     ij 
tdSia  fTrawaro,   eirei  HffXf  T^v  B-VTTJS  (pvffiv. 


ART  AND  1NSP1KATIOX 


brought  the  process  ot  development  to  its 
proper  term. 

When  once  any  particular  type  was  created, 
it  assumed  its  sharp  Hellenic  outline.  No 
blurred  image,  no  confusion  of  kinds  was  per- 
missible. Any  deviation  from  the  type  fell 
within  well-defined  limits.  Each  branch  of 
literature  obeyed  a  stringent  code  of  its  own. 
Its  governing  traditions  answered  to  an  artistic 
sense  that  art  to  be  progressive  must  also  be 
conservative.  It  must  maintain  a  spirit  of 
reverent  regard  for  the  past.  Old  material 
must  be  used  up  :  new  ideas,  whether  of  native 
origin  or  due  to  the  absorption  of  foreign 
influences,  must  be  slowly  assimilated.  If  in 
political  history  we  meet  with  revolutionary 
violence,  in  literary  as  in  artistic  development 
there  is  growth  and  orderly  advance.  The 
whole  effort  of  Greek  literature  is  to  evolve 
itself  in  unbroken  sequence,  without  the  rude 
snapping  of  any  links  which  bind  the  present 
to  the  past,  with  no  premature  rejection  of 
existing  elements. 

Yet  the  persistent  force  of  tradition  did  not 


132  HARVARD  LECTURES  iv 

check  the  free  play  of  individual  genius.  With 
the  observance  of  a  strict  artistic  code  and  the 
accepted  conventions  of  a  school,  the  literary 
art  was  not  hardened  into  mere  formalism.  The 
more  rigorous  the  rules,  the  greater  the  triumph 
of  genius  in  obeying  them  without  effort.  In 
tragedy  the  poets  at  first  ranged  at  will  over  the 
whole  field  of  legendary  story.1  The  domain 
of  the  drama  was  by  degrees  restricted. 
But  the  narrower  limits  within  which  freedom 
was  henceforth  possible  stimulated  rather  than 
checked  dramatic  originality.  The  inventive 
faculty  found  ample  scope  in  re-interpreting 
the  known  cycle  of  legends  with  subtle  and 
significant  divergence  in  detail.  '  Great  and 
precious  origination,'  says  George  Eliot,  '  can 
only  exist  on  condition  of  a  wide  massive 
uniformity.  When  a  multitude  of  men  have 
learned  to  use  the  same  language  in  speech  and 
writing,  then  and  then  only  can  the  greatest 
matters  of  language  arise.  For  in  what  does 
their  mastery  consist  ?  They  use  words  which 
are  already  a  familiar  medium  of  understand- 

1  Arist.  Poet.  xiii.  15. 


JV  ART  AND  INSPIRATION 


ing  and  sympathy  in  such  a  way  as  greatly 
to  enlarge  the  understanding  and  sympathy.' 
This  that  is  said  in  the  first  instance  of  style,  is 
in  its  measure  also  true  of  the  handling  of  the 
subject-matter.  The  creative  act  of  genius  does 
not  consist  in  bringing  something  out  of  nothing, 
but  in  taking  possession  of  material  that  exists, 
in  appropriating  it,  interpreting  it  anew.  The 
original  force  of  the  Greek  poet  stamps  all  rude 
material  with  the  mark  of  the  race — '  made  in 
Greece.' 

The  treatment  of  the  Chorus  in  the  drama  is 
perhaps  the  most  signal  instance  of  the  power 
of  the  poet  to  turn  to  account  a  consecrated 
tradition.  Here  was  an  undramatic  element, 
that  was  yet  an  indispensable  part  of  every 
play — a  religious  survival  from  an  early  stage 
of  the  undeveloped  art.  The  chorus  was  a 
collective  personage,  with  a  character  shifting 
and  ill-defined,  an  awkward  presence  on  the 
stage  and  often  out  of  keeping  with  the  poetic 
illusion.  In  Aeschylus  it  is  generally  what  Aris- 
totle in  the  Poetics  (ch.  xviii.  7)  says  the  chorus 
ought  to  be — '  one  of  the  actors  '  ;  in  Sophocles 


134  HARVARD  LECTURES  iv 

more  often  it  fulfils  the  function  assigned  to  it 
in  Aristotle's  Problems  (xix.  48)  ;  it  is  a  /cr/Sefrr^ 
aTrpaKTos,  one  who  does  not  act  but  who  is  in 
intimate  or  friendly  relation  with  some  of  the 
actors;  an  interested  spectator  or  a  kindly 
sympathiser.1  Who  would  have  thought  that 
an  element  apparently  so  inartistic  could  have 
been  anything  but  a  mere  encumbrance,  a 
clog  on  the  action — as  indeed  it  became  in 
Euripides — a  structural  flaw  in  the  composi- 
tion ? 

Yet  this  ambiguous  personage  plays  a  great 
part  It  forms  a  connecting  link  "between 
the  actors  and  the  audience.  Whatever  its 
sympathies  may  have  been  in  the  piece,  it 
generally  manages  in  the  end  to  place  itself  in 
the  attitude  of  an  impartial  witness.  In  comedy 
it  pronounces  the  verdict  on  the  dycov — that 
pitched  battle  between  the  combatants — which 
is  distinctive  of  this  branch  of  the  drama.  In 
tragedy  it  seldom  fails  to  utter  the  last  word. 
At  certain  moments  of  the  play  it  provides  a 
contemplative  pause,  an  interlude  for  moralising 

1   fvvotai'  yap  fj.ji>ov   ira^exeTat  o.s  iraptdTiv. 


iv  ART  AND  INSPIRATION  135 

reflection.  In  Aeschylus,  it  becomes  the  vehicle 
of  the  poet's  profoundest  theological  thought  ; 
in  Sophocles,  more  frequently  it  interprets  the 
course  of  the  action  and  sums  up  the  emotions 
awakened  in  the  spectator's  mind.  In  either 
case,  the  choral  odes,  apart  altogether  from  their 
intrinsic  beauty  as  forms  of  lyrical  and  musical 
utterance,  gather  up  for  us  the  lessons  of  life 
and  clarify  our  human  experience.  Those  great 
and  eternal  commonplaces  in  which  Greek 
poetry  delights,  with  their  measured  cadence, 
their  serene  and  condensed  wisdom,  have  a 
strange  power  of  solemnising  and  subduing  the 
emotions.  They  come  home  to  us  in  all  the 
fulness  of  their  original  meaning,  as  familiar 
truths  fraught  with  new  significance.  The 
tension  of  overwrought  feeling  is  relaxed  when 
the  fret  and  stir  of  the  moment,  and  the  accidents 
of  the  individual  existence,  are  placed  in  the 
larger  perspective  of  some  universal  law.  In 
almost  every  branch  of  literature  we  have 
similar  achievements.  The  great  writers,  by 
the  very  force  of  their  individuality,  accept 
with  ease  much  that  is  conventional,  while  thev 


136  HARVARD  LECTURES 


reject  what  is  merely  artificial.1  The  more 
closely  we  examine  the  masterpieces  of  Greek 
literature,  the  greater  appears  to  be  the  place 
occupied  by  artistic  tradition  and  convention. 
Thus  Greece  presents  a  phenomenon  unique  in 
literary  history — namely,  the  creation  of  fixed 
types,  governed  by  a  rigid  code  of  rules,  yet 
working  in  harmony  with  the  spontaneous  play 
of  native  faculty. 

This  continuity  of  movement  in  art  and 
literature  involved  some  self-suppression  on  the 
part  of  the  individual.  While  the  collective 

1  The  history  of  sculpture  affords  many  analogous  examples. 
See  the  remarks  on  the  Metopes  and  Frieze  of  the  Parthenon 
in  a  recent  volume,  Greek  Sculpture,  by  E.  von  Mach,  Boston 
(Ginn  and  Co.),  1903,  p.  216  ff. ;  compare  also  pp.  156-160. 
Similarly  in  vase-painting,  the  restrictions  of  space  and  the 
conditions  of  decorative  art  force  the  artist  to  recognise  that  the 
human  body  is  not  a  human  body  only,  but  also  a  thing  that  is 
capable  of  being  rendered  as  a  beautiful  pattern.  The  figures, 
therefore,  are  not  thrown  vaguely  into  a  given  space,  but  are 
closely  tied  up  and  related  to  the  parts  they  do  not  fill.  And 
the  notable  result  is  that  these  figures,  by  mutual  adaptations 
and  concessions,  gain  a  heightened  beauty  through  forming 
part  of  a  decorative  design.  The  feet  of  the  dancing  Maenads  on 
Hieron's  cup  is  a  case  in  point.  It  is,  of  course,  only  the  great 
masters  who  can  so  employ  the  limitations  imposed.  Lesser 
artists  cramp  their  figures  in  obedience  to  physical  necessity. 


A  A' T  AND  1NSP1RA  7  'ION 


personality  of  the  race  is  indelibly  stamped  on 
the  products  of  the  Greek  mind — on  their  art 
and  literature,  even  on  their  science  —  the 
personality  of  the  individual,  though  seldom  to 
be  mistaken  in  the  realm,  at  least,  of  imaginative 
creation,  does  not  appear  in  an  obtrusive  form. 
The  plastic  clearness  of  outline  which  is 
characteristic  of  the  classical  Greek  manner  is 
mainly  due  to  two  causes  : — on  the  one  hand, 
to  the  omission  of  accidental  detail,  on  the  other 
to  the  absence  of  a  disturbing  atmosphere.  In 
the  romantic  handling  of  a  theme  the  image  is 
apt  to  be  seen  through  a  sensitive  and  vibrat- 
ing medium,  through  a  coloured  light,  in  the 
'halo'  of  romance;  and  the  'halo,'  the  atmo- 
sphere, is  often  caused  in  part  by  the  excited 
personality  of  the  writer.  He  catches  fire  from 
his  own  creation,  he  projects  his  personal  trouble 
into  his  art,  and  the  contagion  spreads  to  the 
reader.  The  great  classical  writer  remains 
more  detached  ;  he  holds  the  image,  so  to  speak, 
at  arm's  length.  The  spectacle  he  presents 
impresses  us  by  its  own  moving  quality  ;  there 
is  no  personal  or  turbid  atmosphere  ;  no  per- 


138  HARVARD  LECTURES 


plexed  light  is  interposed  between  our  eye  and 
the  object.  We  are  still  within  the  domain  of 
the  universal  reason. 

Yet  according  to  the  popular  view  poetry 
was  a  thing  inspired  —  evOeov  77  iroirjcris:1  it 
was  a  form  of  frenzy,  a  divine  possession. 
Poetic  inspiration  was  regarded  as  supernatural 
in  its  origin,  the  poet  being  but  the  channel 
through  which  the  god  finds  utterance ;  he  acts 
under  a  stimulus  from  without,  which  robs  him 
of  his  reason.  This  theory  of  direct  revelation 
is  explicitly  stated  in  prose  for  the  first  time 
by  Democritus  of  Abdera  ; 2  it  is  applied  by 
him  to  Homer  ;  it  remains  current  to  the  latest 
period  of  Greek  literature.  The  idea  of  the 
frenzied  poet  strikes  us  as  having  a  strangely 
un-Greek  air.  It  seems  to  accord  better  with 

1  Arist.  Rhet.  iii.  7.  1408  b  19. 

2  Dio  Chrys.  Or.  liii.  ad  init.    o  /uev  A^yUj/cpiros  irepi  'Ofj.rjpov 
(prffflv  ourws  •    ' '  "Ow^pos   (pvfffws   Xa^wv   0ea£ owrijs   eirfdiv  Koff/jLOV 
€TeKTT}va.To   iravroiuv."     Clem.    Strom,  vi.    168   p.    827  P  KO.\  6 
Aij/uj/cpiTos  6/iot'ws  (i.e.  like  Plato  in  the  Ion}  "Tronjrijs  d£  acrira 
fitv    &v    ypa.<f>rj<.    /j.er'    lvdov(na.<T^ov    /cat    iepov    Trvei'/j-aTOS,    Ka\a 
KdpTa  iarlv."     Cic.  de  divin.  I.  38,  80  'negnt  enim  sine  furore 
Uemocritus  quemquam  poetam  magnum  esse  posse,  quod  idem 
dicit  Plato.' 


ART  AND  INSPIRATION  139 


Oriental  notions,  or  with  modern  speculations 
about  the  subliminal  self  as  the  region  out  of 
which  emerge  both  poetry  and  insanity.  The 
Greek  poets  themselves  seem  to  have  thought  of 
their  own  aptitude  more  as  the  result  of  trained 
skill  than  of  abnormal  inspiration.  It  is  remark- 
able how  the  word  ao^ia,  'wisdom,'  'skill,'  is 
selected  by  them  to  denote  the  poetic  gift 
where  we  should  be  disposed  to  speak  of 
genius.1  We  are  not  greatly  surprised  when 
a  poet  like  Bacchylides,  conscious  perhaps  of 
no  high  originality,  speaks  of  poetry  as  so 
much  traditional  lore  :  '  Poet  from  poet  learns 
his  art  both  now  and  of  old.' 2 

But  the  case  of  Pindar  is  more  striking. 
No  poet,  it  is  true,  dwells  with  such  con- 
viction on  inborn  power  of  genius  as  surpassing 
all  the  efforts  of  art.  '  Nature's  gift  is  always 
supreme :  where  the  god  is  not,  silence  is 
ever  the  better  part  of  wisdom.'  3  '  He  is  the 

1  Some  Aspects  of  the  Greek  Genius,  p.  17. 

'2  Baccliyl.  Fr.  14  [13]  eVepos  ^£  frtpov  cro<j>6s  TO  re  TrctXcu  TO 
re  vvv. 

3  Find.  01.  ix.  IOO  ft.  TO  de  (pvq.  Kpdriffrov  airav  '  .  .  .  avev 
5e  6eoL>  aeai.yai.fj.ivov  \  ov  aKtuorep  ' 


1 40  HARVARD  LECTURES  IV 

skilled  poet  to  whom  nature  has  taught  much.' l 
Proudly  he  avx)ws  his  own  originality,  his 
daring  novelty  of  treatment :  '  To  many  have 
I  shown  the  ways  of  song.' 2  Yet  he  also 
exalts  to  the  utmost  the  influence  of  art.  His 
poetry  is  a  subtle  science,  which  obeys  laws  of 
its  own,  fixed  rules  or  ordinances,3  transmitted 
by  the  masters  of  the  craft.  And  modern 
research  has  brought  into  marked  prominence 
the  long  development  of  the  lyrical  art,  and 
the  fashioning  of  a  special  vocabulary  ;  it  has 
analysed  the  elaborate  structure  of  a  Pindaric 
ode,  and  shown  not  only  the  trained  skill 
implied  in  the  poetic  handling  of  the  myths, 
but  the  science  needed  to  combine  the  complex 
resources  of  metre  and  music,  and  adapt  them 
to  the  intricate  choral  dance.  Truly,  as  Pindar 
says,  '  steep  are  the  heights  of  the  poetic  art '  ; 4 
and  although  they  cannot  be  scaled  without  the 
inborn  gift,  yet  nowhere  more  surely  than  in 

1   01.  ii.   86  ffO(f>os  6  TTO\\O.  et'Sws  <f>vq.  :  i.e.   the  true  <ro<f>ia  is 
tf>uffis. 

-  Pylh.  iv.  247  TToXXotcri  5'  ijyr)fj.ai  <ro<t>ia.s  ere'pots. 

3  Cp.  01.  vii.  88  vfJLVov  red/Jibs  ' 

4  Ol.  ix.   115  ffo<j>icu  /j.ei>  alweivai. 


ART  AND  INSPIRA  770 N  1 4 1 


Greek  lyric  song  did  nature  need  the  assistance 
of  art.1 

The  popular  theory  of  poetry  as  a  divine 
possession  perhaps  owed  its  origin  to  the  fact 
that  direct  revelation,  in  its  most  familiar  form 
of  mantic  or  oracular  utterances,  was  conveyed 
in  metrical  language.  The  mystery  of  the  poetic 
gift  could  best  be  accounted  for  by  suppos- 
ing that  the  poet  was  the  inspired  interpreter 
of  the  Muse  as  the  Pythian  priestess  was  of 
the  Delphic  deity.  Pindar  himself  appropriates 
the  mythological  phrases  :  '  Utter  thy  oracles, 
O  Muse,  and  I  will  be  thy  mouthpiece.''2  It 
was  but  a  coarse  form  of  the  inspiration  theory 
which  credited  Aeschylus  with  composing  his 
tragedies  in  a  state  of  intoxication.3  In  con- 
nexion with  this  bit  of  literary  gossip  Athenaeus 
records  the  saying  attributed  to  Sophocles  : 
'  You,  Aeschylus,  do  the  right  thing,  but 

% 

without   knowing  why.' 4      It   is  just   this    '  OVK 

1  On    Pindar    as   an    artist    cp.    R.    C.    Jebb,    Growth    and 
Influence  of  Classical  Poetry,  p.  160  ft". 

2  Find.  Fr.  127  [118]  /xairei/eo  Mcucra,   Trpo<pa.Tevffw  5'   tyu. 

3  Athen.  i.  39  p.  22  A  and  x.  33  p.  428  F. 

4  ei  Kal  TO.  dtofTO.  Troiefs  dXX'   OVK  eldwi  ye. 


142  HARVARD  LECTURES  iv 


eiScos  '  -  -  the  '  not  knowing  '  -  that  Plato 
accentuates  in  various  passages,  in  which, 
adopting  the  current  theory  of  inspiration,  he 
speaks  in  severe  disparagement  of  poetry. 
'  The  poet,'  he  says,1  '  when  he  sits  down  on 
the  tripod  of  the  Muses  is  not  in  his  right 
mind.  Like  a  fountain  he  allows  the  stream 
of  thought  to  flow  freely,  and,  his  art  being 
imitative,  he  is  often  compelled  to  represent 
men  under  opposite  circumstances,  and  thus  to 
say  two  different  things  ;  neither  could  he  tell 
whether  there  is  any  truth  in  either  of  them  or 
in  one  more  than  in  the  other.'  So  in  the 
Apology?  when  Socrates  goes  to  the  poets  and 
asks  them  the  meaning  of  their  own  works,  he 
finds  them  the  most  incompetent  of  all  critics  ; 
they  can  give  no  rational  account  of  what  they 
have  written.  '  They  showed  me  in  an  instant 
that  not  by  wisdom  do  men  write  poetry  but 
by  a  sort  of  genius  and  inspiration  ;  they  are 
like  diviners  and  soothsayers  who  say  many 
fine  things,  but  do  not  understand  the  meaning 

1  Plat.  Laws  iv.  p.  719  c. 
2  Apol.  p.  22  A, 


iv  ART  AND  INSPIRATION  143 

of  them.'  The  poet,  then,  even  when  he 
speaks  inspired  truth  l  has  no  clear  knowledge 
of  the  grounds  of  his  beliefs  ;  he  may  also 
speak  inspired  falsehood.  At  the  best  he 
attains  to  right  opinion,  which,  however,  falls 
far  short  of  knowledge. 

The   popular   conception   of  the   poet  as  an 
inspired     madman,    destitute    of   art,    who    can 
compose   nothing  so  long  as  he  is  in  his  senses, 
leads    Plato   to  a  slighting   appreciation   of  the 
poetic   gift.      But   there   is   another   side  to  the 
case,    and    this    is    developed    by   him    in    the 
Phaedrus.      If  the  popular  point  of  view  merely 
brings  the  poet  and  the  philosopher   into  sharp 
antithesis,  the  kinship  between    them  is  marked 
by    another    and    nobler   view    of    poetry    as    a 
revelation  to  sense  of  eternal   ideas.      Poet  and 
philosopher,  each  alike  is  lifted  out  of  himself. 
In    this    state    of   'ecstasy,'   when    the   soul    is 
possessed  by  a  passionate  yearning  after  truth — 
a    divine   enthusiasm  —  it   recalls    the    celestial 
world   whence   it   came   and   catches   a  glimpse 
of  the   invisible  or   ideal    beauty,  of  which  the 
1  Cp.  Laws  iii.  p.  682  A. 


144  HARVARD  LECTURES 


Eleusinian  mysteries  are  a  faint  type.  For  the 
poet,  as  for  the  philosopher,  the  highest  inspira- 
tion comes  from  the  spiritual  insight  gained 
in  this  moment  of  rapture.  The  faculty  of 
reminiscence  which  makes  this  beatific  vision 
possible  is  for  Plato  the  common  principle  of 
philosophy  and  poetry.  The  poet  is  possessed 
by  an  imaginative  enthusiasm  that  is  akin  to 
the  speculative  enthusiasm  of  the  philosopher. 

Poetry  is  thus  a  stage  in  the  upward 
progress  of  the  soul  ;  it  is  the  servant  of 
philosophy  whose  truths  it  dimly  shadows 
forth.  When  fully  perfected  it  is  absorbed  in 
a  philosophy  which  through  the  manifold 
things  of  sense  ascends  to  that  highest  sphere, 
where  truth  and  beauty  are  one  with  virtue. 
In  the  Phaedrus  and  the  Symposium  Plato 
passes  beyond  the  poetry  of  his  own  age  and 
prefigures  an  art  which  has  been  realised,  if  at 
all,  in  Dante,  in  whom  the  speculations  of 
philosophy,  the  visions  of  the  poetic  imagina- 
tion, and  a  devotion  to  beauty  and  goodness, 
are  blended  together  in  one  mystical  passion. 
It  is  a  world  whose  secrets  can  be  unlocked 


ART  AND  INSPIRATION  145 


only  by  those  who  like  Plato  and  Dante  are  at 
once  poets  and  prophets. 

Plato's  account  of  inspiration  agrees  in 
essentials  with  modern  ideas.  The  metaphors 
in  which  he  clothes  his  thought  in  the  Phaednts 
must  not  be  allowed  to  disguise  his  true  mean- 
ing. With  him  the  inspiration  of  genius, 
whether  poetic  or  philosophic,  is  not  a  direct 
revelation,  operating  as  an  influence  from  with- 
out, but  one  of  the  modes  in  which  the  soul 
puts  forth  certain  divine  powers  inherent  in  her 
nature.  These  natural  gifts,  however,  are 
quickened  and  kindled  to  higher  activity.  A 
new  and  rapturous  energy  springs  up,  inexpli- 
cable, unfamiliar,  breaking  in  upon  the  monotony 
of  common  life.  It  achieves  in  a  moment  of 
insight  what  no  effort  of  conscious  thought  can 
accomplish.  The  reason  is  not  overpowered  or 
the  personality  lost  ;  but  the  man's  self  is  raised 
above  the  normal  level.  It  is  no  longer  the 
self  of  the  working-day  existence  ;  nor  again  is 
it  an  alien  self;  it  is  the  true  and  highest  self 
in  which  the  lower  one  is  merged.  Poetic  in- 
spiration even  on  this  lofty  view  of  it,  does  not 


146  HARVARD  LECTURES  iv 

dispense  with  conscious  art  ;  for  the  inspired 
moment  often  is  but  the  sudden  consummation 
of  a  long  period  of  mental  travail  ;  and,  more- 
over, even  after  the  creative  idea  has  flashed 
upon  the  mind,  a  conscious  and  shaping  process 
is  needed  to  give  it  complete  embodiment. 
On  the  other  hand,  no  one  can  be  admitted 
into  the  higher  ranks  of  poetry  who  is  devoid 
of  the  inspired  faculty.  The  more  or  less,  how- 
ever, in  the  matter  of  inspiration  is  a  difference 
of  degree  which  almost  amounts  to  a  difference 
of  kind  ;  and  we  commonly  apply  the  term  in- 
spired only  to  those  in  whom  the  impression  of 
spontaneous  genius  overmasters  the  impression 
of  art. 

Aristotle  incidentally  notes  the  difference 
between  the  two  orders  of  poets :  '  Poetry  im- 
plies either  a  happy  gift  of  nature  or  a  strain  of 
madness.  In  the  one  case  a  man  can  take  the 
mould  of  any  character,  in  the  other  he  is  lifted 
out  of  his  proper  self.' J  The  poet  of  the  first 

1  Poet.  xvii.  2  616  ei><f>vovs  ij  TroirjTtKri  fcrriv  $  /J.O.VIKOU- 
TOISTUV  yap  ol  ^v  fvirXacrroL  ol  dt  ^KffTariKoi  daiv.  All  MSS. 
but  one  have  i^fraari.Kol :  but  see  S.  H.  Butcher,  Aristotle's 
Theory  of  Poetry  and  Fine  Art,  third  ed. 


ART  AND  INSPIRATION  147 


class  is  a  man  of  flexible  genius,  with  keen  and 
versatile  intelligence,  with  a  delicate  power  of 
seeing  resemblances.1  He  is  quick  to  receive  the 
impress  of  another  personality,  and  to  enter 
dramatically  into  another's  feelings.  Contrasted 
with  him  is  the  poet  who  is  touched  with  a  fine 
frenzy,  possessed  by  an  inspiration  or  enthusiasm 
in  virtue  of  which  he  is  '  ecstatic  '  ;  he  is  readily 
lifted  out  of  himself  and  loses  his  own  personality. 
The  ev(f)vr)s  here  is  marked  off  from  the  {JLCLVLKOS 
by  a  more  conscious  critical  faculty.  As 
examples  of  the  two  contrasted  types,  one  might 
suggest  Sophocles  and  Aeschylus,  Bacchylides 
and  Pindar,  Dryden  and  Marlowe,  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  M.  Arnold  and  Blake.  The  contrast 
drawn  by  Aristotle  is  not  expressed  in  such  pre- 
cise form  in  any  previous  writer,  but  the  distinc- 
tion was  constantly  present  to  the  mind  of 
Plato  ;  it  is  developed  and  illustrated  from  many 
points  of  view  in  the  treatise  On  tJie  Sublime ; 
and  indeed  the  idea  is  at  the  very  basis  of  that 

1  Cp.  Poet.  xxii.  9  where  command  of  metaphor  (TO 
fjLfTa<popi.Kbi>  flvai)  is  eufivias  ffrj/uLelov  ;  and  the  making  of  good 
metaphors  is  TO  TO  6/j.oiov  Gewpeiv. 


H8  HARVARD  LECTURES  iv 

treatise.  The  supreme  excellence  which  the 
author  means  to  convey  by  the  term  u-^-o?, 
including  not  only  sublimity  in  our  sense,  but 
elevation  of  tone,  a  glow  of  imagination,  a 
grandeur  of  style,  is  the  distinguishing  mark  of 
the  inspired  writer.  He  is  raised  into  a  higher 
plane  under  the  influence  of  noble  emotion,  and 
produces  on  his  hearers  the  effect  not  of  per- 
suasion but  of  '  transport '  (e/eo-Taa-69).1 

The  examples  given  are  not  only  passages 
in  the  poets,  such  as  the  prayer  of  Ajax  in  the 
Iliad — ev  Be  <f)dei  KOL  oXecrcrov,  '  Destroy  us 
but  destroy  us  in  the  light,'  or  Sappho's  great 
ode  (ftaiverai  poi  icfjvos,  but  passages  from  Demo- 
sthenes, such  as  that  containing  the  famous 
oath  in  the  speech  On  the  Crown — /xa  roi/9  ev 
yiapaOwvt  TrpoKivSvvevcravTas, — and  the  words 
of  the  Book  of  Genesis,  '  God  said,  Let  there 
be  light :  and  there  was  light.'  Demosthenes 
is  cited  as  the  master  of  such  emotional 
effects.  He  may  lack  the  fluent  ease,  the 

1  Longinus  De  Snbl.  c.  i.  4  01'  yap  eiy  iretBu  roi'S  Ajcpouftitrovt 
d\X*  ei's  i-K<TTa(riv  &yti  ra  vwfp<pi'd.  Cp.  iii.  5  ^eoTTj/cores  7rp6y 
OVK 


ART  AND  INSPIRATION  149 


urbane  and  piquant  charm  of  Ilypereides,  but 
his  'heaven-sent  gifts'  (OeoTre/j^Trra  &w  pi]  par  a) 
leave  him  supreme  above  all  rivals  :  '  he  silences 
by  his  thunders  and  blinds  by  his  lightnings 
the  orators  of  every  age.  One  could  sooner 
face  with  unflinching  eyes  a  descending  thunder- 
bolt than  meet  with  steady  gaze  his  bursts 
of  passion  in  their  swift  succession.'1  Yet  the 
final  lesson  to  be  gathered  from  the  eloquence 
of  Demosthenes  is,  as  Longinus  observes,  that 
'  even  in  the  revels  of  the  imagination  sobriety 
is  required.' 2  Here  we  have  the  true  Hellenic 
note.  Speeches  which  are  alive  with  '  the 
fire  of  passion  have  been  laboriously  prepared 
in  the  closet.  We  never  lose  the  impression  of 
severe  and  disciplined  strength.  In  his  highest 
outbursts  of  eloquence  Demosthenes  still  owns 
the  sway  of  reason.  '  It  is  not  possible  with 
him,  as  with  lesser  orators,  to  map  out  a 
speech  into  parts  and  say  here  is  an  appeal  to 
feeling  ;  here  is  pure  reasoning  ;  for  thought  is 

1  De  Subl.  c.  xxxiv.  4  wffTrepel  Ka.ra.ftpovra.  Kal  KarcKpeyyei 
TOV?  air  aluvos  pijropas  K.T.\.  (Trans.  H.  L.  Ilavell,  Macmillan 
and  Co.) 

-  Ib.  c.  xvi.  4  SiddffKwv  OTL  KO.V  fta.K\fVff,a,ff(.  vi}<$>fi.v  dva.yKO.iov. 


150  HARVARD  LECTURES  iv 

everywhere  interpenetrated  with  feeling  ;  reason 
is  itself  passionate.  What  fuses  all  into  unity 
is  the  force  of  an  intense  personality,  which 
cannot  convince  the  intellect  without  kindling 
the  emotions.' l  The  eloquence  of  Demosthenes 
is  the  eloquence  of  impassioned  reason.  The 
inspired  orator  is  also  the  cool  thinker  and  the 
consummate  artist.  A  somewhat  analogous  fact 
meets  us  in  the  Sophoclean  drama.  In  the 
very  height  of  tragic  suffering  the  actors  are 
masters  of  themselves  ;  their  vision  is  undis- 
turbed, their  judgment  unclouded.  They 
reason  and  reflect  on  what  they  have  done. 
They  place  themselves  in  the  attitude  of 
criticism.  Out  "of  the  depth  of  their  anguish 
they  seem  to  gain  a  heightened  intellectual 
force,  a  more  penetrating  insight.  When  we 
are  dealing  with  Greek  literature  we  must  be- 
ware not  to  separate  too  sharply  thought  and 
emotion,  reason  and  inspiration. 

•Aristotle's  distinction  between  the  inspired 
poet  and  the  finely  gifted  artist  admits  of  rarer, 
or  at  least  less  striking,  illustration  from  Greek 

1  S.  H.  Butcher,  Demosthenes,  p.  159. 


AR  T  AND  INSPIRA  TlON  1 5 1 


than  from  modern  literature.  The  imaginative 
creations  of  the  modern  world  seldom  unite  in 
anything  like  equal  proportions  the  twofold 
elements  of  art  and  inspiration.  In  Greek- 
poetry  these  qualities  are  not  often  present  in  so 
disparate  a  form  as  to  affect  the  general  sense 
of  harmony.  Sometimes  indeed  the  impression 
of  inspired  faculty,  of  original  genius,  in  Greek 
poetry  is  a  little  obscured  by  the  other  impres- 
sion of  poetic  art  obeying  the  strict  rules  of  a 
code.  We  take  account  of  the  conventional 
elements  ;  we  note  also  the  narrow  range  of 
poetic  subject-matter ;  and  we  are  in  danger 
of  forgetting  that  genius  often  lies  in  creating 
much  out  of  little  ;  that  it  wins  its  most  signal 
triumphs  from  the  very  limitations  within 
which  it  works.  Again,  the  Greek  perfection 
of  form  may  itself  lead  moderns,  who  are  imbued 
with  the  spirit  of  romantic  literature,  to  under- 
rate the  original  power  which  underlies  such 
art.  Genius,  poetic  inspiration,  at  once 
suggests — and  truly  suggests — to  our  minds 
a  welling  up  of  thought  and  feeling,  an  effort- 
less and  spontaneous  energy,  a  sudden  inrush 


152  HARVARD  LECTURES  iv 

of  new  emotion  as  the  creative  idea  rises  into 
consciousness.  Aeschylus,  we  readily  say,  is 
an  inspired  poet,  one  who  thinks  in  images, 
who  sees  intuitively  where  another  reasons. 
We  recognise  in  him  the  fervour  of  the  prophet, 
whose  words,  instinct  with  passion,  struggle  to 
express  thoughts  which  transcend  the  expressive 
capacity  of  speech.  No  wonder  that  the 
utterance  is  often  rugged  and  inartistic.  We 
are  fain  to  believe  that  we  see  the  workings  of 
a  hidden  self,  whose  processes  are  higher  than 
those  of  our  normal  intelligence,  and  whose  swift 
insight  discerns  the  way  to  its  artistic  result 
without  employing  the  common  logical  links  of 
thought.  The  Baying  ascribed  to  Sophocles, 
which  has  been  already  quoted,  returns  to  our 
mind  : — '  You  do  the  right  thing,  but  you  do 
it  without  knowing  why.' 

Yet  this  is  a  one-sided  judgment.  Aeschylus 
the  inspired  thinker  is  at  the  same  time  a  great 
artist.  And,  similarly,  Sophocles  the  conscious 
artist  is  none  the  less  an  inspired  poet.  If 
there  is  more  of  grandeur  and  mystery,  a  larger 
output  of  imaginative  ideas  in  Aeschylus,  there 


iv  ART  AND  INSPIRATION  153 

is  more  of  a  beauty  which  is  itself  an  inspiration 
in  Sophocles.  It  is  a  beauty  of  the  distinctively 
Greek  order,  which  results  not  from  any  sum  of 
effects  but  from  a  harmony  of  effects,  from  a 
network  of  delicate  relationships,  from  the 
subordination  of  the  parts,  and  their  convergence 
on  a  single  end.  It  is  a  quiet  unobtrusive 
beauty,  in  which  the  total  impression  is  one  of 
simplicity  so  perfect  that  it  must  needs  be  the 
product  of  consummate  art.  But  a  modern 
reader  on  first  acquaintance  with  a  play  of 
Sophocles  may  well  fail  to  realise  that  the 
constructive  power  which  is  capable  of  fashion- 
ing such  a  whole  itself  implies  inspired  insight, 
imaginative  vision  of  the  highest  order.  \Ve 
are  perhaps  inclined  to  rate  too  low  the  genius 
which  is  displayed  in  the  general  structure  of 
an  artistic  work  ;  we  set  it  down  merely  as  the 
hard-won  result  of  labour,  and  we  find  inspira- 
tion only  in  isolated  splendours,  in  the  lightning 
flash  of  passion,  in  the  revealing  power  of  poetic 
imagery.  The  study  of  Greek  literature  leads 
us  not  indeed  to  undervalue  these  manifestations 
of  genius,  but  to  view  all  partial  beauties  in 


154  HARVARD  LECTURES  iv 


their  relation  to  the  whole.  The  supreme  result 
which  Greek  thought  and  imagination  achieve 
by  their  harmonious  co-operation  is  the  organic 
union  of  the  parts.  In  the  East  the  poetical 
way  of  seeing  things  is  that  of  direct  intuition. 
The  East  knows  nothing  of  the  dialectical 
workings  of  the  mind.  The  service  Greece 
rendered  lay  in  establishing  the  balance  between 
these  faculties.  The  emotional  and  intellectual 
fields  are  no  longer  kept  apart.  Reason  and 
intuition  enter  on  a  new  alliance.  Greek  artists 
and  poets  have  not  indeed,  like  Mozart  or 
Wordsworth,  left  us  any  psychological  account 
of  the  processes  of  their  own  creative  activity  ; 
and  indeed  the  detailed  working  of  these  pro- 
cesses is  generally  hidden  from  the  man  of 
genius  himself.  In  any  case,  it  would  be  a 
bold  critic  who  would  attempt  to  define  in  any 
great  imaginative  composition  the  part  played 
by  an  instinctive  or  emotional  element  on  the 
one  hand,  and  by  logical  thought  on  the  other. 
But  though  we  cannot  say  precisely  how  the 
synthesis  is  effected  in  the  mind  of  the  creative 
artist,  we  may  safely  apply  a  critical  analysis  to 


iv  ART  AND  INSPIRATION  155 

the  completed  work  of  art.  It  matters  not 
whether  some  idea,  to  which  the  critic  has  been 
guided  only  by  a  chain  of  reasoning,  was  flashed 
instantaneously  on  the  artistic  vision.  The  in- 
terest of  the  analysis  in  the  case  of  Greek  art  and 
literature  is  this — that  the  parts  arc  discovered 
to  be  bound  together  by  an  inward,  and 
assuredly  not  an  unconscious,  logic.  Especially 
in  architecture  and  the  drama  we  can  trace  the 
subordination  of  ideas.  There  is  no  room  here 
for  caprice  or  happy  accident.  The  elements 
of  thought  and  feeling,  of  reason  and  imagi- 
nation have  been  fused  together  not  in  any 
dim-lit  region  of  sub-conscious  thought.  The 
unified  and  artistic  whole  has  been  born  in  the 
upper  air  ;  it  follows  the  laws  of  the  universal 
reason.  '  There  is  not  a  single  effect  which 
if  not  reasoned  is  not  at  least  reasonable.' 1 
Moderns  are  prone  to  believe  that  the  action 
of  poetic  genius  is  purely  instinctive  or  intuitive, 
and  that  genius  abdicates  its  rights  and  descends 
to  the  lower  level  of  talent  when  it  begins  to 
reason.  Greek  literature  decisively  refutes  such 

1  I.e  Parthhion,  E.  Boutmy,  p.  201. 


156  HARVARD  LECTURES 


a  notion.  It  exhibits  the  critical  faculty  as 
a  great  underlying  element  in  creative  power. 
The  analytic  spirit  of  Aristotle's  Poetics  is  not 
to  be  explained  solely  by  a  certain  prosaic 
vein  in  the  mind  of  the  philosopher.  It  is 
distinctive  of  a  race  whose  highest  flights  of 
imagination  are  controlled  by  reasoned  principles 
of  art,  and  whose  creative  work  cannot  be  dis- 
joined from  the  dialectic  effort  of  thought. 

The  union  of  contrasted  qualities  which  we 
have  been  considering  in  the  special  field  of 
imaginative  production  is  but  one  example  of  a 
characteristic,  which  more  eminently  perhaps 
than  any  other,  constitutes  the  originality  of 
Greece.  We  trace  it  in  Greek  life  as  well  as  in 
Greek  literature,  in  the  impressive  personalities 
who  stand  out  not  only  as  actors  in  Greek 
history,  but  also  as  writers  and  thinkers.  In 
the  history  of  Rome  the  man  is  often  sunk  in 
the  Roman  ;  his  features  are  in  low  relief ;  we 
are  led  to  forget  the  individual  in  the  type.  In 
Greece  great  personalities,  with  an  ineffaceable 
stamp  of  their  own,  are  far  more  numerous- 
men  not  only  great  in  the  things  which  they 


ART  A  A;Z>  INSPIRA  TION  1 5 7 


accomplished,  but  interesting-  in  themselves,  in 
endowments  of  mind  and  force  of  character,  in 
the  union  of  many  outwardly  discordant  gifts 
— idiosyncrasies,  it  may  be,  but  the  idiosyn- 
crasies of  genius.  Illustrations  might  be  drawn 
from  all  branches  of  Greek  literature  and  from 
all  periods  ;  I  will  confine  myself  to  a  rapid 
glance  at  that  early  period,  the  sixth  to  the 
fifth  century  B.C.,  before  poetry  was  severed 
from  philosophy  or  philosophy  from  science  ; 
when  thought  and  action  were  not  yet  divorced ; 
when  specialised  knowledge  and  pursuits  had 
not  limited,  and  in  limiting,  also  obscured  the 
wonderful  variety  of  powers  residing  in  the 
gifted  individual  of  the  Hellenic  race.1 

We  recall  first  Thales  of  Miletus,  in  the 
beginning  of  the  sixth  century  B.C.,  the  earliest 
of  Greek  philosophers,  a  man  of  science,  a  mathe- 
matician, one  of  the  founders  of  the  deductive 
Greek  geometry,  an  astronomer  who  predicted  the 
total  eclipse  of  the  sun  which  occurred  in  the  war 

1  The  philosophers,  whose  names  are  here  selected  for  pur- 
poses of  illustration,  are,  among  others,  brilliantly  handled  by 
Gomperz,  Greek  Thinkers,  vol  i.  (Trans.). 


158  HARVARD  LECTURES  iv 

between  Lydia  and  Media  on  May  28,  585  B.C. 
— a  memorable  prediction,  the  first  of  the  kind 
recorded  in  European  history l  -  —  one  whom 
tradition  remembered  as  the  typical  philosopher 
who  tumbled  into  a  well  while  gazing  at  the 
stars.2  But  he  was  also  a  traveller,  a  shrewd 
man  of  business,  who  turning  to  account  his 
meteorological  researches  is  said  to  have  made 
the  first  '  corner '  in  oil ; 3  a  politician,  more- 
over, of  singular  insight,  who,  if  we  may 
believe  Herodotus,  advised  his  Ionian  fellow- 
countrymen  to  form  a  federal  state  with  its 
capital  at  Teos  as  a  protection  against 
Persia.4 

Or,  again,  take  Xenophanes  of  Colophon 
(flor.  circ.  545  B.C.),  the  founder  of  the  Eleatic 
school  of  philosophy,  who  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
five  was  driven  from  his  Ionian  home  by  the 
Persian  invasion,  and  for  nearly  threescore 
years,  by  the  testimony  of  his  own  verses, 
'  tossed  his  troubled  thoughts  up  and  down 

1  Herod,  i.  74 ;  Clem.  Strom,  i.  65  p.  354  r. 

2  Plat.  Theaet.  174  A. 

3  Arist.'  Pol.  i.  II.  1259  a  6  ;  Diog.  Laert.  i.  26. 
*  Herod,  i.  170. 


A R  T  AND  INSPIRA  T1ON  1 59 


Hellas';1  a  rhapsodist  and  a  wandering  philo- 
sopher, attended  by  a  slave  who  carried  his 
cithara.  In  the  course  of  his  travels  he  made 
valuable  scientific  observations.  He  was  the 
first  who  pointed  to  the  fossil  remains  of  plants 
and  animals  as  proofs  of  the  great  changes  that 
the  earth  must  have  undergone  in  the  remote 
past  He  broke  sharply  with  the  traditions 
and  beliefs  of  his  people.  He  is  a  satirist  who 
does  not  spare  any  of  the  institutions  of  Hellas — 
the  athletic  games  of  Olympia  any  more  than 
the  unimproving  conversation  of  the  dinner 
table.  But  it  is  as  a  religious  reformer  that 
he  utters  his  deepest  convictions.  He  passes 
scathing  criticism  upon  the  beliefs  of  poly- 
theism. His  passionate  verses,  introducing  the 
first  note  of  discord  between  polytheism  and 
philosophy,  echoed  in  the  ears  of  the  Greeks 
throughout  their  history,  and  are  again  over- 
heard in  the  final  conflict  between  the  de- 

1  Xenoph.  Fr.  24  : 

•fjS-r}  5'  firrd  T'  Haffi  KO.I  e^Kovr'  eviavrol 
/SXrjcrrptfoj'res  e^v  (frpovriS'  dv'  'EXXdSa  yrjv. 

The  word  /SXijcrrpt'fw  is  used  in  Hippocrates  for  tossing  on  a  lied 

of  sickness. 


160  HARVARD  LECTURES  iv 

fenders  of  expiring  paganism  and  the  Christian 
apologists. 

Let  us  pass  to  another  man  even  more  re- 
markable, a  poet-philosopher  of  brilliant  genius, 
Empedocles  of  Agrigentum,  of  Dorian  not 
Ionian  race,  some  features  of  whose  character 
are  singularly  un-Hellenic,  though  none  but  a 
pure  Hellene  could  have  written  the  noble 
hexameters  of  which  some  five  hundred  are 
extant.  His  poem  On  Nature  was  one  of  the 
books  which  inspired  Lucretius,  whose  magni- 
ficent eulogy  every  one  will  remember.1  As 
poet  and  physicist,  with  a  wide  outlook  into  the 
universal  life  of  things,  Empedocles  traced  a 
unity  running  through  all  natural  and  spiritual 
processes.  He  made  original  observations  on 
physiology,  ingenious  experiments  illustrating 
some  laws  of  physics  ;  he  threw  out  hints  of 
the  doctrine  now  known  as  natural  selection, 
and  anticipated  some  great  discoveries  of 
modern  chemistry.2  He  was  a  practical 
physician  and  sanitary  engineer  as  well  as  a 

1  Lucret.  i.  716  ff. 
2  Gomperz,  i.  230  (Trans.). 


A  R  T  AND  INSPIKA  T1ON  1 6 1 


biologist,  and  by  draining  the  marshes  rid  the 
city  of  Selinus  of  a  pestilence.  No  ancient 
philosopher  of  whom  we  read  took  such  a  lead- 
ing part  in  public  life;  he  was  the  eloquent 
champion  of  the  democracy  and  was  offered 
and  refused  the  kingship.1  Aristotle  tells  us 
that  he  was  also  the  founder  of  the  art  of 
rhetoric  ;  and  Gorgias  of  Leontini  was  said  to 
be  among  his  pupils.2 

But  there  was  also  another  side  to  him.  He 
was  a  seer,  a  mystic,  a  healer  of  the  maladies  of 
the  soul  as  well  as  of  the  body,  the  author  of 
purificatory  chants  of  which  fragments  survive. 
In  outward  demeanour  he  resembled  the  wonder- 
worker from  the  East  rather  than  the  sober 
Hellene.  Clad  in  purple  robe,  with  a  Delphic 
wreath  on  his  head  and  a  golden  circlet  about 
his  brows,  his  long  hair  flung  loose,  with  grave 
set  features  he  was  borne  in  pomp  through  Sicily, 
the  children  flocking  to  his  car,  and  the  towns- 
people greeting  him  in  his  progress.3  He  is 

1  Diog.  Laert.  viii.  63. 
'-'  Arist.  ap.  Diog.  Laert.  viii.  57. 
3  Diog.  Laert.  viii.  73. 

M 


162  HARVARD  LECTURES  iv 

by  his  own  description  a  spirit  in  exile,1  one 
of  those  heavenly  beings,  who  for  crime  done 
in  another  life  are  doomed  '  to  wander  for 
thrice  ten  thousand  years  away  from  the 
Blessed,'  tossed  from  sea  to  sky,  from  earth  to 

sea, 

and  who  returns 

Back  to  this  meadow  of  calamity, 
This  uncongenial  place,  this  human  life, — 2 

the  'unlovely  land,'  'the  unfamiliar  region.' 
Nor  can  the  disinherited  spirit  regain  his  birth- 
right except  by  long  and  rigorous  discipline 
and  suppression  of  the  senses.  But  I  cannot 
linger  over  this  strange,  this  unique  figure  in 
Greek  speculation,  in  whom  mysticism  and 
science,  intuition  and  logic,  religious  exaltation 
and  practical  capacity,  the  humility  of  a  sin- 
laden  spirit  and  the  boundless  pretensions  of  a 
charlatan  were  united  to  form  so  baffling  a 
compound.  To  this  day  in  Girgenti,  that 
memorable  city,  where  rows  of  ruined  temples 
guard  the  southern  slopes  of  the  acropolis, 
stretching  towards  the  sea,  Empedocles  is  a 

1  KaOapnoi,  line  12,  <f>vyas  Oebdev  /ecu  a\rtnr]s. 
2  Matthew  Arnold,  Emptdoclcs  on  Aetna. 


ART  AND  INSPIRATION  163 


name  of  power  ;  he  is  the  idol  of  his  fellow- 
countrymen  ;  legend  and  history  still  cluster 
round  him. 

I  will  but  remind  you  of  one  other  name—- 
the founder  of  the  famous  Pythagorean  brother- 
hood, which  formed  a  close  intellectual  and 
spiritual  partnership  whose  aim  was  the  en- 
nobling of  the  whole  life,  public  and  private, 
of  its  members.  Pythagoras  himself  was  a 
mystical  theologian  and  at  the  same  time  an 
original  mathematician  ;  an  astronomer  who 
showed  that  the  earth  is  spherical  ;  a  musician 
who  made  a  brilliant  discovery  in  the  theory  of 
sound  ; l  a  man  of  genius  who,  like  Socrates, 
committed  nothing  to  writing — from  mistrust,  it 
would  seem,  of  the  written  word  ;  but  whose 
personal  influence  so  lived  in  the  school  as  to 
leave  an  abiding  mark  on  speculative  thought 
long  after  the  brotherhood  itself  had  been 
dissolved  by  the  violence  of  political  faction. 

What  is  it  that  constitutes  the  striking  and 
original  quality  of  such  characters  —  of  the 
physicist  who  is  also  a  merchant ;  the  religious 

1  Gomperz,  i.  102  (Trans.). 


164  HARVARD  LECTURES 


reformer,  who  is  at  once  minstrel,  poet,  and 
man  of  science  ;  the  practical  engineer  who 
has  the  soul  of  a  mystic  ;  the  mathematician 
who  is  the  head  of  a  semi -religious  order? 
The  secret  lies  in  the  harmonious  blending  of 
opposites.  Such  contrasts  are  not  indeed  con- 
fined to  Greece  ;  but  elsewhere  they  are  rare 
phenomena :  in  Greece  these,  or  other  not 
widely  dissimilar  combinations,  are  part  of  the 
normal  psychology  of  those  original  minds 
that  have  left  their  stamp  upon  the  intellectual 
life  of  Europe.  We  see  in  them  the  con- 
junction of  a  rich,  an  inexhaustible  imagination 
with  a  keen  critical  faculty,  a  restless,  wonder- 
ing, questioning  spirit,  fearless  of  consequences, 
bringing  all  things  to  the  test  of  reason.  We 
see  also  a  generalising  power,  constructive  and 
masterly,  but  apt  to  be  over-hasty,  balanced 
however  and  corrected  by  a  faculty  of  subtle 
analysis  and  a  delicate  eye  for  differences  in 
detail.  Again,  we  observe  the  love  of  pointed 
antithesis,  visible  in  the  very  structure  of  the 
sentence  and  form  of  the  thought,  in  philo- 
sophical conceptions  (e.g.  unity  and  plurality, 


ART  AND  INSPIRATION  165 


finite  and  infinite,  Being  and  not  Being,  rest 
and  motion,  etc.),  in  the  balanced  and  con- 
trasted groups  of  character  within  the  drama. 

Yet,  quick  as  were  the.  Greeks  to  dis- 
cern antagonisms  in  the  world  of  nature  or 
of  man,  it  was  also  the  conscious  effort  of 
Greek  philosophy  to  reconcile  the  discordant 
principles,  to  build  the  bridge  by  which 
thought  might  travel  across  the  gulf,  and  so 
by  a  finely  graduated  series  of  transitions 
to  restore  the  broken  unity.  Heraclitus  of 
Ephesus  (born  probably  about  540  B.C.),  anti- 
cipating a  fruitful  idea  of  modern  philosophy, 
laid  down  the  law  of  the  harmony  of  con- 
traries, of  identity  in  difference.  Contraries 
do  not  exclude,  but  rather  presuppose  one 
another  ;  nay,  each  passes  imperceptibly  into 
the  other.  '  The  dissonant  is  in  harmony  with 
itself.' 1  '  The  invisible  harmony  ' — which  lies 
behind  the  contradictions  of  sense — '  is  better 


1  Heracl.  Fr.  59  [10]  ffvfj.fpepofj.evov  dia(f>fpofj.evov,  avvalSov 
SLaloov.  Cp.  46  [8]  TO  avrl^ow  <rvfj.(j>epov,  xai  e'/c  rCov  dia(f>epoi>TCiji/ 
Ka\\[ffTTji>  apfj.oviav.  45  [51]  ou  ^vviaai  OKOJS  5ia<pep6/J.evoi>  eui'Tip 
6fj.o\oyeei. 


166  HARVARD  LECTURES  iv 

than  the  visible.' l  It  is  interesting  to  reflect 
that  one  of  the  last  of  the  Greek  philosophers, 
Plotinus  (born  204  A.D.),  joins  hands  with 
Heraclitus,  applying  the  same  principle  to 
illustrate  the  harmony  of  contrasted  elements 
in  a  work  of  art,  and  especially  in  the  drama.'2 
The  '  rational  principle  of  the  drama  is  a  unity ' 
of  action,  '  containing  in  it  many  collisions,' 3 
and  out  of  this  play  of  contraries  is  evolved 
the  harmony  of  the  whole.  So  too,  he  argues, 
in  the  drama  of  life  where  the  soul  is  the 
actor,  the  universal  reason,  presiding  over  the 
struggle,  resolves  the  dissonance  and  discord 
in  a  final  harmony.  Heraclitus  had  already 
grasped  the  truth  of  Western  civilisation,  that 
the  struggle  of  opposing  forces — his  meta- 
phorical '  warfare  '  (7roXe//-o<?) — is  the  condition 
of  progress,  and  that  this  holds  good  in  human 
society  no  less  than  in  the  evolution  of 
the  cosmic  order.  This  profound  philosophic 
truth  the  Greeks  applied  instinctively  in  prac- 

1  Heracl.  Fr.  47  [54]  o-pftovii]  a<pa.vT)s  Qavepris  /c/seicrcraH'. 

2  Plotin.  Enn.  iii.  2.  1 1  ff. 

3  Ib.  iii.  2.  1 6  Spd/j.a.TOS  \6yos  els  HXM  ev  avrf  TroXXds 


iv  AK  T  AND  L\SP1RA  T1ON  1 67 


tical  life.  In  politics  they  never  fell  under  the 
fanatical  sway  of  any  single  principle  —  not 
royalty,  not  aristocracy,  not  democracy.  Here 
too  they  sought  to  discover  the  harmony  of  oppo- 
sites.  The  friction  and  play  of  contending  forces 
were  needed,  they  felt,  alike  for  stability  and 
development.  The  State  and  the  Individual, 
Order  and  Progress,  Necessity  and  Freedom — 
these  permanent  antagonisms  of  thought,  were 
not  left,  as  they  were  in  the  East,  to  confront 
one  another  in  hostile  isolation.  The  contra- 
dictions, if  not  solved,  were  at  least  softened. 
Nowhere  more  than  in  her  colonial  life,  in 
those  busy  and  rival  centres  of  intellect  and 
commerce,  did  Greece  exhibit  her  versatile 
power  of  reconciling  things  not  previously 
combined.  The  new  experiments  struck  out 
in  art,  in  philosophy,  in  social  and  political 
organisation,  involved  a  kind  of  mediatorial 
process.  They  were  the  product  of  a  spirit  of 
adjustment,  balance,  compromise.  They  are 
the  creation  of  the  Western  mind. 

The  temperament  of  the   people  as  a  whole 
is  a  compound  as  remarkable  as   are   the   gifts 


168  HARVARD  LECTURES  iv 

united  in  the  great  men  of  the  race  —  a 
people  shrewdly  practical  yet  sternly  idealistic  ; 
jealous  of  alien  influences  yet  hospitable  to 
foreigners  ;  intolerant  of  unorthodoxy  yet 
ready  to  laugh  over  their  own  pantheon  ; 
slaves  to  party  spirit  yet  gifted  with  a  singular 
faculty  of  political  compromise  ;  endowed  with 
a  proverbial  gaiety  of  heart,  which  blends, 
however,  with  a  sadness  sometimes  bordering 
on  pessimism.  The  diverse  and  seemingly 
opposite  qualities  which  mark  the  Greek  mind 
are  one  secret  of  its  matchless  force,  and  the 
cause  of  its  success  in  so  many  fields  of  human 
activity,  practical  and  speculative.  They  con- 
stitute the  chief  reason  why  Greek  literature 
speaks  in  so  many  voices,  and  utters  its  appeal 
to  every  race  and  generation  in  its  turn. 
Hence  comes  its  wealth  of  suggestion,  its 
recuperative  energy,  its  power  of  perpetual 
adaptation. 


V 
GREEK   LITERARY   CRITICISM  a 

IN  devoting  two  lectures  to  a  subject  which 
extends  over  seven  or  eight  centuries  and 
carries  us  from  the  fifth  century  RC.  far  into 
the  Christian  era,  I  propose  to  restrict  myself 
to  a  few  authors  and  a  few  points  of  interest. 

1  In  preparing  these  somewhat  desultory  discourses  (V.  and 
VI.)  I  have  had  in  mind  the  fact  that  Professor  Saintsbury's 
History  of  Criticism  (Blackwood  and  Sons)  has  now  placed  in 
the  hands  of  English  readers  a  systematic  treatment  of  the 
whole  subject.  I  have,  therefore,  confined  myself  to  following 
out  a  few  trains  of  thought  which  seemed  to  fall  in  with  the 
general  scheme  of  this  volume.  Some  excuse  is  needed  for 
passing  so  lightly  over  '  Longinus '  On  the  Sublime  (vrepi 
ii\j/ovs),  a  critical  essay  of  unique  value  and  interest.  The  truth 
is,  it  would  not  be  easy  to  add  much  to  the  admirable  apprecia- 
tion contained  in  Professor  Saintsbury's  chapter  (vol.  i.  pp.  152- 
173)  and  to  the  handling  of  the  treatise  by  Professor  W.  Rhys 
Roberts  in  his  edition  (Cambridge  University  Press). 
169 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


The  treatment  will  necessarily  be  discursive 
and  the  order  not  always  chronological.  But  it 
may  be  convenient  so  far  to  follow  the  lines  of 
historical  development  as  to  include  in  the  first 
part  of  our  survey  mainly  the  criticism  of 
Poetry,  in  the  latter  part,  the  criticism  of 
Prose. 

Literary  criticism  in  Greece  as  a  distinct 
and  conscious  art  was  late  in  its  appearing. 
The  period  of  creative  activity  was,  it  is  true,  a 
period  also  of  varied  critical  reflection  both  in 
art  and  literature  ;  and  here  and  there  we 
come  across  writers  of  original  genius  who 
were  critics  of  their  own  craft  or  of  that  of 
others.  But  these  are  rare  exceptions.  It 
is  not  till  the  time  of  Aristotle  that  we  find 
any  systematised  discussion  on  works  of  litera- 
ture, or  on  the  principles  that  govern  the 
literary  art.  Professed  critics  —  men  who  write 
books  on  other  books  —  were  still  unknown. 
The  essay,  the  monograph,  the  literary  study 
of  a  particular  author,  are  a  product  of  the 
post-classical  age,  when  the  centre  of  Greek 
civilisation  had  been  shifted,  and  Hellenism 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  171 


had  found  a  nc\v  abode  first  at  Alexandria, 
and  afterwards  at  Rome.  With  the  '  reviewer  ' 
in  the  modern  sense  the  Greek  world  never 
became  acquainted. 

In  the  poetical  schools  of  Greece  reflection 
had  been  at  work  and  discussion  rife  for 
centuries  before  the  Periclean  era.  Between 
master  and  pupil  there  was  a  constant  and 
oral  interchange  of  ideas.  Theory  and  prac- 
tice went  hand  in  hand.  Criticism  was  as  yet 
from  within  ;  it  was,  as  we  might  say,  the 
criticism  of  the  workshop  or  the  studio.  Such, 
for  instance,  is  the  advice  given  to  Pindar  by 
Corinna,  the  Boeotian  poetess  :  '  Sow  with  the 
hand,  not  with  the  sack.'  l  Here  we  have  the 
principle  of  artistic  parsimony,  the  law  of 
reserve,  the  truth  expressed  by  the  Greek 
proverb,  '  The  half  is  greater  than  the  whole.' 
In  such  an  atmosphere  of  teaching  and 
learning  poetry  grew  up.  Literary  forms  or 
types  were  created  —  epic,  lyric,  dramatic, 

1  Plut.  De  Glor.  Athen.  c.  iv.  p.  347  rfj  %fipi  Seiv  ffireipav 
d\\a  fj.7)  6Xy  T£  OvXaKifi.  For  other  examples  see  W.  R.  Ilardie, 
Lectures  on  Classical  Subjects  (Macmillan  and  Co.),  pp.  266-269. 


172  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

elegiac — which  have  stood  the  test  of  time  and 
become  the  accepted  models  of  the  Western 
world.  Behind  the  activity  of  creative  genius 
a  ceaseless  critical  effort  was  at  work,  control- 
ling and  inspiring  poetic  invention.  Standards 
of  writing  were  formed,  canons  of  taste  laid 
down,  and  the  great  problem  of  reconciling 
tradition  with  freedom  of  development  was  in 
process  of  solution.  Meanwhile  the  variations 
of  literary  type  answered  to  the  living  forces 
operating  in  society.  The  poets  followed  close 
upon  the  movements  of  the  race  and  the 
people.  Their  '  invention,'  their  originality, 
consisted  chiefly  in  vitalising  old  material,  in 
interpreting  the  legends  in  the  light  of  the 
present,  in  re-creating  and  ever  renewing  the 
marvellous  history  of  the  past.  To  make 
old  things  seem  new  and  new  things  seem 
familiar,  was  one  main  function  of  their  art. 
Viewed  in  this  light  the  critical  faculty  of  the 
Greeks  stood  nearer  to  the  creative  imagination 
than  moderns  can  easily  realise.  The  fine  gift 
of  discrimination,  the  instinct  of  omission  and 
rejection,  the  power  of  seizing  in  their  own 


GREEK  LITER  A  R  Y  CR1 7 1CISM  173 


mythology  the  facts  which  had  in  them  the 
kernel  of  poetic  truths — all  this  formed  part  of 
the  poetic  equipment  of  the  race. 

In  the  Periclean  age  this  creative,  or  re- 
creative, function  of  poetry  was  fulfilled  more 
especially  by  the  tragic  drama.  But  what  form 
did  dramatic  criticism  take  ?  Professional 
critics  as  yet  there  were  none :  but  we  must 
not  infer  that  there  was  no  effective  criticism. 
The  Athenians  were  '  nothing  if  not  critical  '  ; 
and  never  probably  at  any  epoch  of  history 
were  literary  productions  brought  so  directly 
to  the  bar  of  public  opinion  ;  a  public  opinion, 
too,  that  was  in  a  sense  the  verdict  of  the 
State.  If  literary  judgments  were  not  passed 
daily  or  weekly,  the  decision  was  but  the  more 
authoritative  when  it  came.  At  Athens  the 
dramatic  competitions  were  held  twice  a  year, 
at  the  two  great  festivals  of  Dionysus.  The 
judges — five  in  number  for  comedy,and  probably 
the  same  number  for  the  tragic  contests — acted 
under  solemn  oath  as  in  a  court  of  lawr.  They 
were  appointed  with  elaborately  devised  pre- 
cautions to  secure  an  impartial  verdict.  These 


174  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

anonymous  umpires  were  chosen  by  ballot  from 
a  select  list,  and  their  names  divulged  only  after 
the  award.  A  defeated  competitor  might  ques- 
tion the  fairness  of  their  award  by  instituting 
a  prosecution,  and  the  case  would  then  be 
tried  before  a  popular  tribunal.  In  our  own 
day  we  have  seen  actions  for  libel  brought 
against  dramatic  critics :  we  should  like  to  be 
better  informed  as  to  how  a  similar  prosecution 
was  conducted  at  Athens.  We  read  indeed  of 
some  strange  results  in  these  competitions  ;  the 
defeat,  for  instance,  of  the  Oedipus  Tyrannus  of 
Sophocles  (the  play  which  Aristotle  regarded 
as  the  model  of  dramatic  construction)  by  an 
obscure  poet  Philocles,  the  nephew  of  Aeschylus. 
Still  more  unaccountable  in  the  next  century 
was  the  poor  success  that  attended  Menander, 
who  exhibited  108  comedies,  but  was  only 
eight  times  victorious.  Yet  in  most  instances 
our  surprise  would  probably  be  lessened  if  we 
were  in  possession  of  all  the  facts — if  the  com- 
peting plays  were  extant  for  comparison,  and 
if,  moreover,  we  could  estimate  the  other  factors 
which  both  in  Tragedy  and  the  Old  Comedy 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  175 


counted    in   the   award — the   singing,  the  danc- 
ing, and  the  choral  equipment. 

We  hear  of  but  few  protests  against  the 
verdict  of  the  judges.  In  Greece  at  large  the 
Athenian  judgment  on  tragedy  seems  to  have- 
been  accepted  as  final.  To  Athens  the  trage- 
dian looked  for  his  credentials  ;  it  lay  with  her 
to  set  the  seal  of  her  approval  on  his  art.  The 
testimony  of  Plato  on  this  head  l  agrees  with 
the  view  ascribed  to  Aeschylus  in  the  Frogs, 
that  '  the  rest  of  the  world,'  compared  with 
them  '  were  mere  trash  at  judging  the  poetic 
faculty.'  "  He  himself,  it  is  true,  had  to  wait 
fifteen  years  before  he  won  success  ;  but  having 
done  so,  he  retained  his  supremacy  to  the 
end  ;  and  at  his  death  poetic  privileges,  of  a 
kind  then  unique,  were  conferred  on  him.3 
Sophocles,  in  like  manner  but  without  pre- 

1  Laches  183  A-B. 

2  Frogs  809-810  : 

\rjpov  re  T&\\'  riyelro  rov  yv&vai.  irepi 
(pvcreis    TroL~qrijiv. 

3  The  Athenians  passed  a  special  decree  permitting  his  tragedies 

to  compete  at  the  Dionysia  after  his  death  ;  Schol.  on  Frogs,  868  : 

6'rt  17 


176  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

liminary  failures,  during  a  literary  career  of 
about  sixty  years,  held  an  almost  undisputed 
sway.  And  yet  there  is  no  trace  of  either  of 
these  great  masters  ever  having  lowered  his 
art  to  satisfy  a  vulgar  taste.  They  were  able  to 
lift  their  hearers  to  their  own  high  plane  of 
thought  and  imagination.  It  was  an  unparal- 
leled achievement.  The  themes  handled  were 
such  as  demanded  and  received  ideal  treatment. 
The  theatre  was  of  colossal  size  ;  the  audience 
a  vast  one,  far  outnumbering  the  gatherings  of 
the  assembly  or  the  law-courts  ;  it  comprised 
every  grade  of  culture  and  ignorance,  though 
the  men  of  culture  formed  but  a  small  minority. 
If  Euripides  fared  less  well  at  the  hands  of  his 
countrymen  —  his  victories  amounting  in  all 
only  to  five  —  we  must  remember  that  he 
generally  competed  against  Sophocles.  After 
his  death  the  balance  was  redressed  ;  a  great 
and  growing  enthusiasm  for  him  set  in  ;  due, 
we  may  suspect,  not  less  to  the  love  of  rhetoric 
which  had  overspread  the  Greek  world  than  to 
his  genius,  which  at  first  had  been  somewhat 
underrated.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  critical 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  177 


instinct  of  the  public  and  the  sureness  of  their 
literary  perceptions  in  the  fifth  century  is  on 
the  whole  a  fact  as  certain  as  it  is  signi- 
ficant 

A  contemporary  judgment  is  often  reversed 
by  posterity  ;  examples  are  afforded  by  the 
literary  history  of  almost  every  nation.  But 
Time,  to  which  Aeschylus  is  said  to  have 
dedicated  his  tragedies,1  has  not  only  ratified 
his  particular  claim,  but  in  well-nigh  every 
department  of  poetry,  has  endorsed  the  ver- 
dict of  Athens.  Aristotle  had  good  grounds 
for  the  opinion  he  held  as  to  the  critical 
value  of  popular  taste.  While  laying  emphasis 
on  the  mixed  elements  of  refinement  and 
vulgarity  of  which  an  audience  is  composed,2 
he  still  maintains  that  the  collective  judgment 
of  the  many  in  aesthetic  matters  is  superior 
to  the  judgment  of  any  single  individual.3 

1  Athen.  viii.  39  \pjvip  ras  rpayydias  dvariQevai. 

2  Pol.  v.  (viii.)  7.  1342  a  18-22  eirei  d'  6  dearris  SITTOS,  6  /j.ei> 
eXevOepos  KO.I  TreTrcuSev/j.evos,    6  Se  <popTUcbs  K.r.X. 

3  Ib.  iii.   II.  1281  a  42  ff.,  esp.  1281  b  8-10  5(6  KO.I  Kpivovcrtv 

&/jL€LVOV    OL    TToXXoi    KO.I    TO,    T7JS    fJLOVfflKrjS    tpyCL    ATCU    TO,    TU1V     TTOi^TUJV' 

dXXot  yap  #XXo  n  fj.6piov,  irdvTa  d£  iravrfs.     Cp.  1282  a  I -2 1,  and 

N 


178  HARVARD  LECJURES  v 

And  we  can  to-day  observe  that  what  often 
distinguishes  the  verdict  of  an  intelligent 
public  from  that  of  the  expert  critic,  is  a 
swift  and  immediate  impression  which  em- 
braces the  whole  instead  of  accentuating  the 
parts. 

Plato  would  not  have  agreed  with  Aristotle's 
view.  The  supreme  test  of  artistic  excellence  is, 
he  holds,  the  pleasure  afforded  to  '  the  one  man 
who  is  pre-eminent  in  virtue  and  education.' l 
He  contrasts  his  own  age  with  earlier  times. 
The  judges,  he  says,  have  now  fallen  under  the 
dominion  of  the  audience  ; — and  he  coins  the 
word  OearpoKparLa  to  denote  this  idea.  Instead 
of  instructors  they  have  become  the  pupils  of  the 
crowd.  They  have  yielded  to  the  clamour  of 
the  theatre  :  and  the  poets  in  turn,  infected  by 
their  corruption,  are  obliged  to  humour  a  de- 
generate public.2  It  is  indeed  probable  that 
popular  taste  underwent  some  weakening  in 
the  fourth  century.  But  the  contrast  as  drawn 

iii.    15.    1286    a    30    5i6    KO.I    uplvti  &/j.eivoi>    6x^os   iro\\a  ^  eft 

OffTlffOVV. 

1  Laws  ii.  659  A  Zva,  rbv  dperjj  re  KO!  TraiSfig.  8ia,<f>epovra.. 

2  16.  ii.  659  A — c,  iii.  700  c — 701  A. 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  179 


by  Plato  is  surely  overstated.  The  drama  has 
been  truly  called  the  most  democratic  of  the 
arts  ; l  and  in  every  age  when  it  has  been  a 
living  force,  the  influence  of  the  audience  has 
been  powerfully  felt.  \Ye  cannot  doubt  that 
in  the  fifth  as  in  the  fourth  century  the  voice 
of  the  people  must  often  have  decisively  affected 
the  award  of  the  judges. 

The  influence  of  the  audience  on  the  poet 
is  one  of  the  points  of  dramatic  criticism  which 
is  touched  on  in  the  Poetics?  The  question 
as  to  the  proper  ending  of  tragedy  seems  to 
have  been  debated  at  the  time  in  literary  circles. 
Aristotle  pronounces  in  favour  of  the  unhappy 
ending,  the  other  kind  being,  as  he  thinks, 
appropriate  only  to  comedy,  where  the  bitterest 
enemies  walk  off  hand  in  hand  at  the  close, — 
'  no  one  slays  or  is  slain  '  ;  or,  as  Goethe  says, 
'  no  one  dies,  every  one  is  married.'  But  even 

1  Brander  Matthews,  The  Development  of  the  Drama  (New 
York),  p.  33.     This  volume  traces  in  a  very  interesting  way  the 
influence  which  the  audience,  the  actors,  and  the  size  and  con- 
struction of  the  theatre  exert  on  the  form  of  the  drama. 

2  Poet.  xiii.  6-8.      See  Butcher,  Aristotle 's  Theory  of  Poetry 
and  Fine  Art  (third  ed.),  p.  305  ff. 


i8o  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

in  tragedy,  Aristotle  observes,  the  happy  ending 
is  commonly  preferred  '  owing  to  the  weakness 
of  the  audience  '  (Bia  rrjv  Oedrpwv  dcrdeveiav). 
People  are  not  robust  enough  to  endure  the 
painful  conclusion  ;  so  the  poet  against  his 
better  judgment  yields  to  the  liking  for  melo- 
drama. '  We  have  all,'  as  some  one  has  said, 
'  a  secret  pencJiant  for  false  sentiment.'  The 
craving  for  '  poetic  justice,'  the  morbidly  moral 
desire  to  make  things  come  right  on  the  stage, 
all  the  more  because  they  are  so  apt  to  go 
wrong  in  life,  is  only  one  example  of  an  instinct, 
amiable  but  prosaic,  to  which  the  play-going 
public  is  always  liable. 

Criticism  in  the  form  of  public  opinion, 
direct  and  effective  as  it  was  at  Athens,  is  not 
in  strictness  literary  criticism.  Literary  criti- 
cism proper  spoke  for  the  first  time  through 
the  lips  of  comedy.  Unlike  tragedy,  comedy 
in  the  fifth  century  B.C.  had  its  life  in  the 
present ;  it  reflected  the  spirit  of  the  day  ;  its 
allusions  were  local  ;  its  topics  were  current 
events,  politics,  literature.  The  comic  poet 
was  not  only  author,  stage -manager,  ballet- 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  181 


master,    musician,    and     sometimes    actor,    but 
wielded    an    office    which    combined    in    some 
degree  functions  similar  to  those  exercised   by 
Punch,    the     old    Saturday    Rein'eiv,    and     the 
Comic  Opera.      As   an   organ    of  literary  criti- 
cism   the    Aristophanic    comedy    dealt    mainly 
with  the  productions  of  the  tragic  stage.      Nor 
was  it  enough  for  the   comic   poet   to   be  witty 
or    scathing  ;    as    a    critic    of   poetry    he    must 
himself  be  a  master  of  the  poetic  art,  and   able 
to   hold    his   own    beside   the    great    tragedians 
themselves.       In    the    Frogs    of    Aristophanes, 
Aeschylus   and    Euripides,   as    rival    candidates 
for  the  throne  of  poetry,  are   placed   upon   the 
stage.      Each  argues   his   own    cause   and    cari- 
catures   the    manner    of  his    opponent.       It    is 
the    earliest    instance    we    possess    of    literary 
criticism  in  the  form  of  parody,  and   probably 
the  most  brilliant  example  of  the   kind   in   all 
literature.       In   this   as    in   other  plays   Aristo- 
phanes vindicates   his   claim   to   be   a   critic   by 
proving    himself   a    consummate   craftsman    in 
every    style    of    poetic    composition  ;     while    in 
lyrical    utterance,    his     notes    are    among    the 


i8a  HARVARD  LECTURES  V 

purest  and  most  melodious  that  have  flowed 
from  any  Greek  singer. 

We  cannot  here  discuss  the  justice  of  the 
Aristophanic  criticism  or  the  value  of  his  re- 
flections on  the  art  of  poetry.  But  two  obser- 
vations may  be  made  in  passing.  First,  in 
the  linguistic  attacks  made  on  Euripides  he 
touches  with  playful  irony  that  love  of  verbal 
subtlety,  of  fine-drawn  distinctions,  the 

Quibbling,  counter-quibbling,  prating, 
Argufying  and  debating, 

to  which  the  Greeks  were  always  addicted,  and 
which,  when  the  genius  of  the  race  was  ex- 
hausted, ended  in  the  arid  disputations  of 
Byzantine  schoolmen.  Secondly,  Aristophanes 
is  still  at  the  standpoint  of  the  early  Greek 
world  ;  he  assumes  that  poetry  has  a  "didactic 
aim  ;  the  poet  is  the  moral  teacher  of  the 
community,  the  educator  of  grown  men  ;  it  is 
he  that  inspires  them  with  courage  and  civic 
loyalty  : 

Children  and  boys  have  a  teacher  assigned  them, — 
The  bard  is  a  master  for  manhood  and  youth, 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  183 


Bound  to  instruct  them  in  virtue  and  truth, 
Beholden  and  bound.1 

These  words  are  put  into  the  mouth  of 
Aeschylus.  But  they  are  tacitly  accepted  by 
Euripides,  who  admits  the  duty  of  good 
counsel  (y^pr/crra  Xeyeif,  ^prjcrTa  SiSda~K€iv^), 
merely  insisting  that  it  should  be  conveyed  '  in 
the  language  of  men  '  (dv0pw7rei(t)<;  (j>pd£eiv),  not 
couched  in  the  grandiloquent  style  of  his  rival. 
Already  the  question  had  been  put  to  him  : 

Tell  me  then  what  are  the  principal  merits 
Entitling  a  poet  to  praise  and  renown  ? 

and  he  had  replied  : 

The  improvement  of  morals,  the  progress  of  mind, 

When  a  poet  by  skill  and  invention 

Can  render  his  audience  virtuous  and  wise.  " 

By  Euripides'  own  confession  it  is  the  glory  of 
poetry  that  it  '  makes  men  better '  ;  though, 

1  Frere's  Trans,  of  Frogs  1054-1056  : 

rois  fiiv  yap  TraiSa.pioLffLi> 

fcrri  di5d<rKO\os  SCTTIS  <f>pd£ei,  T0?<nv  5'  ?;/3<2cri  Troiyrat. 
Trdvv  Sr)  5e?  xp^crra  \tyeiv  r;ju.as. 

2  Frere's  Trans,  of  Frogs  1008-1010  : 

AIS.    6.wi)Kpi.va.i  /J.OL,  rlvos  ovveKO,  %pr;  Bav/Jidfeiv  livSpa  TroiTjTrjv  ; 
ET.      Se^toTTjros  Ka.1  vovdeffias,  OTL  /SeAruws  re  TTOLOV/J,€V 
rovs  avOpuirovs  ev  ra?s  irb\fffiv  K.T.\. 


1 84  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

doubtless,  the  phrase  would  not  bear  quite  the 
same  meaning  to  him  as  to  Aeschylus.  And  if 
the  citizens,  once  good  men  and  true,  have 
been  debased  by  him,  he  deserves,  Dionysus 
says,  '  to  die '  ;  and  he  himself  does  not  dissent. 
This  attitude  of  mind  was  at  once  the  strength 
and  the  weakness  of  Greek  poetical  criticism  : 
its  strength  because  it  kept  alive  the  idea  that 
art  and  poetry  are  not  merely  the  private 
delight  of  the  individual  ;  they  belong  to  the 
community ;  they  are  the  expression  of  its 
moral  and  spiritual  life  :  a  source,  again,  of 
weakness,  inasmuch  as  the  poets  came  to  be 
thought  of  as  moralists.  They  were  expected 
to  yield  edifying  lessons  outside  their  art  ;  and 
if  their  utterances  could  not  be  wrested  to  the 
desired  end,  adverse  sentence  was  too  often 
passed  upon  them. 

The  vein  of  parody  which  runs  through 
the  Aristophanic  drama  and  appears  to  have 
been  a  marked  feature  of  the  Old  Comedy, 
was  imitated  and  developed  in  the  next  gener- 
ation. For  sixty  or  seventy  years  after  the 
death  of  Aristophanes  comedy  was  a  frequent 


v  GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  185 

vehicle  of  indirect  literary  criticism.  The 
interest,  however,  of  these  later  jeux  d'esprit, 
so  far  as  we  can  judge  from  the  surviving 
fragments,  lies  less  in  their  suggestive  or 
critical  value  than  in  the  acquaintance  they 
seem  to  imply  on  the  part  of  the  audience 
with  the  poetical  literature  of  Greece.  Trage- 
dians and  lyrical  writers  all  came  under  con- 
tribution. Whole  scenes  from  tragedy  were 
travestied.  The  manner  or  diction  of  par- 
ticular authors  was  reproduced.  Quotations 
and  reminiscences  were  strewn  broadcast 
through  the  plays.  The  popular  love  of 
literary  parody,  combined  with  certain  com- 
pliments (surely  half  ironical)  addressed  to 
the  audience  by  the  comic  poets,  has  led  some 
scholars  to  infer  the  existence  of  a  large 
reading  public  at  Athens  in  the  fifth  and 
fourth  centuries  B.C.1  The  evidence,  however, 
is  far  from  supporting  this  view.  Actual  illiter- 
ates, doubtless,  were  rare.  But  there  is  a  great 

1  E.g.  Frogs  1109-1118:    esp.    1114: 

j3ij3\iov  T'  txiav  eKctcrros  /j.avt)dvei  ra  (5e£ia, 
where  fiifi\lov  seems  to  be  the  '  libretto '  or  book  of  the  words. 


1 86  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

array  of  facts  to  show  that  the  bulk  of  the 
people  can  have  had  little  or  no  direct  acquaint- 
ance with  books.  And  not  only  was  there  no 
diffused  literary  culture  in  the  stricter  sense,  but 
the  mass  of  the  audience  at  the  theatre  were 
not  even  familiar  with  their  own  mythology. 
There  is  a  startling  sentence  in  the  Poetics 
which  is  too  explicit  to  be  set  aside  :  '  The 
known  legends  are  known  only  to  a  few.' l 

So  far  as  the  audience  were  acquainted 
with  tragic  poetry,  it  was  from  stage  repre- 
sentation, not  through  reading.  Yet  we  cannot 
on  that  account  assume  any  lack  of  a  literary 
sense.  Indeed,  it  is  probably  true  that  under 
certain  conditions,  an  instinctive  good  taste, 
which  has  been  cultivated  by  listening  to  oral 
literature,  is  merely  deadened  or  impaired  by 
book  learning.  In  any  case,  at  Athens,  how- 
ever narrow  may  have  been  the  range  of  their 
culture,  the  people  had  an  exquisite  feeling 
for  words  and  appreciation  of  the  musical 
capacities  of  speech.  When  Gorgias  made 

1   Poet.  ix.  8  t-n-tl  Kal  TO.  yvwpi/j.a  6X17015  yvuptfJ.d  terriv  dXX' 
8/xws  ev<ppaivei  iravras. 


GREEK  LITER  A  R  \ '  CRITICISM  \  8  7 


his  first  appearance  among  them,  we  are  told 
that  the  striking  novelty  of  his  diction  came 
with  a  pleasurable  shock  on  the  sensitive  cars 
of  the  audience.1  In  political  debate  and  in 
the  administration  of  justice  this  aesthetic 
sensibility  was  a  danger  of  which  the  Athenians 
themselves  were  aware  ;  and  it  would  seem 
that  there  was  a  special  nickname  for  persons 
who  were  thus  fooled  by  the  pleasure  of  the 
ear.2  But  a  fine  and  trained  instinct  for 
language  was  the  very  condition  which  made 
it  possible  for  the  average  Athenian,  unversed 
in  books,  to  become  a  capable  critic  even  of 
the  higher  poetry.  Add  to  this  a  marvellous 
alertness  of  mind,  a  power  of  catching  a  point 
or  seeing  an  allusion,  which  is  vouched  for 
by  the  most  various  testimony,  and  which 
justified  Demosthenes  in  declaring  :  '  No  people 

1  Diodor.   xii.    53  Ka'  r<?    i-evl£ovri  TTJS  Xe£ews  f£e'-7rX??i;e  TOI)S 
'ABijvaiovs  6vras  evcfivels  /cat  cpi\o\oyovs. 

2  See  Eustath.  1522,  26  "  Si  /ULOVOI  &TOI  ruv  'EAX^cw!'  "  (a  quota- 
tion from  comedy),  and  the  explanation  1687,  60  oi  pg.ov  virb  TOV 
TVX&VTOS  ^airaTi!}fj.evoi,   UJTOI  fXeyovro,   irpoatpvtffTepov  5e   'd.v  &TOI 
KO.\OIVTO  oi  die    /JLOVTJS  d/co?7S    dirfpifpyws   KCU    ave^erdffTws  o.vo.r-r\v 
irdffxovTes.     The  word  meant  literally  a  'horned  owl,' hence  a 
'  booby.' 


1 88  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

is     so     quick     at    taking    a    speaker's    mean- 
ing.' ' 

With  such  intellectual  gifts,  aided  also 
by  the  art  of  the  actor — his  gestures  and 
declamation  —  the  regular  theatre-goer  would 
at  once  recognise  on  the  comic  stage  the  tone 
and  diction  of  tragedy,  the  familiar  manner 
of  its  dialogue  or  choral  songs,  and  would 
flatter  himself  on  his  own  discovery.  It 
mattered  not  if  only  a  few  could  identify  the 
lines  that  were  quoted  or  adapted,  and  assign 
them  to  their  proper  sources.2  Even  the 
scenes  that  were  travestied  might  not  to  the 
ordinary  hearer  suggest  the  originals,  except 
in  those  rare  instances — some  of  which  are 
known  to  us — where  the  play  from  which  the 
parody  was  drawn  had  been  recently  ex- 
hibited. The  comedian,  after  all,  aimed  only 
at  a  broad  effect.  He  counted,  and  not  in 

1  Ol.  iii.  15  yvuvai  TT&VTUV  u/xe?j  o^vraroi  TO.  p-rjOtvra.. 

2  Cp.   Diphilus  ii.   Fr.  73  K  :    some   lines  are  quoted  from 
Euripides,  and  one  speaker  asks, 

Tr66ev  tcrrl  ravra  irpbs  0euv  ; 

The  other  replies, 

ri  SI  croi  fd\ei  ; 

ov  yap  TO  5p8.fj.ci,  rbv  8£  vovv  ffKOTrov/j.f6a. 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


vain,  on  a  general  and  keen  appreciation  of 
literary  style.  It  was  enough  for  him  if  the 
mass  of  the  audience  took  the  main  point. 
There  was  always  an  inner  circle  who  would 
delight  in  the  subtler  turns  of  phrase  and 
the  associations  which  the  parody  called 
up. 

All  this,  however,  is  literary  criticism  of  the 
indirect  kind, — though  characteristically  Attic 
in  its  very  indirectness  and  allusiveness.  In 
Plato  we  have  the  first  beginnings  of  the  large, 
the  philosophic  criticism  which  views  literature 
as  one  of  the  ideal  expressions  of  the  human 
spirit,  and  seeks  to  arrive  at  the  innermost  laws 
of  the  art.  Yet  Plato  seldom  speaks  of  literary 
productions  except  in  a  tone  of  apology  and 
distrust.  Himself  the  greatest  artist  in  prose 
that  has  ever  lived,  he  was  apt  to  think  of  the 
written  word  as  dead,  mechanical,  irresponsive, 
standing  before  you  with  the  cold  beauty  of  a 
graven  image,  but  helpless  for  self-defence, 
wanting  in  flexibility  and  adjustment.1  Litera- 
ture, if  it  is  to  be  of  any  worth  at  all,  must  be 
1  Phaedr.  275  D-E. 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


the  image  of  the  animated  word,1  a  living  force, 
engendering  life  and  moulding  character.  This 
it  can  only  be  if  it  is  planted  in  a  congenial 
soul,  whence  to  other  souls  can  be  transmitted 
a  fruitful  and  immortal  seed  of  thought.  It 
must  come  in  the  spirit  and  power  of  philosophy, 
not  as  a  doctrine  but  as  a  quickening  influence. 
The  (f)i\o\oyo<;  must  himself  be  <f>i\6(To(j>os. 
This  it  was  that  determined  Plato's  view  of 
the  relation  in  which  literature  stands  to  life. 
To  do  things  worthy  to  be  written  was  in  his 
eyes  a  dignity  higher  than  to  write  things 
worthy  to  be  read.  A  noble  life  is  the  noblest 
drama  :  the  maker  or  artist  who  can  teach  us 
to  build  up  such  a  life  is  the  best  of  poets.2 
The  words  of  Milton,  at  once  Hellenist  and 
Hebraist,  come  to  our  memory  :  '  He  who 
would  not  be  frustrate  of  his  hope  to  write  well 
hereafter  in  laudable  things,  ought  himself  to  be 

1  Phaedr.    276   A    rbv   rov   e/56ros    \6yov    \tyeis    ^Civra.    Kal 
<-fj.\{/vxov,   o3  6  ye-fpa.fj.fj.fros  etdkiXov  &v  ri  X^yotro  St/ccu'ws. 

2  Laws  vii.   817  B  rifiels  fff^v  rpayijidias  avrol  iroirjTal  Kara 
Svvafuv    8    TL    Ka\\lffrr]s    a/j.a    Kal    apiaries'     Tracra.    oZv    Tjfj.iv    i) 
iroXiTfia   fiWo-TTj/ce    fj.tfj.-r)<ris   TOV    Ka\\i<rTov   Kal   dplcrrov   piov,    5 
5ij  <f>afJ,ev   r/fj,fis  yt  tfcrws  elvai  rpayifSiav  TTJV 


GREEK  LITER  A  R  Y  CRITICISM  1 9 1 


a  true  poem,  that  is,  a  composition  and  pattern 
of  the  best  and  honourablest  things.'  As 
against  this  we  may  set  the  remark  of  a  modern 
writer  :  '  A  fine  book  is  the  end  for  which  the 
world  was  made.' 

Of  the  great  ideas  which  Plato  has  contri- 
buted to  literary  criticism  the  greatest  are  to 
be  found  in  the  Phaedrus.  We  have  already 
alluded  to  the  theory  there  set  forth  of  poetic 
inspiration.1  Two  other  ideas  may  here  be 
noted.  In  the  first  place,  at  the  root  of  all 
good  writing  lies  sincerity  of  conviction.  The 
writer  must  have  something  to  say,  and  must 
say  it  at  first-hand.  Where  there  is  nothing  to 
express  there  can  be  no  artistic  beauty,  for  the 
essence  of  the  literary  art  is  that  it  shall  express 
reality.  '  It  is  no  genuine  art  of  words  that  he 
will  have  who  does  not  know  the  truth  of  things, 
but  has  tried  to  hunt  out  what  other  people 
think  about  it.' 2  Hence  the  uselessness  of 
mere  mechanical  rules.  All  the  '  ologies '  and 
technical  terms  of  the  rhetoricians  will  not  teach 
you  to  speak  or  write  well.  When  once  a  true 

Supr.  p.  143  ff.  -  Phaedr.  262  c. 


192  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

idea  is  strongly  conceived,  the  '  irresistible  law 
of  right  utterance  '  (Koyo^pa^iKrj  avdyKij) l  will 
follow.  The  second  principle,  closely  related  to 
the  first,  is  that  an  artistic  composition  is  an 
organic  whole.  '  It  must  in  its  structure  be 
like  a  living  thing,  with  head,  feet,  and  body  ; 
there  must  be  a  middle  and  extremities,  the 
parts  being  adapted  to  one  another  and  to  the 
whole.' 2 

Here,  observe,  and  for  the  first  time,  the  law 
of  internal  unity  is  enunciated  as  a  primary 
condition  of  literary  art — now  a  commonplace, 
then  a  discovery.3  The  thought  was  taken  up 
by  Aristotle  and  became  the  basis  of  his  reason- 
ing on  the  drama.  Organic  as  distinct  from 
mechanical  unity  ;  not  the  homogeneous  same- 
ness of  a  sand-heap,  but  a  unity  combined  with 
variety,  a  unity  vital  and  structural,  implying 
mutual  interdependence  of  all  the  parts,  such 
that  if  one  part  is  displaced  or  removed  the 

1  Phaedr.  264  B.  a  Ib.  264  c. 

3  Plato  applies  this  principle  of  organic  unity  to  the  moral 
government  of  the  world  in  the  Laws  x.  903  B-c,  where  all  the 
parts  are  said  to  be  ordered  with  a  view  to  the  excellence  of  the 
whole. 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  193 


whole  is  dislocated — that  is  the  leading  critical 
idea  of  the  Poetics.''  From  this  point  of  view 
the  unity  and  artistic  beauty  of  a  literary  com- 
position are  found  to  reside  in  a  pervasive 
harmony,  a  dominant  impression,  a  single 
animating  and  controlling  principle.  So  said 
the  Greeks  and  so  we  say.  But  every  people 
has  not  shared  this  view.  '  In  the  Persian 
ode,'  says  Mr.  Leaf  (in  his  introduction  to 
Versions  from  Hafiz),  '  we  find  a  succession  of 
couplets  often  startling  in  their  independence. 
.  .  .  To  the  Persian  each  couplet  is  a  whole  in 
itself,  .  .  .  sufficiently  beautiful  if  it  be  adequately 
expressed,  and  not  of  necessity  owing  anything 
to  that  which  comes  before  or  after.  It  is 
from  the  common  metre  and  common  rhyme 
alone  that  the  ode  gains  a  formal  unity.  As 
Eastern  poets  are  never  tired  of  telling  us,  the 
making  of  an  ode  is  the  threading  of  pearls 
upon  a  string  ;  the  couplet  is  the  pearl,  round 
and  smooth  and  perfect  in  itself,  the  metre  is 
but  the  thread  which  binds  them  all  together.' 
This  is  very  unlike  the  law  of  unity  as  under- 

1  Poet,  viii.  4  ;  cp.  xxiii.  I. 


194  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

stood  by  the  Greeks.  To  them  the  dominant 
impression  of  oneness,  the  feeling  of  the  whole, 
both  in  prose  and  poetry,  seemed  so  indis- 
pensable that  even  in  historical  composition 
they  shrank  from  admitting  actual  records, 
speeches,  treaties,  letters,  or  the  like — anything 
which  even  in  style  might  seem  to  mar  the 
narrative  by  crossing  it  with  a  thing  of  alien 
texture. 

Moderns,  however,  while  accepting  the  Greek 
principle  of  unity  as  a  primary  requirement  of 
art,  have  not  in  their  judgments  on  Greek 
literature  always  accepted  it  in  the  Greek  sense. 
Unity  they  demand,  but  another  unity  than  that 
which  satisfied  the  Greeks.  They  often  fail  to 
take  account  of  the  varying  degrees  of  unity 
appropriate  to  the  different  forms  of  literature. 
Within  the  spacious  compass  of  the  Epic,  as 
Aristotle  pointed  out,1  ampler  episodes  may  be 
admitted  and  a  more  discursive  freedom  allowed 
than  is  possible  in  the  close  and  serried  sequence 
of  the  drama.  And  it  may  be  observed  that, 
while  in  antiquity  captious  critics  discovered  all 

1  Poet,  xviii.  4  ;  xxiii.  3 ;  xxiv.  4. 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  195 


manner   of   flaws    in    I  lomcr,    one   defect    alone 
they  never  discovered — a  want  of  unity  in  the 
Iliad    or    the    Odyssey.      Indeed,    according    to 
Aristotle,   it   is    the  unity  of  these    poems   that 
constitutes  their  pre-eminent  excellence,  a  unity 
derived  not    from  the  hero  being  one  but  from 
the  action  being  one.1       '  In  structure  they  arc 
as  perfect  as  possible  ;   each    is,  in   the  highest 
degree    attainable,    an     imitation     of    a    single 
action.' 2       The   Platonic   dialogues  are  another 
case  in  point.      Several   strands  of  thought  arc 
here  subtly  interwoven.      In  the  PJiaedrus — the 
very   dialogue    in    which    the    stringent    law   of 
unity    is    prescribed  —  where    does    the    unit}- 
reside  ?        What     is    the    real    subject    of    the 
dialogue?      Is  it  love,  as  treated    in    the  earlier 
part,  or  rhetoric  which  is  treated  later,  or  some- 
thing larger  than  either  of  these  ?      So  too  in 
the  Republic,  what  is  its  theme  ?      The  dialogue 
reaches    beyond    the   nature   of  Justice,   or   the 
constitution  of  the  ideal  State.     Only  by  degrees 
do  we  come  to  see  how  delicate  are  the  links 
which   bind   a   single   Platonic   dialogue  into   a 

1  Poet.  viii.  1-3.  2  Poet.  xxvi.  6. 


196  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

whole,  and  how  the  apparently  disconnected 
topics  may  be  merged  in  *a  higher  unity.  Here 
is  no  want  of  art,  but  an  art  so  finished  as  to 
elude  our  rough  and  often  mechanical  tests. 
It  should  serve  as  a  warning  to  certain  modern 
critics  to  whom  ancient  masterpieces  appear  to 
be  the  work  of  '  a  committee  with  power  to  add 
to  their  numbers.' 

We  pass  now  to  the  Poetics  of  Aristotle,  the 
only  piece  of  systematic  criticism — and  yet  how 
unsystematic — that  has  come  down  to  us  from 
the  classical  age  of  Greece.  A  strange  irony  it 
seems  that  the  most  severely  logical  and,  in  a 
sense,  unimaginative  of  philosophers  should  have 
seen  more  deeply  into  the  inner  nature  of  poetry 
than  Plato,  who  of  all  philosophers  was  most 
poetical  ;  and  that  the  Poetics,  a  fragmentary 
and  tentative  treatise,  which  in  many  respects 
is  the  spirit  of  prose  incarnate,  should  have 
permanently  affected  the  poetical  theories  of 
Europe.  No  ancient  treatise,  however,  has  so 
philosophic  an  outlook  on  literature,  such  pre- 
cision in  detail,  such  wealth  of  suggestion,  so 
many  remarks  far-reaching  in  their  scope  and 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  197 


dropped  with  such  careless  and  lavish  ease. 
In  proportion  as  we  are  able  to  rid  ourselves 
of  old  misapprehensions,  to  discard  the  glosses 
of  half- instructed  expositors,  and  to  read 
the  book  in  the  light  of  Aristotle's  own 
system,  the  more  profound  does  his  teaching 
appear. 

We  could  wish,  indeed,  that  he  had  taken 
to  heart  the  words  of  Plato :  '  Whoso  knocks 
at  the  doors  of  Poesy  untouched  by  the  Muses' 
frenzy,  fondly  persuading  himself  that  art  alone 
will  make  him  a  thorough  poet,  neither  he  nor 
his  works  will  ever  attain  perfection,  but  are 
destined  for  all  their  cold  propriety  to  be 
eclipsed  by  the  effusions  of  the  inspired 
madman.' J  That  Aristotle  did  not  entirely 
ignore  the  '  ecstatic '  element  in  poetry  we 
have  already  seen.2  But  while  aware  of  the 
existence  of  the  inspired  poet,  of  whom  Plato 
tells  in  the  Pliaedrus  and  the  Ion,  he  writes  of 

1  Phaedr.  2^  A  5s   5'   av  avev    fj.ai>ias   ^lovffwv    (TTL  TTO^TLKCLS 
Qi'pas    d(f>iKr)Tat,  wfiffOeis    us  apa    en    rex^s  ikavo^    7roi?;r7js    6<rd- 
/xei/os,    dreXTj?   avros    re    nal     'r\   Troirjffis    VTTO    T?)S  TUV    fj.cuvofJ.ei'UH' 
77  TOU  <rit}(j}povovvTos  ^rpavicfOTf}.      (Trans.  W.   II.  Thompson.) 

2  Supr.  p.   146. 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


poetry  in  too  coldly  logical  a  manner,  as  if  its 
emotional  effects  could  be  attained  by  follow- 
ing rules  of  dramatic  construction,  by  orderly 
arrangement  and  analysis.  We  could  wish, 
again,  that  he  had  shown  more  appreciation 
of  the  grandeur  of  Aeschylus  ;  of  the  humour 
and  unquenchable  laughter  of  Aristophanes ; 
that  he  had  not  passed  over  with  deliberate 
neglect  (for  such  it  would  seem  to  be)  the  great 
lyrical  poetry  of  Greece — Simonides,  Pindar, 
Sappho,  Alcaeus,  to  none  of  whom  does  he 
make  even  faint  allusion.  True,  the  treatise  is 
a  fragment  ;  but  there  are  good  grounds  for 
thinking  that  this  does  not  account  for  the  fact. 
Was  it,  perhaps,  that  lyrical  poetry  interested 
him  only  as  a  rudimentary  art — uttering  itself 
in  the  form  of  improvised  chants  and  dithy- 
rambic  hymns — which  marked  a  stage  in  the 
development  of  the  drama  ?  for  in  the  drama, 
he  held,  the  poetic  art  culminated ;  even  the 
epic  being  treated  by  him  as  imperfectly 
developed  drama.  May  it  not  also  be  that  in 
the  personal  outbursts  of  lyrical  song,  in  the 
self-abandonment,  the  rush  of  feeling  of  Sappho 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  199 


or  Alcaeus,  he  missed  the  characteristic  Hellenic 
self-restraint — this  unimpassioned  critic,  who 
appears,  moreover,  to  have  been  but  little 
susceptible  to  the  magic  of  words  and  the 
charm  of  musical  speech  ?  Vet  all  this  docs 
not  explain  his  omission  of  Pindar.  In  any 
case,  we  have  here  certain  limitations  of  his 
poetic  sensibility,  and  of  a  kind  so  striking 
that  they  should  not  pass  unnoticed. 

Still,  when  all  deductions  have  been  made, 
the  permanent  value  of  the  book  increases  the 
more  it  is  studied.  Its  strength  lies  in  this, 
that  Aristotle  had  before  him  a  literature  of 
wonderful  range  and  originality  ;  that  the  laws 
presiding  over  its  creation  were  not  the 
arbitrary  rules  of  a  school,  but,  we  may  almost 
say,  the  artistic  laws  of  the  human  mind  ;  and 
that  he  arrives  at  his  principles  by  a  penetrating 
power  of  observation  and  analysis,  and  a  wide 
induction  drawn  from  the  practice  of  the  great 
writers.  And,  throughout  the  inquiry,  he 
maintains  that  attitude  of  judicial  impartiality 
which  he  himself,  in  one  of  his  physical 
writings,  notes  as  a  mark  of  the  true  critical 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


spirit  :     '  We     should     be     umpires     and     not 
litigants.' l 

It  has  been  sometimes  said  that  Aristotle 
thinks  only  of  the  form — the  artistic  form- 
not  of  the  content  of  poetry.  But  this  appears 
to  be  a  misapprehension.  Perhaps  the  most 
original  and  pregnant  saying  in  the  Poetics  is 
that  which  declares  poetry  to  be  '  a  more  philo- 
sophic and  higher  thing  than  history,'  being  con- 
cerned with  the  universal  not  with  the  particular.2 
It  tells  of  what  man  does  or  may  do  in  given 
circumstances  ;  of  the  permanent  possibilities 
of  human  nature  as  distinct  from  the  acts 
of  the  individual  —  'what  Alcibiades  did  or 
suffered.'  The  subject-matter  of  poetry  is  the 
universal — that  which  is  abiding  and  structural 
in  humanity,  which  appeals  to  all  men  and 
finds  a  response  in  every  age.  Poetry  is  not, 
as  some  modern  writers  would  have  us  believe, 
interested  only  or  chiefly  in  the  rare"  and 
unique  case,  in  some  abnormal  fact  of 

1  De  Caelo  i.  IO.  279  b  1 1    Set    5tatr?;ras  dXX"   oi'/c  avriSiKovs 
elvai. 

2  Poet.  ix.  3  616  /cat   (juXoffo^direpov  /cat  cnrovdaiorfpov  Tr 
iffropias  iar'iv. 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


psychology,  — or  rather,  we  should  perhaps  say, 
of  pathology.  But  here  comes  the  point  I 
desire  to  emphasise.  Unity  of  form  is  brought 
by  Aristotle  into  immediate  and  even  necessary 
connexion  with  universality  of  content.'  The 
one  depends  on  the  other.  In  proportion  as 
the  subject-matter  is  universalised,  the  unity  is 
perfected.  For  in  the  process  of  universalising, 
the  transient  and  perishable  part  is  eliminated  ; 
the  unreason  of  chance  is  expelled  ;  we  arc 
admitted  to  observe  the  working  of  human 
motive  in  a  world  into  which  pure  accident 
hardly  intrudes,  where  cause  and  effect  have 
fuller  and  freer  play — the  realm  of  art  which 
is  a  realm  of  design.  In  short,  the  world  of 
poetry — and  this  is  true  pre-eminently  of 
dramatic  poetry  —  is  a  world  more  unified, 
more  intelligible  than  the  world  of  experience, 
just  because  the  subject-matter  is  the  universal. 
No  other  ancient  writer,  so  far  as  I  know, 
has  hinted  at  this  close  relation  between  artistic 

1  Chap.  via.  of  the  Poetics  deals  with  artistic  unity,  chap.  ix. 
with  universalised  subject-matter,  and  the  opening  words  mark 
the  connexion,  —  <pa.vepw  ds  e/c  TUV  eip^/xeVcoi'. 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


unity  and  universality  of  content.  Lesser 
critics  have  been  always  disposed  to  think  of 
form  and  subject  -  matter  apart,  and  to  lay 
emphasis  on  one  to  the  neglect  of  the  other. 
But  in  Aristotle  the  two  things  are  as  insepar- 
able in  the  higher  kinds  of  imaginative 
literature  as  they  are  in  his  philosophy.  The 
first  principle  of  his  philosophic  system  is 
that  the  union  of  form  and  matter,  of  et8o<? 
and  v\rj,  is  necessary  to  make  the  real,  the 
concrete  object.  To  separate  them  in  philo- 
sophy is  to  reduce  philosophic  thought  to  mere 
abstractions.  To  separate  them  in  literature  is 
the  direct  negation  of  all  that  artistic  produc- 
tion implies.  Literature  becomes  either,  on 
the  one  hand,  formless  and  chaotic,  or,  on  the 
other,  devoid  of  reality,  out  of  touch  with  life. 

Aristotle's  remarks  often  contain  an  implicit 
reply  to  objections  which  had  been  urged  by 
Plato.  Let  us  take  a  single  point  by  way  of 
illustration.  It  touches  a  problem  which  vexed 
the  mind  and  conscience  of  Greece  throughout 
its  history.  Plato  in  his  dialogues  wavers 
between  his  awe  and  love  of  Homer,  '  the 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


wisest  of  our  poets,'  '  '  the  captain  and  teacher 
of  that  charming  tragic  company,'  ~  and  a  still 
more  passionate  love  of  truth.  Fascinated 
though  he  is  by  Homer's  genius  he  cannot 
admit  him  to  his  ideal  republic.  Homer  '  tells 
lies,'  and  lies  too  that  are  immoral.'1  His 
gods  and  men  do  things  which  ought  neither  to 
be  done  nor  heard  of.  And  whereas  the  aim 
of  poetry  should  be  to  teach  us  to  be  good  and 
brave  and  true,  Homer  by  his  potent  spells 
steals  away  our  hearts.  He  sets  before  us 
weeping  heroes  in  all  the  luxury  of  woe.  He 
feeds  emotions  which  ought  to  be  starved,  and 
makes  anarchy  in  the  soul.4  To  which  Aris- 
totle's answer  on  the  lines  of  the  Poetics  would 
be  to  this  effect  First,  as  to  the  '  lies.'  Homer 
is  the  great  master  of  the  art  of  '  lying.'  He  has 
shown  all  other  poets  '  how  to  tell  lies  as  they 
ought';  he  has  taught  them  the  art  of  beautiful 

fiction.0      But    the    poet's   lie   is   not   the   lie   of 

f< 

1  Laws  vi.  776  K.  '-'  Rep.  x.  595  c. 

:;  Rep.  ii.  377  i >-K.  4  Rep.  x.  606  A-I>. 

5  Poet.  xxiv.  9  Seotoa^ej'  oe  fj.d\Lcrra  "0//?;pos  KCU  roi's  aXXoi's 
\//f  vdrj  \{yeii>  u>s  dti.  See  Aristotle's  Theory  of  Poetry  and  Fi He- 
Art  (third  ed.)i  !>•  i"i  ff- 


204  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

common  life,  even  as  the  truth  of  poetry  stands 
far  apart  from  the  truth  of  fact  The  poet 
at  the  outset  asks  you  to  grant  him  certain 
assumptions  which  are  the  necessary  conditions 
of  imaginative  creation.  You  make  your  tacit 
compact  with  him  ;  you  accept  his  premisses  ; 
and  forthwith  he  transports  you  into  an  ideal 
world,  remote  from  the  world  of  experience. 
In  that  world  'probable  impossibilities'  (aBvvara 
etKora)  are  preferred  to  '  possible  improb- 
abilities '  (Svvara  cnriOava).1  The  things  that 
never  were  or  will  be,  if  but  the  poet  has  the 
skill  to  lend  them  the  air  of  likelihood,  the 
colour  and  the  form  of  truth,  are  better — yes, 
'truer'  in  a  poetic  sense — than  the  anomalies 
of  experience,  the  '  improbable  possibilities,' 
which  people  defend  in  fiction  by  saying,  '  Oh, 
but  the  thing  happened.' 

And  through  this  emancipating  word  of 
Aristotle's  the  poet,  as  by  a  touch  of  his 
wand,  can  at  once  throw  open  to  us  the 
whole  world  of  fabulous  adventure  in  epic 
and  romance,  not  only  the  wonders  of  the 

1  Poet.  xxiv.  10;  xxv.  17. 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  205 


Odyssey,  but   also   the   fairyland  of  the  Arabian 
Nights. 

So  much  for  the  '  lies,' — -Aristotle  would  con- 
tinue. Then  as  to  the  '  immorality.'  Do  you 
not  mistake  the  true  end  of  poetry  when  you 
demand  that  it  should  directly  teach  morals  ? 
The  aim  of  poetry  is  pleasure,  not  edification 
or  moral  instruction.  Ethical  principles,  pure 
and  simple,  cannot  be  taken  as  the  test  of 
Tightness  in  the  domain  of  art.  Poetry  is  not 
morals  or  politics  any  more  than  it  is  science, 
history,  or  philosophy.1  Yet  though  moral  and 
aesthetic  laws  are  not  interchangeable,  let  it  not 
be  thought  that  poetry  is  thereby  severed 
entirely  from  morality.  For  pleasures  differ 
in  kind — in  quality  as  well  as  in  degree — and 
the  higher  the  poetry, — the  more  elevated,  the 
more  moral,  will  be  the  pleasure.  The  pleasure 
which  is  the  aim  of  art  cannot  be  produced  by 
the  representation  of  the  morally  ignoble  or 
depraved.  Some  things  are  unfit  for  art — too 
trivial,  too  hideous,  too  squalid.  In  tragedy, 
nobility  of  character  is  necessary  to  awaken  the 
1  Poet.  xxv.  3. 


206  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

blended  emotions  of  pity  and  fear.  Wicked- 
ness is  'admissible  only  when  demanded  by  an 
inner  necessity  in  the  evolution  of  the  action, 
by  the  cogent  requirement  of  dramatic  motive.1 
Even  the  bad  persons  permitted  in  comedy  are 
not  absolutely  bad.  Their  badness  consists  in 
an  ugliness  or  deformity  of  character  which  is 
painless,  and  therefore  can  be  ludicrous.2 
Degraded  lives  there  are  in  nature,  but  that  is 
no  reason  for  reproducing  them  simply  as 
degraded  in  art.  For  art  has  to  do  not  with 
the  ideally  worse,  but  with  the  ideally  better — 
that  '  better  part '  (TO  /3eA.Ttoi>)  to  which  nature 
moves,  though  thwarted  in  her  movement.3 
It  is  not  the  function  of  art  to  exhibit  selected 
specimens  of  disease  or  decay,  but  to  correct 
nature's  failures,  to  create  such  things  as  nature 
strives  to  produce,  to  carry  them  to  a  more 
perfect  completion. 

While  art,  therefore,  must  not  be  asked  to 
teach  morals,  its  business  being  to  yield  pleasure, 
yet  incidentally  it  will  in  a  sense  instruct  and 

1  Poet.  xxv.  19.  2  Poet.  \.  i. 

*  See  Aristotle's  Theory  of  Poetry  and  Art,  p.  151  ff. 


CREEK  f.ITERARY  CRITICISM  207 


edify  by  the  nobility  of  the  pleasure  arising 
from  its  ideal  creations.  Nor  is  this  pleasure, 
this  emotional  delight  at  which  poetry  aims,  a 
purely  individual  sensation.  It  is  a  pleasure 
which  must  be  tested  by  reference  to  the  social 
organism  ;  it  is,  in  a  word,  the  higher  and 
enduring  pleasure  of  the  community,  or  of  that 
refined  portion  of  it  which  may  be  taken  as  the 
aesthetic  representative  of  the  whole.  Judge 
Homer's  morality  by  this  standard.  Ask  not 
whether  this  or  that  action  is  in  itself  good  or 
bad,  but  how  it  fits  into  the  general  framework 
of  the  poem  ;  what  is  the  dominant  impression 
left  ?  Is  the  resultant  pleasure  low  or  is  it 
elevated  ?  Does  Homer  indeed  enfeeble  the 
spirit  and  relax  the  moral  fibre  ?  or  does  he 
brace  the  mind  to  all  strenuous  and  noble 
action  ? 

The  answer  which  Aristotle  would  have 
given  to  this  question  accords  with  the  popular 
conviction  of  Greece,  a  conviction  which  sur- 
vived into  the  Christian  era.  In  an  imaginary 
conversation  by  a  Greek  writer  of  the  empire, 
Alexander  the  Great,  still  a  youth,  is  asked  by 


ao8  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

his  father,  why  he  reads  only  Homer  to  the 
neglect  of  all  other  poets,  and  his  reply  is  :  'It 
is  not  every  kind  of  poetry,  just  as  it  is  not 
every  kind  of  dress,  that  is  fitting  for  a  king  ; 
and  the  poetry  of  Homer  is  the  only  poetry  that 
I  see  to  be  truly  noble  and  splendid  and  royal, 
and  fit  for  one  who  will  some  day  rule  over 
men.' l 

Had  the  principles  of  the  Poetics  been 
grasped  by  the  successors  of  Aristotle,  Homeric 
criticism  and  the  criticism  of  poetry  generally 
might  have  run  another  course.  But  ancient 
prejudice  was  too  strong.  Homer  paid  the 
penalty  of  his  greatness.  He  had  long  been 
regarded  as  the  inspired  bard.  He  was  also  the 
universal  sage,  from  whom  could  be  learned  the 
facts  of  history  and  geography  and  all  the 
special  arts  and  sciences.  Then,  when  his  in- 
formation proved  incorrect,  there  were  critics 
who  said  that  he  '  told  lies.'  Yet  the  Iliad  and 
the  Odyssey  continued  to  hold  their  own  as 
popular  manuals  of  conduct  ;  and  it  was  pre- 
cisely in  his  capacity  of  educator  of  youth  that 

1  Dio  Chrys.  Or.  ii.  ad  init. 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


Homer  was  most  sharply  attacked.  The  philo- 
sophers protested  against  his  theology,  the  pro- 
test dating  back  to  the  sixth  century  B.C.  ;  nor 
was  the  feud  between  philosophy  and  poetry 
ever  quite  healed.  Various  efforts  at  reconcili- 
ation were  made.  One  such  attempt,  well- 
meaning  but  futile,  was  destined  to  be  the  bane 
of  criticism  for  centuries  to  come.  Homer,  it 
was  said,  must  not  be  interpreted  literally.  He 
spoke  in  dark  sayings.  Beneath  the  outward 
narrative  hidden  meanings  (yirovoiai)  may  be 
discovered.  His  stories  arc  symbolical  either 
of  moral  truths  or  of  physical  phenomena. 
'  Homer,'  said  a  Stoic  philosopher  of  the  first 
century  A.D.,  'would  certainly  be  impious  if  he 
were  not  allegorical.' 

The  influence  of  this  vicious  critical  method, 
and  the  vitality  of  the  heresy  on  which  it  rests, 
may  be  seen  at  their  worst  in  the  traditional 
interpretation  of  Scripture.  Biblical  criticism 
up  to  a  recent  date  has  been  marked  by  many 
of  the  faults  with  which  we  are  familiar  in  the 
interpretation  of  Homer — the  violence  done  to 
the  language,  the  neglect  of  the  context,  the 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


explaining  away  of  contradictions,  the  far- 
fetched symbolism,  the  indifference  to  time  and 
place,  to  the  thought  of  the  age  and  the  circum- 
stances of  the  writers.  These  defects  do  not 
merely  mark  the  outbreak  of  a  recurrent  disease 
to  which  the  human  intellect  is  liable.  The 
Old  Testament  scriptures  presented  moral 
difficulties  analogous  to  those  which  had 
offended  the  Greek  philosophers.  Jews  like 
Philo  (first  century  A.D.),  and  Christian  writers 
such  as  Clement  of  Alexandria  and  Origen 
(both  of  the  third  century),  who  were  versed  in 
Greek  learning,  met  these  difficulties  by  resorting 
to  the  allegorical  solution,  the  doctrine  of  the 
hidden  meaning  ;  and  the  form  in  which  their 
arguments  are  couched  betray  the  school  of 
criticism  whence  they  are  derived.  The  writers 
are  working  'on  the  lines  of  the  old  Homeric 
apologists  whose  theories  had  long  ago  been  dis- 
credited both  by  Plato  and  Aristotle.  There  is 
no  more  curious  example  of  the  persistent  influ- 
ence of  a  faulty  method,  mischievous  in  its  first 
application,  doubly  pernicious  when  extended 
from  the  secular  sphere  into  that  of  religion. 


GREEK  LITER AR  V  CRITICISM 


Reverting  for  a  moment  to  Homer  we  may 
take  note  of  another  and  equally  misguided  line 
of  Homeric  criticism,  which  was  already  in 
vogue  in  the  third  and  second  centuries  B.C. 
The  predecessors  of  Aristarchus  in  the  school  of 
Alexandria  loved  to  discover  some  '  impropriety  ' 
(aTTjOeTre's)  in  the  poet.  The  Homeric  scholia 
abound  in  examples.  In  Odyssey  xi.  524 
Odysseus  narrates  the  story  of  the  Trojan  horse 
within  which  he  and  his  comrades  were  concealed  : 
'  The  charge  of  all  was  laid  on  me  both  to  open 
the  door  of  our  close  ambush  and  to  shut  the 
same.'  These  lines,  says  the  scholiast,  must  be 
deleted  '  as  unseemly '  (o><?  aTrpeTrrf}  :  '  that  is 
the  work  of  a  hall-porter  '  (Ovpwpov  jap  epyov}. 
The  rules  of  etiquette  observed  in  the  court  of 
the  Ptolemies  presumably  hold  good  for  the 
interior  of  the  Trojan  horse.  Again,  in  Odyssey 
xv.  82  Menelaus  promises  to  speed  his  guest 
Telemachus  on  his  way  :  '  I  too  will  go  with 
thee  and  lead  thee  to  the  towns  of  men,  and 
none  shall  send  us  away  empty,  but  will  give 
us  some  one  thing  at  least.'  A  note  is  here 
appended,  probably  from  the  hand  of  Aristo- 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


phanes  of  Byzantium  (circ.  200  B.C.) :  '  Again 
it  is  unseemly  that  Menelaus  should  teach 
Telemachus  to  be  a  mendicant.'  No  wonder, 
then,  that  it  is  also  '  unseemly  '  for  Aphrodite  to 
set  a  chair  for  Helen  (//.  iii.  422),  and  for 
Athene  to  bear  a  lamp  to  light  the  way  for 
Odysseus  and  Telemachus  (Od.  xix.  34).  'A 
menial  and  most  trivial  conception '  (8oiAo- 
Tr/jeTre?  ical  \iav  eureXe?  TO  T?}?  Siavotas}  is  the 
comment  we  find  on  the  latter  passage. 

Aristarchus,  the  great  critic  of  Alexandria 
(circ.  170  B.C.),  almost  alone  among  the  learned 
men  of  that  day,  brought  genius  and  common 
sense  to  bear  on  the  Homeric  poems.  His 
guiding  principle  was  that  Homer  must  be 
explained  by  himself.  The  Epic  language  was 
a  thing  apart  ;  it  must  be  studied  in  detail  ; 
Homeric  and  Attic  usages  of  words  must  be 
distinguished.  Again,  the  manners  and  the 
customs,  the  civilisation  of  other  times  must 
not  be  imported  into  the  Homeric  age.  The 
method  of  allegory  should  not  be  applied  to 
the  Homeric  mythology.  The  legends  must  be 
accepted  in  their  literal  sense  as  belonging  to 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


the  childhood  of  the  race,  without  making 
Homer  responsible  for  their  truth  or  their 
morality. 

Full  justice  has  always  been  done  to 
Aristarchus  as  a  verbal  critic  of  Homer.  But 
he  deserves  no  less  credit  for  the  vigorous  war 
he  waged  against  absurdities  such  as  those 
which  have  been  quoted.  Yet,  unfortunately, 
he  himself  falls  at  times  into  the  same  error. 
The  atmosphere  of  Alexandria  clings  to  him. 
He  cannot  keep  himself  at  the  true  angle  of 
vision  and  frankly  accept  the  simplicity  of 
Homeric  life.  In  Odyssey  vi.  244  Nausicaa,  on 
first  meeting  with  the  shipwrecked  Odysseus, 
utters  the  wish  :  '  Would  that  such  a  one  might 
be  called  my  husband,  dwelling  here,  and  that 
it  might  please  him  here  to  abide  !  '  To 
Aristarchus  the  wish  appeared  indecorous  and 
unmaidenly.  A  little  later  (Od.  vii.  311) 
Alcinous  exclaims :  '  Would  that  so  goodly  a 
man  as  thou  art  and  like-minded  with  me,  thou 
wouldest  wed  my  daughter  and  be  called  my 
son-in-law,  here  abiding ! '  Again  the  critic's 
sound  principles  fail  him  ;  that  is  not  how 


214  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

marriages  were  made  in  the  court  of  the 
Ptolemies.  He  therefore  rejects  (aderel)  the 
verses  containing  Nausicaa:s  unmaidenly  wish, 
and  places  his  mark  of  doubt  (Siard^ei)  against 
the  six  lines  that  tell  of  Alcinous'  offer  of 
marriage.  But  he  has  some  misgivings.  The 
lines,  he  admits,  have  a  Homeric  flavour  ;  still 
they  can  hardly  be  genuine  ;  for  who  would 
think  of  engaging  his  daughter  to  a  stranger 
of  whom  he  knew  nothing,  and  who  moreover 
had  not  even  asked  for  her  hand  ? 1  In  a 
similar  spirit  of  deference  to  the  usages  of 
polite  society  Aristarchus  is  offended  by  the 
passage  in  Iliad  ix.  322,  where  the  envoys 
from  Agamemnon  took  a  meal  in  the  tent  of 
Achilles,  and  '  put  away  the  desire  '  (e^  epov  eWo) 
'  of  meat  and  drink,' — though  they  had  already 
'  drunk  as  much  as  their  heart  desired  '  (ix.  1 77) 
before  leaving  the  tent  of  Agamemnon.  It 
would  have  been  better,  said  Aristarchus,  if  the 
poet  had  written,  '  again  tasted  '  food  (cn/r  eVa- 
cravro} — making  them  take  merely  a  light  refec- 

1  See  also  Plutarch's  guarded  comments  on  the  incident  (de 
Aud.  Poet.  ch.  viii.  p.  23). 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  215 


tion  out  of  compliment  to  their  host.  Still  from 
excessive  caution  (UTTO  Trepi-rr^  ev\aj3eia<?}  he 
did  not  change  the  reading. 

Here  we  may  take  a  rapid  glance  backwards 
and  observe  the  contrast  between  Alexandria 
of  the  second  century  B.C.  and  Athens  of  the 
fifth  century  B.C. 

In  Alexandria  \ve  have  the  famous  Museum, 
a  royal  foundation,  with  corporate  rights  and 
large  endowments,  specially  designed  to  en- 
courage learning  and  research.  Among  its  other 
functions  it  aspires  to  maintain  the  purity  of 
Greek  idiom,  to  arrest  the  encroachments  of 
other  tongues,  and  to  fix  a  standard  of  taste. 
To  this  city  erudite  men  resort  from  all  parts 
of  the  world.  The  accumulated  treasures  of 
Greek  literature  have  here  found  a  home.  There 
are  two  libraries  containing  some  five  or  six 
hundred  thousand  volumes.  A  vast  apparatus 
of  learning  ;  and  with  what  result  ?  I  speak 
now  only  of  the  effect  on  literary  taste  and 
literary  criticism  ;  for  no  one  could  think 
slightingly  of  the  services  rendered  us  by  that 
encyclopaedic  industry,  above  all  by  the 


216  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

laborious  collection  and  comparison  of  Greek 
texts  ; — to  those  scholars  we  largely  owe  it 
that  we  have  a  Greek  literature  to-day.  But  if 
criticism  implies  some  intuition  and  sympathy, 
a  faculty  for  apprehending  a  writer's  inmost 
meaning,  most  of  their  critical  work,  at  least  in 
the  domain  of  poetry,  is  unilluminating  ; — save 
where  we  meet  with  the  sane  and  vigorous 
intelligence  of  Aristarchus,  or  discover  the  too 
rare  relics  and  jottings  of  Aristotelian  tradition. 
Even  from  the  lighter  recreations  of  this  society 
of  savants,  we  learn  something  of  their  quality. 
We  read  of  literary  symposia  where  erudite 
garrulity  loved  to  amuse  itself  with  questions 
trivial  to  ask,  impossible  to  answer — Why  did 
Nausicaa  wash  her  garments  in  sea-water  rather 
than  in  the  river  ?  how  could  Poseidon  have  had 
so  ugly  a  son  as  the  Cyclops  ?  on  which  hand, 
the  right  or  the  left,  was  Aphrodite  wounded 
by  Diomede  ? 

Now  turn  from  the  cosmopolitan  city  of 
learning  to  Athens  of  the  Periclean  age.  Few 
books,  an  oral  literature,  a  diffused  intellectual 
atmosphere,  the  sway  of  the  living  word, 


v  GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  217 

criticism  keen  but  unformulated.  There,  for 
one  brief  moment,  literature  and  art  responded 
with  prompt  impression  to  the  call  of  patriotism 
and  religion  ;  each  new  product  of  genius  made 
its  immediate  appeal  to  a  concourse  of  assembled 
citizens  ;  and  by  a  rare  and  happy  fortune  the 
verdict  of  the  few  coincided  with  the  instinct 
of  the  many.  The  secret  of  the  surprising 
change — what  was  it  ?  Literature  at  Alexandria 
was  divorced  from  life  ;  it  had  become  the  craft 
of  a  coterie,  carried  on  within  closed  walls  ; 
ingenious,  finished,  industrious,  sometimes  even 
tender  and  beautiful  ;  but  no  longer  the 
spontaneous  expression  of  the  mind  of  the 
community.  No  current  of  national  life  was 
stirring  to  vivify  its  failing  force.  Nor  with 
the  waning  of  the  creative  impulse  did  the 
critical  faculty  awaken — as  it  has  done  at  some 
periods  of  history — to  prepare  the  way  for 
another  forward  movement.  The  critics  pored 
over  their  classic  books,  but  as  erudite  men, 
not  as  lovers  of  literature — TroXu/zatfet?  not 
0tXoXo7ot.  The  links  were  broken  which 
bound  the  present  in  historic  sympathy  to  the 


21 8  HARVARD  LECTURES  v 

past ;  and  many  generations  were  destined  to 
elapse  before  it  was  discovered  that  the  task  of 
criticism  demands  not  only  learning  but  direct- 
ness of  vision,  some  sense  of  perspective,  and 
an  effort  of  imaginative  reconstruction. 


VI 
GREEK   LITERARY  CRITICISM 

'  LITERATURE,'  said  Goethe,  '  is  the  fragment 
of  fragments.  The  smallest  part  of  what  has 
been  done  and  spoken  is  recorded,  and  the 
smallest  part  of  what  has  been  recorded  has 
survived.'  May  we  not  add,  from  the  Greek 
point  of  view, — '  the  smallest  part  of  what  has 
survived  is  literature  '  ?  The  modern  world  in 
judging  prose  is  often  undecided  as  to  what  is 
literature  and  what  is  not.  We  are  all  agreed 
that  we  cannot  include  in  literature  every  form 
of  written  or  printed  matter.  But  where  does 
literature  begin  or  end  ?  Must  we  exclude 
almost  all  science,  much  history,  most  fiction  ? 
On  one  or  two  points  at  least  the  Greeks 
never  wavered.  When  the  early  glamour 

— the   sense  of  mystery  and    almost  of  magic 
219 


HARVARD  LECTURES 


— attaching  to  the  discovery  of  writing  had 
passed  away,  writing  was  at  first  thought  of 
chiefly  as  a  mechanical  aid  to  memory.  It 
saved  from  oblivion  the  inspirations  of  the 
Muse.  Outside  poetry  its  early  uses  were  of 
the  practical  kind  :  it  was  employed  for  regis- 
tering treaties  and  contracts  and  for  keeping 
accounts.1  So  far,  however,  as  it  was  designed 
to  serve  purely  material  ends,  it  formed  part 
of  the  prosaic  order  of  life  and  lacked  the 
dignity  of  art.  In  order  to  enter  into  the 
domain  of  art,  in  order  to  become  literature, 

1  Euripides  notes  accurately  the  early  use  of  writing  for 
practical  purposes — letters  or  messages,  wills,  contracts,  etc.  ;  see 
Fr.  (Palamedes)  578  Nauck  : 

TO,  rrjs  "ye  Mjdijs  <j>apfji.a.K    opffiixras  /j,6t>os 
&(f>uva,  <t>uvr/evra.  cri;XXa/3ds  nOeis 
f^7]upov  dvdpuiroicri  ypd/j./j.ar'  elSe'vai, 
war'  oi>  rrap6vra  trovrio.s  inrtp  TrXa/cos 
ra/cet  /car'  OIKOVS  iravr   ('iriffracrdai  /faXws, 
Traiffiv  re  rbv   OvriffKOvra  xpwarwi' 
ypd'fiavTa.s  elireiv,   rbv  \a[36vra  5'  et 
&  5'  els  tpiv  Trlirrovffi.i>  tivOpwrroi.  irt 
Sf\ros  Staipei,   KOVK  £a  \f/evSrj  Xtye 

Cp.  schol.  on  Odyss.  viii.  163  oOev   Kal  TOI)S 
virt>  rrjs   xPe^   a^Hjs   ('  purely  practical   needs ')    tirl 
v  evpecnv  e'XOe'iv. 


v i  GREEK  LITE RA  R  } '   CRITICISM 


the  written  word  must  needs  invest  itself  with 
a  new  character.  First,  it  must  become  an 
expression  of  human  thought  or  emotion.  The 
bare  cold  fact  must  pass  through  a  human 
medium  ;  it  must  take  the  personality  of  the 
writer,  or  be  coloured  by  the  collective  experi- 
ence of  the  race.  Secondly,  some  beauty  of 
form  must  be  impressed  upon  it — a  beauty  that 
should  be  tested  by  the  ear  as  well  as  by  the 
mind. 

These  principles  had  long  been  instinct- 
ively recognised  in  poetry.  As  soon  as  Greek 
reflection  applied  itself  to  the  difficult  problem 
of  how  to  write  prose,  the  conviction  slowly 
took  shape,  that  if  prose  is  to  be  more  than  a 
lifeless  record  of  facts  and  figures  ;  if  it  is  to 
exert  its  full  force  in  civic  life  as  an  instrument 
of  persuasion  ;  if  it  is  to  be  of  enduring  value 
as  a  vehicle  of  discovered  truth,  it  must,  like 
verse,  submit  itself  to  the  law  of  beaut}-.  Style 
is  no  mere  concession  to  human  infirmity  ;  it 
is  the  imperious  demand  of  art  ;  and  through 
art  alone  can  the  perishable  word  clothe  itself 
in  lasting  form.  Even  the  scientific  writers  of 


222  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

Greece  sought  to  stamp  the  impress  of  art, 
some  grace  of  style,  upon  works  which  other- 
wise could  not,  they  felt,  pass  outside  the 
narrow  circle  of  specialists.  The  great  treatise 
of  Hippocrates  on  medicine  begins  with  the 
words  :  '  Life  is  short :  Art  is  long  :  Opportunity 
fleeting  :  Experiment  hazardous  :  Judgment 
difficult.'  l  At  once  you  hear  the  tones  of  one 
who  is  an  artist  in  prose ;  this,  you  say,  is 
literature  as  well  as  science.  With  what  de- 
lighted surprise  we  should  to-day  greet  a 
medical  treatise  with  such  an  opening  ! 

In  our  own  day  the  style  of  prose  is  sub- 
jected to  two  different  and  even  opposing 
influences.  On  the  one  hand,  those  who  feel 
the  need  of  making  prose  artistic,  easily  become 
artificial :  they  rely  on  the  suggestive  more 
than  on  the  expressive  force  of  words  ;  they 
adopt  a  manner  of  writing  which  is  far-fetched, 
allusive,  recondite.  Those,  on  the  other  hand, 
who  feel  the  need  of  making  prose  practical, 
of  producing  an  effect  strong  and  immediate, 

1  Hippocr.  Aphor.   i.    i  6  /ftos  ppaxfa,  ^  5£  rex*"?  f^Kp-q,  6  5^ 
Kcupbs  o^vs,  i)  5e  Trtlpa  ff<f>a.\fpri,  TJ  Si  Kpicris  xa^e7r77- 


GKF.EK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


fall  into  exaggeration  in  the  desire  to  be  em- 
phatic. In  either  case  the  language  is  strained. 
Style  becomes  in  the  one  instance  affected  ; 
in  the  other,  breathless  and  in  a  hurry.  But 
the  great  prose  writers  move  us  by  their  power- 
ful simplicity,  their  quiet  strength,  their  sense 
of  measure  and  proportion,  even  by  what  has 
been  called  their  '  grand  leisureliness  '  of 
manner.  They  recall  the  Eastern  proverb, 
'  Hurry  comes  of  the  devil,  slowness  of  God.' 

No  more  wholesome  corrective  of  any  false 
ideals  of  prose  writing  can  be  found  than  the 
study  of  Attic  prose  masterpieces.  At  fijst 
perhaps  they  strike  us  as  cold.  The  rhetorical 
manner,  the  pomp  of  phrase  of  aristocratic 
Rome,  is  more  congenial  to  modern  taste.  We 
are  accustomed  to  sonorous  periphrases,  to 
pathetic  and  emotional  appeals,  to  saying 
rather  more  than  we  mean,  in  the  hope  that 
people  may  be  convinced  that  we  mean  some- 
thing. But  by  degrees  we  become  conscious 
not  only  of  the  charm,  but  also  of  the  power 
of  simplicity.  We  see  that  an  exaggerated 
phrase  is  often  due  to  mere  ignorance  of 


224  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

the  '  proper '  word.  Monotonous  splendour 
soon  wearies  us,  and  we  confess  the  truth  of 
Aristotle's  remark,  that  'a  too  brilliant  dic- 
tion obscures  the  expression  of  character  and 
thought.' l 

The  Athenians  disliked  phrase-making. 
Overdone  ornament  did  not,  in  their  judgment, 
adorn  but  deface.  The  beauty  of  prose  was 
felt  to  lie  in  the  texture  of  the  whole,  rather 
than  in  isolated  phrases  or  passages.  To  pre- 
sent an  idea  in  its  true  proportions,  the  parts 
being  skilfully  adjusted  to  one  another,  and 
th,e  proper  values  of  each  given  by  contrast  and 
arrangement — this  was  their  chief  concern.  It 
would,  of  course,  be  misleading  to  speak  of 
Attic  authors  as  if  they  all  wrote  in  one  style. 
The  broad  contrasts  between  them  are  numer- 
ous and  striking  ;  the  finer  shades  of  difference 
are  endlessly  various.  But  there  are  certain 
common  characteristics  which  mark  the  Attic 
manner.  The  speech  is  that  of  daily  life,  direct 
and  lucid  ;  of  men  who  are  accustomed  to  easy 

1  Poet.    xxiv.     II.    1460    b    4    airoKpvirTd    yap    TrdXiv    T]    Xtac 
Xafiirpa  X^£ts  TO.  re  ^drf  /ecu  rds  oiapotas. 


vi  GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  225 

human  intercourse  without  artificial  barrier  or 
restraint,  who  desire  to  understand,  and  to  be 
understood  of  others.  But  the  colloquial  idiom 
is  raised  above  the  commonplace.  It  has  an 
added  touch  of  distinction,  unobtrusive  but  un- 
mistakable ;  a  beauty  or  charm  which  conceals 
the  hand  of  the  artist  ;  sometimes,  too,  an 
energy,  a  compactness  of  phrase — quite  unlike 
the  flowing  grace  of  the  Ionian  writers — which 
reminds  us,  perhaps  too  forcibly,  that  this  finely 
tempered  instrument  of  language  has  been 
forged  or  sharpened  in  the  rhetorical  schools. 

It  is  a  style  scrupulous  in  the  purity  of  its 
diction,  in  avoidance  of  provincialisms,  in  the 
effort  to  hit  the  right,  rather  than  the  approxi- 
mately right  word.  It  has  a  certain  well-bred 
elegance,  which  cannot  be  mistaken  for  pedan- 
try. It  obeys,  moreover,  the  law  of  reserve  : 
it  wins  the  goodwill  of  the  reader  by  leaving 
something  to  his  own  intelligence.1  In  the 

1  Cp.  Theophrastus  ap.  Demetr.  De  Eloc.  222  ov  iravra  tw' 
aKpifieloiS  Set  /naKpiriyopfiv,  dXX'  frta  KaTaXtTretV  /cat  TO?  aKpoary 
crwteVat  /cat  \oyt£e(r6ai  £%  avrov  •  crvvfh  yap  TO  AXet0#<^  virb 
crov  OVK  dKpoarrjs  fj.6i>ov,  dXXa  /cat  /xapri'j  <roi>  yivfrcu.  /cat  a/aa 


226  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

region  of  feeling  it  is  discreet  and  guarded. 
It  refuses  to  speak  in  accents  of  emotion 
where  emotion  is  wanting ;  but  where  real 
passion  has  to  be  expressed,  the  glow  of  feeling 
is  at  once,  revealed  in  the  rising  tone  and  in 
rhythms  in  which  we  seem  to  overhear  the  very 
vibrations  of  the  voice.  Still,  even  in  its  im- 
passioned and  imaginative  modes  of  utterance 
Attic  prose  retains  the  sense  of  measure,  the 
precision,  the  sobriety,  which  constitute  its 
essential  character.  It  is  just  this  union  of 
passion  and  self-restraint,  the  appeal  to  the 
reason  no  less  than  to  the  emotions,  that  lends 
to  Greek  oratory  its  incomparable  force. 

There  was  a  moment  in  the  fifth  century 
B.C.  when  the  Athenians,  shaping  their  prose 
under  the  influence  of  the  Sophists,  were 
tempted  to  take  up  the  cult  of  '  Art  for  Art's 
sake,'  and  to  aim  at  aesthetic  expression  apart 
from  the  meaning  to  be  conveyed.  They 
would  hardly  indeed  have  subscribed  to  Flau- 
bert's saying,  that  '  a  beautiful  verse  meaning 
nothing  is  superior  to  a  less  beautiful  verse 
meaning  something ' :  still  it  was  in  that  direc- 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  227 


tion  that  the  danger  lay  even  in  prose  com- 
position. But  the  just  literary  instinct  of  the 
people,  combined  with  their  practical  sagacity 
and  the  vigour  of  their  political  life,  saved  them 
from  this  alluring  evil.  That  the  expression 
in  words  should  be  exactly  adequate  to  the 
thought,1  and  should  also  charm  the  ear, 
became  the  guiding  principle  of  their  literary 
art.  The  dislike  of  the  Athenians  for  false 
ornament,  their  intolerance  of  exaggeration, 
their  power  of  direct  vision,  led  them  to  find 
the  perfection  of  language  in  keeping  closer 
than  any  other  people  to  what  was  simple 
and  natural.  Thus  they  found  it  possible  to 
reconcile  their  disdain  of  mere  phrase-making 
with  an  exquisite  delight  in  beautiful  and 
harmonious  words. 

The  value  attached  to  literary  form  by  all 
antiquity,  Greek  and  Roman,  is,  as  stated  in 
general  terms,  a  familiar  and  trite  idea.  But 
it  is  of  capital  importance  to  remember  that 
in  testing  beauty  of  form  the  Greeks  submitted 

1  Cp.  Lysias  ap.  Greg.  Cor.  p.  4  r;  yap  •yXcDrra  vovv  ovre  waXu^ 
o&re  fjiiKpov  ?xe'>  °  ^  vous,  aj  /^c  TTO\V,  wo\vs,  y  6e  [iiKpbv,  .ut/cpjs. 


228  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

the  written  word,  prose  and  verse  alike,  to  the 
immediate  judgment  of  the  ear.  The  lan- 
guage in  which  the  later  Greek  critics  speak 
of  the  harmonies  of  prose  composition  might, 
by  a  modern  reader,  be  suspected  of  some 
unreality.  But  the  truth  is  that  the  power 
of  sound,  the  rhythm  and  music  of  the  spoken 
word,  was  felt  by  the  Greeks  in  a  degree  we 
cannot  readily  comprehend.  '  With  harmonious 
arrangement  of  words  comes  Literature  in  its 
many  kinds.' 1  '  There  is  a  marvellous  attrac- 
tion and  enthralling  charm  in  appropriate  and 
striking  words.  .  .  .  Beautiful  words  are  the 
very  and  peculiar  light  of  the  mind.' 2  The 
Chinese,  whose  language  like  that  of  the 
Greeks  is  distinguished  by  the  musical,  as 
opposed  to  the  stress,  accent,  are  said  to  be 
the  only  modern  people  who  are  equally 
sensitive  to  the  aesthetic  sound  of  words. 

1  Dionys.    Hal.    De    Comp.    Verb.   c.    xvi  irapa  dt  ras  T&V 
6vofji.a.T(av  ap/j,ovlas   iro\6/ji.op<po$  6   \6yos   yiverai  (Trans.   Saints- 
bury,  Loci  Critici,  p.  34). 

2  Longinus  De  Subl.  c.  xxx.  I  i]  TUV  Kvpiuv  KCL!  neyaXowpeirCiv 
ovon&Ttav  £/f\oyri  0cn'/m<rTtDs  dyei  KO.I   KaTaKrj\fi   TOVS   O.KOVOVTO.S. 
.   .    .    0uis  yap  T<J;  tvn  fdiov  TOV  vov  TO.  K0.\a  6v6/j.ara. 


GREEK  LITER AR  Y  CRITICISM  229 


The  art  of  printing  has  done  much  to 
dull  our  literary  perceptions.  Words  have  a 
double  virtue — -that  which  resides  in  the  sense 
and  that  which  resides  in  the  sound.  We 
miss  much  of  the  charm  if  the  eye  is  made 
to  do  duty  also  for  the  ear.  The  words,  bereft 
of  their  vocal  force,  are  but  half  alive  on  the 
printed  page.  The  music  of  verse,  when  re- 
peated only  to  the  inward  ear,  comes  as  a  faint 
echo.  But  it  is  perhaps  in  prose  that  we 
have  most  to  learn  from  the  ancients  in  respect 
of  style.  They  observed  the  movements  of 
prose  rhythm,  they  felt  its  harmonies,  the 
happy  union  of  music  and  meaning,  the  adjust- 
ment of  sounds  to  the  mood  or  feeling  they 
would  convey — all  this  in  a  manner  impossible 
save  to  those  with  whom  eye  and  ear,  soul 
and  sense,  have  been  trained  to  work  together 
in  perfect  correspondence.  It  is  a  fact  but 
little  known  that  throughout  the  Greek  period, 
and  far  into  the  days  of  the  Roman  empire — 
to  the  third  and  fourth  century  of  our  era — 
the  custom  survived  of  reading  both  prose  and 
verse,  not  silently,  but  aloud  and  in  company. 


230  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

There  is  a  curious  passage  in  Augustine's  Con- 
fessions, one  of  the  few  in  ancient  literature 
where  silent  reading  is  mentioned.1  He  there 
tells  of  the  difficulty  he  had  in  getting  access 
to  his  master  Ambrose,  whose  rare  hours  of 
leisure  were  spent  in  reading,  and  who  was 
one  day  observed  to  run  his  eye  silently  over 
the  page,  while  '  his  voice  and  tongue  were 
still.'  Various  reasons  are  then  suggested  to 
account  for  so  strange  a  departure  from  the 
common  practice. 

'  To  write  and  read  comes  by  nature,'  said 
Dogberry.  Epicurus,  it  seems,  held  a  like 
opinion  :  '  there  is  no  difficulty,'  he  said,  '  in 
writing.' 2  The  Greeks  on  the  whole  did  not 
find  it  so.  Verse  came  to  them  almost  as 
their  native  speech.  From  their  cradle  they 
had  the  gift  of  song.  But  the  language  of 

prose    was    built    up    by    long    and    laborious 

* 

1  August.  Confess,  vi.  3  '  cum  legebat  oculi  ducebantur  per 
paginas,   et   cor    intellectum    rimabatur,   vox   autem    et   lingua 
quiescebant.'     In  the  Classical  age  dvayiyvdja-Kfiv  is  rarely  used 
of  silent   reading,   the    full    phrase   being    dvayiyvwa-Keiv    Trpbs 
eavrov. 

2  Dionys.  Hal.  De  Comp.  Verb.  c.  xxiv. 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


discipline.  Those  who  first  wrote  prose  had 
to  create  it  ;  they  had  no  foreign  models,  no 
tradition  to  guide  them.  The  only  tradition 
was  the  tradition  of  poetry.1  From  this,  by 
degrees,  they  strove  to  set  themselves  free. 
But  they  were  haunted  by  Epic  reminiscences, 
by  the  old  poetic  diction,  by  the  rhythm  and 
roll  of  the  hexameter.  Even  in  the  philo- 
sopher Heraclitus  hexameter  endings  are  not 
uncommon  ;  2  and  in  Herodotus  we  find  a 
greater  number  of  beginnings  and  endings  of 
hexameter  lines  than  in  any  later  author. 
These  early  writers  easily  slip  into  metre, 
especially  when  the  thought  and  diction 
become  elevated  ;  just  as  blank  verse  is  always 
forcing  its  way  into  English  prose.  In  Greece 
snatches  of  metre  and  other  poetical  orna- 
ments were  at  first  sought  out  as  an  embellish- 
ment of  prose.  In  time  the  practice  was 


1  Cp.    Strabo  i.    2.    16   WPUTKTTO,  yap  rj   TOMjrtK'Jj   K 
Tra.p9]\6ev  ei's  rb  /J-ecrov  Kal   fvSoKifj.r]crev    elra   (KtlvrjV  fj.ifj.ovfj.fvoi, 
Xvaavres   TO    fj-frpov,   Ta\\a    di=    ^xAd^acres    TO.    iroirjTiicd,    avv- 
typa.\f/a.v  ol  Trepl  ~Ka.8fj.ov  Kal  <$>epeKvdr]  Kal  '~EKO.TO.IOV. 

2  E.g.  fiapTvptei  irapfovras  dirftvai  —  TO   /J.£v  TJ/JUITV  yij,   TO  8e 
r/[j.iffv  Trpr/ffTrip. 


232  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

decisively  condemned  by  all  good  critics. 
Aristotle,  who  laid  it  down  that  the  styles  of 
poetry  and  prose  are  distinct,1  also  insisted  that 
'  prose  should  have  rhythm  but  not  metre,  or 
it  will  be  a  poem  :  the  rhythm,  however,  must 
not  be  over-exact  ;  it  must  be  kept  within  due 
limits.' 2  What  the  due  limits  were,  was  a 
question  variously  answered.  For  the  rest,  the 
rule  that  prose  should  be  rhythmical,  became 
an  accepted  canon  of  criticism.  Plato  goes 
so  far  as  to  discover  a  moral  danger  in  prose 
compositions  which  lack  rhythm  or  harmony  ; 
to  his  mind  they  indicate  some  disorder  within 
the  soul.3 

While  prose  rhythm  was  not  only  per- 
mitted but  enjoined,  another  and  cognate 
question,  that  of  poetic  prose,  was  more  open 
to  debate.  Literary  taste  was  at  first  divided 
on  the  point.  When  literature  descended  from 

1  Rhet.    iii.    I.   9.   1404  a  28  frtpa   \6yov  KO.I  Troir/afus  Xe£is 

2  Ib.  iii.  8.    3.   1408    b  30    Sib   pvO/M>v    Set    ^xeit>   r<>v  ^yov, 
utrpov  5f  /J.TI,   iroirj/M.  yap  eWcu.     pvdfibv  5e  ^UT;  ci/c/H/JtDs.      rovro 
8t    Zffrai   £av   ptxp1   T°v   V-     See  also    an    instructive   passage 
De  SitbL  c.  xli.  3  Laws  vii.  810  B. 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


her  chariot  of  poetry — to  use  the  metaphor  so 
frequently  employed  by  Greek  writers l — she 
affected  the  manner  of  'high-stepping'  prose 
rather  than  resign  herself  at  once  to  '  march 
on  foot'  (Tre^o?  \6<yo^.  Gorgias  (fifth  century 
B.C.)  was  one  of  the  first  to  invoke  these  graces 
of  poetry.'2  Yet  he  and  his  school  worked 
at  the  language  in  the  spirit  of  artists  ;  and, 
though  their  zeal  betrayed  them  into  some 
overwrought  ingenuity,  an  excessive  use  of 
figures,  wearisome  antithesis,  verbal  assonances, 
and  so  forth,  still  they  had  a  true  presenti- 
ment of  the  capacities  of  Greek  speech.  They 
felt  that  it  was  possible  to  impart  to  prose 
a  nobility  of  its  own  ;  that  it  could  be  lifted 
above  the  idiom  of  daily  life,  and  yet  acquire 
force  and  precision.  '  It  is  the  perfection  of 
style,'  says  Aristotle,  '  to  be  clear  without  being 
mean  '  ; 3 — but,  he  proceeds,  '  by  deviating  some- 
times from  the  normal  idiom,'  '  by  adding  some 

1  E.g.   Plut.  De  Pyth.  Orac.    24  /care/3?/  /j.ev  dirb  TUIV  /xeYpu;/ 
uffTTfp  o~)(r)iJLa.TUV  7]  IffTopia. 

2  See  Jebb  Alt.  Or.  i.  cxxiii.  ff. 

•!  Poet.    xxii.     I.    1456    a    18    Ae£ews    5<r    a.pe~ri    ffafirj   KCU    /mr/ 
TawfiifTjv  elvai. 


234  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

element  of  novelty  or  surprise,'  '  the  language 
will  gain  distinction  '  (TO  ^  i&iariicov).1  In 
his  judgment,  however,  Gorgias  exceeded  the 
proper  limits  of  such  deviation.  His  prose  ap- 
proached too  nearly  to  the  poetical  manner, 
and  on  this  account  he  is  censured  more  than 
once  in  the  Rhetoric.'2' 

It  so  happens  that  a  few  specimens  are 
elsewhere  also  preserved  of  Gorgias'  meta- 
phorical and  poetical  style.  '  At  last  Sleep 
begins  to  lay  me  beside  his  brother  Death  '  — 
is  one  of  his  sayings  in  extreme  old  age  :  3 
another  is  :  '  I  take  my  departure  as  from  a 
lodging  ruinous  and  decayed.'  4  As  isolated 
sayings,  these  could  hardly  offend  Greek,  any 
more  than  they  do  English  taste.  But  in 
both  languages  they  belong  rather  to  the  order 

1  Poet.  xxii.  4.  1458  b  2  ff. 

2  Rhet.  iii.   I.  9.    1404  a  25  ff.  TTOIIJTIKT;  irp&TT)  eyevero  Xe£is, 
olov  1}   Topyiov,  Kal    vvv    £ri    oi    TroXXot    rdiv    airaiSefrruv   roi'S 
TOIOVTOVS   otovra.1.    5ia.\tyeffda.i    /ceiXXurra..     rovro    8'    OVK    laviv, 
K.T.X.     Ib.  iii.  3.  4.  1406  b  9  ff. 

3  Aelian    V.  H.    ii.   35    ^5ij   fj.e   6   virvos    tipxtrcu   irapa.Ka.Ta- 


4  Arsenius  Praeclara  Dicta  Philosophoriun  ticnrep  £K  <raTrpov 
Kal  ptovros  ffvvoiKiov  dff/Ji{vii)s  airaXXdrTOimai. 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


of  poetry,  and  could  not  appropriately  be  used 
in  prose  except  at  rare  moments.  Of  the 
metaphors  which  Aristotle  cites  and  censures  in 
prose,  two,  perhaps,  deserve  mention.  One  is 
from  the  pen  of  Gorgias  :  '  You  sowed  in  shame, 
to  reap  in  ruin.'  '  Too  grand  and  tragic/  says 
Aristotle  ; l  and  familiar  as  is  the  metaphor  of 
sowing  and  reaping,  I  think  we  should  concur 
with  him.  Even  to  modern  ears  the  saying  is 
high-flown  in  so  antithetic  a  form,  and  it  would 
need  a  very  impassioned  context  to  justify  it. 
It  is  otherwise  with  the  metaphor  he  quotes 
with  disapproval  from  Alcidamas  (one  of  the 
school  of  Gorgias)  describing  the  Odyssey  as  '  a 
fair  mirror  of  human  life.' 2  The  most  fastidious 
modern  critic  would  not  carp  at  this.  But  the 
word  KaroTrrpov  in  its  metaphorical  sense  must 
have  had  something  far  more  daring  and 
unaccustomed  for  a  Greek  than  the  word 
'  mirror '  has  in  English.  Aristotle's  censure 
of  the  same  writer  for  employing  ornamental 

1  Rhet.  iii.  3.  4.  1406  b  9  <ri)  5e  ravra  cuVxpcDs  (JLCV  ecnreipas, 
KO.K&S  5£  eWpttras. 

2  Ib.    iii.    3.     4.     1406    b    12     KaXbv     avOputrivov    jSiov    KO.TO- 

TTTpOV. 


236  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 


epithets  '  not  as  the  sauce  of  the  discourse  but 
as  the  dish,' l  is  levelled  at  a  fault  of  taste  into 
which  the  Greeks  seldom  fell. 

Aristotle  does  not  appear  to  have  appreciated 
either  the  suggestive  capacity  of  words  or  their 
musical  value.  The  most  instructive  com- 
mentary on  the  emotional  power  of  sound,  as 
it  was  felt  by  the  Greeks  even  in  prose  literature, 
is  to  be  found  in  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus,  a 
critic  and  grammarian  who  lived  at  Rome  in  the 
Augustan  age.2  Many  of  his  literary  judgments 
are  prejudiced  and  unprofitable,  but  of  his  fine 
perception  of  the  harmonies  of  Greek  speech 
we  can  entertain  no  reasonable  doubt.  In  an 
essay  entitled  On  the  Arrangement  of  Words, 
that  is  little  read  even  by  scholars,  he  assumes 
that  the  ear  demands  nobility  and  charm  in 
literary  expression  as  truly  as  the  eye  does  in 
a  picture  or  a  statue  (c.  x.).  He  holds  that  the 
magic  of  style  depends  less  on  the  apt  choice 

1  Rhet.  iii.  3.  3.  1406  a  18  ov  yap  i]dv<r/j.a.Ti  xpT/rcu  dXX'  u>s 
eS^r/mri  rots  tiriOtroiS. 

2  On  Dionysius  as  a  literary  critic  see  the  valuable  edition  of 
The  Three  Literary  Essays  by  W.   Rhys  Roberts  (Cambridge 
Press  1901),  pp.  1-49. 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


r)}  of  words  than  on  the  manner  in  which 
they  are  disposed  (a-vvOecrt^  within  the  sentence. 
Alter  their  arrangement  and  you  destroy  the 
total  effect :  for  arrangement  is  like  the  Homeric 
Athene,  who  can  at  will  make  Odysseus  mendi- 
cant or  warrior,  mean  or  mighty  (c.  ii.-iv.). 
Taking  the  alphabet  itself  he  examines  the 
letters  from  the  euphonic  point  of  view  (c.  xiv.). 
Phonetics,  it  may  be  observed,  never  with  the 
Greeks  became  an  independent  science.  The 
inquiries  made  into  the  physiology  of  sound 
had  all  a  bearing  on  the  study  of  rhetoric,  the 
object  being  simply  to  discover  what  sounds 
were  beautiful  or  the  reverse.  Hence  the  link 
was  a  close  one  which  united  phonetics  on  the 
one  hand  with  metric  and  music  on  the  other  ; 
and  it  lay  within  the  domain  of  the  musician 
rather  than  of  the  grammarian  to  classify  the 
letters  of  the  alphabet.  True  to  this  principle 
Dionysius,  in  estimating  the  elemental  sounds, 
relies  on  the  authority  of  Aristoxenus,  the 
author  of  the  famous  treatise  on  music.  He 
arranges  the  vowels  in  order  of  euphonic  value  : 
a,  TJ,  ft>,  v,  i.  Among  the  consonants,  sigma  is 


238  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

a  letter  '  without  grace  or  sweetness,  and  if 
too  frequently  employed  becomes  very  painful. 
The  sibilant  sound  seems  characteristic  of  the 
voice  of  the  brute  rather  than  of  rational  man.'  l 
Some  poets,  he  adds,  composed  whole  odes 
without  a  sigma  ;  z  and  elsewhere  we  read 
of  a  tour  de  force  of  the  kind  attributed  to 
Pindar.3 

We  cannot  here  follow  Dionysius  in 
his  intricate  distinctions  of  style.  I  would 
refer  only  to  a  single  chapter  in  which  he 
appears  as  the  hierophant  of  a  hidden  art,  one 
who  is  prepared  to  initiate  us  into  the  inner- 
most secret  of  literature.  He  asks  the  question 
How  a  prose  work  may  resemble  a  beautiful 
poem.  The  phrases  with  which  he  prefaces  the 
inquiry  are  borrowed  from  the  mysteries  of 
Eleusis  : 

'  These  things  indeed  are  of  the  nature  of 
mysteries  and  not  to  be  divulged  to  the  vulgar. 


1  Dionys.  Hal.  De  Comp.    Verb.  c.   xiv. 

TO    a,    KOJ.    el    ir\eovdffeie    <r<j)68pa    \viret-     dypiuSovs    yap    Kal 
d\oyov  fjui\\ov  f)  \ojLKrjs  f<f>dirreffdai  Soicei 

2  elffl  8£  of  d<riy/j.ovs  aJSds  6'Xas  iirolovv. 

3  Athen.  x.  455  c. 


vi  GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  239 

It  would,  therefore,  be  no  impertinence  should 
I  invite  only  the  privileged  few  to  be  present 
at  the  holy  rites  of  literature,  and  bid  the 
profane  close  the  gates  of  their  ears.  For 
some  there  are  who  in  sheer  ignorance  make  a 
mockery  of  things  most  serious.' J 

He  then  expounds  the  doctrine  of  rhythmical 
prose,  working  on  the  text  supplied  by  Aristotle's 
Rhetoric.  Prose  must  be  rhythmical  but  not 
metrical,  poetical  without  being  a  poem,  and 
melodious  without  being  a  lyric.  Next  he 
selects  passages  from  Demosthenes,  which  he 
submits  to  a  searching  and  minute  analysis  on 
the  side  of  rhythm.  Some  of  his  distinctions, 
it  must  be  owned,  bear  traces  of  the  over- 
elaboration  of  the  rhetorical  schools.  But  we 
cannot  dismiss  his  general  criticism  as  unsound 
or  fanciful.  The  whole  history  of  the  evolution 
of  Greek  prose,  and  the  practice  of  the  great 

1  Dionys.  Hal.  De  Comf.  Verb.  c.  xxv  /U'OT??/>/OIS  ^v  ovi> 
ZoiKev  •SjSrj  ravra,  KO.I  O$K  et's  7roXXoi>J  old  rt  tffriv  tK(t>{pfff(iai. 
&<TT'  OVK  6,v  firjv  (popriKos,  d  TrapaKa\oir]i>,  oTs  W/tus  tffrLv,  TJKew 
£irl  TO.S  reXeris  rov  \6~yov,  Ovpas  5'  eirlOeff6ai  \eyoi/j.i  rcus 
d/coa?s  rot''?  /3e/3?jXouj.  et's  ytXara  yap  Zvioi 
<nrovoa.ioro.TO.  5C  aTreiplav. 


240  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

masters  of  the  art,  support  his  main  contention. 
The  trained  oratorical  ear  was  acutely  sensitive 
to  euphonious  combinations  of  sounds.  No  pains 
were  spared  that  words  might  be  linked  together 
by  easy  and  continuous  articulation.  Rough 
and  clashing  syllables  were  avoided,  and  even 
two  vowels  in  consecutive  words  were  seldom 
allowed  to  collide.  We  can  trace,  moreover, 
the  stages  by  which  the  ample  movement  of 
the  oratorical  period  was  developed — how 
the  clauses  that  follow  one  another  in  logical 
sequence  and  subordination,  come  to  be  linked 
together  in  a  larger  rhythmical  structure. 
Recent  critics  following  in  the  steps  of 
Dionysius  have  attempted  to  define  more 
accurately  the  rules  of  rhythm  and  harmony 
which  govern  the  prose  of  Demosthenes.  But 
such  analysis,  probably,  can  never  be  more 
than  partially  successful.  The  Demosthenic 
rhythm  in  its  infinite  variety  refuses  to  adjust 
itself  to  any  rigid  framework.  No  one  can 
fail  to  catch  something  of  its  manifold  move- 
ment, its  great  rise  and  fall  ;  but  its  laws  are  as 
free  as  the  emotion  to  which  it  responds.  In 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  241 


vain  we  seek  an  exact  rhythmic  correspondence 
between  the  members  of  a  period  or  of  succes- 
sive periods.  Rhythmic  symmetry  of  a  kind 
there  surely  is  ;  but  the  attempt  to  follow  it  out 
in  minor  details  succeeds,  too  often,  only  by 
cutting  up  the  period  into  artificial  sections, 
without  due  regard  to  oral  delivery  or  to  the 
natural  pauses  of  the  voice. 

The  modern  world  has  grown  dull  to  the 
cadences  of  prose.  We  read  of  Greek  and 
Roman  audiences  being  painfully  affected  by 
inharmonious  combinations  of  sound.  There 
is  probably  no  conceivable  dissonance  which 
would  cause  neuralgia  to  the  unfastidious  ears 
of  a  British  audience.  English  is  itself  in  truth 
a  most  difficult  language  to  render  musical.  It 
is  only  when  we  venture  to  write  it  ourselves 
that  we  become  aware  how  ugly  it  can  be 
made,  and  wonder  at  the  full  harmonies  that 
can  be  drawn  out  by  one  who  knows  all  the 
tones  of  the  instrument. 

Now  and  then,  by  a  rare  chance,  we  are 
admitted  to  the  confidence  of  a  writer  who 
has  mastered  the  art.  There  is  an  article  by 


242  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

R.  L.  Stevenson  on  '  Style  in  Literature,' l  which 
is  a  pretty  precise  modern  parallel  to  the  specula- 
tions of  Dionysius.  Stevenson,  we  may  be 
sure,  had  never  read  Dionysius — probably  had 
never  heard  of  him.  But  his  manner  of  treat- 
ment is  curiously  similar.  '  Each  phrase  in 
literature,'  says  Stevenson,  '  is  built  of  sounds, 
as  each  phrase  in  music  consists  of  notes.  One 
sound  suggests,  echoes,  demands  and  harmonizes 
with  another  ;  and  the  art  of  rightly  using  these 
concordances  is  the  final  art  in  literature.' 2  In 
bad  writers  'you  will  find  cacophony  supreme, 
the  rattle  of  incongruous  consonants  only 
relieved  by  the  jaw-breaking  hiatus,  and  whole 
phrases  not  to  be  articulated  by  the  powers 
of  man.'  '  You  may  follow  the  adventures  of 
a  letter  through  any  passage  that  has  particu- 
larly pleased  you  ;  find  it,  perhaps,  denied 
awhile  to  tantalize  the  ear  ;  find  it  fired  again 
at  you  in  a  whole  broadside  ;  or  find  it  pass 

1  Contemp.  Rev.  1885. 

2  Cp.   Dionys.    Hal.    De   Comp.    Verb.    c.    xvi   wore   TTO\XTJ 
avdyKr)  Ka\rii>  fiev    flvai    X^ftp  fv    77  Ka\d    iariv  dvbp.ara,   KO.\Civ 
8£  6vofj,druv  <ri>XXa/3dj  re  KOI  ypdfj.fj.ara  /caXa  atria  elvai,  r]d(1di> 
Tf  8id\(Krov  IK  rwv  T)8vvbvruv  rrjv  dxorjv  yivfcrOai. 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  243 


into  congenerous  sounds,  one  liquid  or  labial 
melting  away  into  another.'  Instances  he  then 
gives  from  Milton's  prose,  from  Shakespeare 
and  Coleridge,  tracking  in  each  case  the  recur- 
ring letters.  And  as  to  the  rhythm,  he  writes  : 
'  Each  phrase  of  each  sentence,  like  an  air  or 
recitative  in  music,  should  be  so  artfully  com- 
pounded out  of  longs  and  shorts,  out  of  accented 
and  unaccented  syllables,  as  to  gratify  the 
sensual  ear.  And  of  this  the  ear  is  the  sole 
judge.'  He  ends  a  long  inquiry  by  observing  : 
'  We  begin  to  see  now  what  an  intricate  affair 
is  any  perfect  passage  ;  how  many  faculties, 
whether  of  taste  or  pure  reason,  must  be  held 
upon  the  stretch  to  make  it ;  and  why  when  it 
is  made,  it  should  afford  so  complete  a  pleasure. 
.  .  .  We  need  not  wonder  then  if  perfect 
sentences  are  rare,  and  perfect  pages  rarer.' 

Fascinating,  however,  as  are  such  disclosures 
of  the  inner  mechanism  of  the  craft,  may  we 
not  feel  confident  that  the  method  of  production 
is  one  thing,  and  the  method  of  analysis 
another ;  and  that  neither  Demosthenes  nor 
Milton — nor  Stevenson  himself  at  his  best — - 


244  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

were  solicitous  to  count  their  longs  and  shorts, 
or  consciously  played  the  game  of  hide-and- 
seek  with  the  letters  ? 

Let  us  now  pass  to  the  age  of  the  Antonines 
— the  second  century  of  our  era — and  glance 
at  the  work  of  the  one  man  of  literary  genius 
whom  that  age  produced  :  an   original  writer, 
who   had    also  many  of  the   gifts   of  a   great 
critic — Lucian,  the  Syrian,  of  Samosata.      A 
pamphleteer  by  instinct,  a  light  and  airy  spirit 
with  an  exuberant  and  poetic  fancy,  a  sparkling 
irony,  a  singular  freshness  and  delicacy  of  tone 
— of   all    his    gifts    his    inimitable     ease     and 
naturalness  of    manner  was  perhaps  the  chief 
secret  of  his  art.       He    had   a  native    dislike 
for  falsehood   and  insincerity  in   literature  as  in 
life.      In  an  age  of  tasteless  pedantry  he  stood 
out  as   a   model   of  simplicity   and   unaffected 
good  taste.      The  literary  artists  of  the  day — 
'  Sophists '  as  they  were  called — were  as  a  rule 
itinerant  rhetoricians,  whose  business  it  was  to 
handle  any  theme  effectively   at  short   notice, 
and  execute  variations  upon   it  in   brilliant  and 
acrobatic  manner.      They  had   a  pretty  knack 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  245 


of  turning  phrases  ;  but  their  ingenious  conceits 
concealed  an  inner  unreality  and  poverty  of 
thought.  Lucian  set  his  face  against  the 
pretentiousness,  the  affectation,  the  hollow 
imposture  which  passed  for  art.  His  own 
literary  criticism  is  occasional  and  unsystematic, 
conveyed  for  the  most  part  in  parody  or  lightly 
veiled  irony  ;  but  none  the  less  it  is  original 
and  genuine  criticism. 

In  the  pamphlet  entitled  TJie  TeacJicr  of 
Orators  he  lays  down  certain  rules  which  may 
be  thus  summarised  :  First,  bring  to  your  subject 
ignorance  and  audacity,  a  stentorian  voice,  an 
exquisite  toilette,  and  some  fifteen  or  twenty 
old  Attic  words,  which  must  be  freely  sprinkled 
as  a  garnishing  to  your  discourse.  They  are 
always  beautiful,  even  when  they  are  nothing 
to  the  purpose.1  Next,  press  forward,  speak 
fluently,  do  not  pause  to  think.  Do  not  trouble 
to  put  things  in  their  proper  order.  Thirdly — 
and  above  all — have  a  chorus  of  friends  to 

1  Rhet.  Praec.  §  16  Ka.06.Trep  TI  TJ8vfffj.a  e'Trtrarre  avrQiv. 
%  1 8  KOI  ewlTrcuTTO.  ra  6\iya  e/c«Va  6vo/j.aTa  fTrtTroXctj'erw  KO.L 
eiravdeirw  .  .  .  /caXa  yap  ecm  /ecu  eiKrj  Xfyoueva. 


246  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

applaud  you.  We  observe  here  the  allusion  to 
old  Attic  words.  The  love  of  archaic  phrases, 
which  had  been  one  of  the  passing  affectations 
of  early  prose,  has  now  reappeared.  Words 
were  unearthed  or  '  dug  up,'  *  no  one  knew 
whence,  by  persons  who  had  never  read  the 
ancient  writers,  and  who  opened  none  but  the 
newest  books.  The  taste  for  archaisms  and 
the  craze  for  novelty  generally  go  together  in 
decadent  minds.2  In  another  satire,  the  Lexi- 
phanes,  Lucian  administers  a  drastic  medical 
treatment  to  a  patient  suffering  from  this 
fantastic  disorder  ;  and  finally  dismisses  him 
with  a  little  homily  on  literary  education, 
which  has  in  it  the  ring  of  real  conviction. 
The  closing  words  (§§  23-24)  are  to  this  effect  : 
'  Give  up  the  quest  for  outlandish  phrases  ; 
think  first  of  the  sense,  then  of  the  words. 


1  Lexiph.    §     1  6     rocrovrov     efffibv     CLTOTTUV    KO.I     Si 
6vo/j.drwv,    &v    TO,    fi^v    avrbs    tiroiTjffas,   TO.    de    KaTopwpvy/j.eva 
iro6fv  dvaffiruv  K.T.\. 

2  Cp.   De  Subl.  c.   v.  rb  irepl  rds  poijcms  naivoffirovdov,   irepi 
5  5i]  (idXiffTa  Kopv[3a.vTiw<riv   ol  vvv,  '  that    quest  after  novelty  in 
thought  which  leads  our  folk  of  to-day  so  mad  a  dance  '  (Saints- 
bury,  Loci  Critici,  p.  42). 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


Follow  the  ancient  models  instead  of  moulding 
yourself  on  the  poorest  productions  of  the  latest 
sophist.  Be  not  beguiled  by  the  wind-flowers 
of  speech  (al  ave^wvai  rwv  'X.oycov),  but  nourish 
youf  literary  sense  on  the  fortifying  food  of 
athletes.' 

In  Lucian's  literary  criticisms  there  is  always 
a  tacit  reference  to  the  great  traditions  of  the 
past.      One  of  the  evils  he  discerned  was  that 
the     various     forms     of    literature     were     en- 
croaching   each    on    another's    sphere ;    natural 
boundaries  were  being  effaced  and  there  was  a 
confusion  of  kinds.      The    pervading   influence 
of  rhetoric  more  than   any  other  single  cause 
brought  about  this  anarchy  of  taste.      Rhetoric 
was     the     one    educational     discipline    of    the 
Roman   empire  and   the  passport  to  success   in 
every  walk  of  life.      Indeed  we   find   the  word 
'  eloquentia '   employed    by    Roman    writers   as 
the    comprehensive     term    for    every    form    of 
literary  composition,  grave  and  gay,  prose  and 
verse.       Poetry    slowly    withered     as     rhetoric 
gained    ground  ;    and    even    literary   critics    in 
turn   came   to   treat   poetry   from   the  point  of 


248  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

view  of  the  rhetorical  schools,  till  the  question 
was  seriously  raised  by  a  Roman  writer, 
Annaeus  Florus,  of  the  second  century  A.D., 
whether  Virgil  was  an  orator  or  a  poet. 

Of  all  kinds  of  prose  composition  history 
suffered  most  from  this  subtle  form  of  cor- 
ruption. It  was  held  to  be  a  province  of 
rhetoric ;  its  special  department  was  that  of 
panegyric.1  The  subject  to  be  chosen  must  be 
one  that  was  flattering  to  national  vanity  and 
that  admitted  of  skilful  embellishment.  The 
art  of  rhetorical  amplification  would  find  full 
scope  in  the  fictitious  speeches  which  had 
become  a  fixed  tradition  in  historical  writing. 
But  history  was  at  the  same  time  menaced  by 
the  inroad  of  poetry.2  It  was  the  business  of 
poetry  to  supply  the  engaging  falsehood,  to 
adorn  the  legends,  to  give  an  imaginative 
colouring  to  the  digressions,  and  offer  to  the 
weary  traveller  pleasant  resting-places  by  the 

1  Cp.    Hermog.   De  Ideis  p.   417.   28   irdi>Tws   Set   Kal   TOUS 
l<rTopioypd<f>ovs  4v  rots  irav-qyvpiKols  Terdx#at. 

2  Lucian  De  Hist.   Conscr.   §  8  djvoeiv   eoiVaow    ol  TOLOVTOI 

/JL£V    Kal    TroiT]/j.d.Tui>    fiXXat    i<7rocrx^0"ets    /cat  Kavbvts 
5e  &\\oi. 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  249 


way.  Thus  the  danger  which  the  Greeks 
surmounted  in  their  vigorous  prime,  when  prose 
began  to  advance  along  the  lines  of  poetry, 
now,  in  a  new  form,  assailed  historical  writers, 
both  Greek  and  Roman. 

In  his  pamphlet  How  to  write  History 
Lucian  puts  in  a  plea  for  accuracy  and 
sobriety  ;  he  protests  —  as  also  did  Polybius  — 
against  turning  history  into  panegyric.1  He 
ridicules  the  writers  who  affect  a  vulgarly 
picturesque  style  or  one  overloaded  with 
descriptive  detail  (§§  19-20).  No  less  does 
he  condemn  that  jumble  of  styles  in  which 
fine  writing  is  interspersed  with  touches  of 
slang  —  '  the  buskin  of  tragedy  on  one  foot, 
and  a  slipper  on  the  other.'2  He  disallows 
the  lawless  poetic  fancy  by  which  history 
becomes  '  a  sort  of  prosaic  poetry.'  3  His  own 

1  De  Hist.  Cause  r.  §  7  ('a  great  gulf  is  fixed  '  between  history 
anil    panegyric)  :    dyvoowres    <1)S    01;    arevi^    ry    IffOp,^    Stuipicrrcu 
Kol  §La.T€Teix<-<rTai  17  laropLa  Trpbs  TO  fyKu*/j.iov. 

2  Il>.   §  22  (bare  TO    Trpdyfjia  eoiKOS  eZVcu  Tpaywdu,   TOV   'irtpov 
/j.ev  iroSa.  €TT    ffj.f3a.Tov    vipyXov    eirififfBriKOTi,   OaTepif)   de  ffdv8a\ov 


;!   Il>.    §   8  rj  iffTOpia   5f,  rjv  TLVO.   KoXaKeiav 
TL  d\\o  rj  Trejr;  Tts   Troiijrt/CTj  yiyverai  ; 


250  HARVARD  LECTURES 


conception  of  what  a  historian  ought  to  be  is 
in  marked  contrast  with  the  character  of  the 
historian  of  the  day — his  servility,  his  disregard 
of  truth,  his  straining  after  dramatic  effect. 
The  historian  should  be  '  a  free  man,  fearless, 
incorruptible,  the  friend  of  truth,'  'owning  no 
country,  no  sovereign,  no  king '  ; l  one  who 
writes  not  for  the  praise  of  the  hour  but  for 
all  time  to  come.2 

The  triple  alliance  of  history,  poetry,  and 
rhetoric  injuriously  affected,  through  the  course 
of  centuries,  the  historical  tradition  of  Europe. 
In  recent  years  a  sharp  reaction  has  set  in 
against  what  is  called  the  literary  influence  in 
history.  The  Muse  of  history  is  exhorted  to 
cast  aside  her  literary  trappings  and  assume  her 
severest  aspect.  She  must  make  herself 
scientific.  Under  the  aesthetic  influence,  Seeley 
urges,  history  becomes  pictorial  ;  the  pictorial 
point  of  view  is  apt  to  overshadow  the  historical ; 

1  De  Hist.    Conscr.  §  41   50o/Jos,   dd^Kacrros,   t\ei>6fpos,  irap- 
p-rjffias    Kal   d\r)6eias    $i\os,  .   .    .    foos    SIKOOTT/S    eflvoi/s    diraffiv, 
.   .   .   £^05  fv  rots  /3t/J\iois,  Kal  ajroXty,   auTovo/j-os,  dfiaffiXevros. 

2  Ib.  §  6 1  fri]   irpbs  rb    ira.pbv  /JLOVOV  bpSiv   ypd<j>t,   .   .   .   dXXa 
TOU  ffi'iJ-iravTOs  CUWPOS  €ffroxo-ff/j.ivos. 


vi  GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


a  biographical  interest  is  substituted  for  a 
political.  Attention  is  concentrated  on  the 
mere  externals  of  an  event,  on  its  scenic 
accessories,  on  all  that  is  personal  and  dramatic 
and  that  invites  literary  handling.  Whereas 
many  of  the  most  important  events  are  con- 
fessedly dull  reading,  great  political  changes 
being  brought  about  without  pomp  or  glitter, 
the  literary  estimate  falsifies  the  true  propor- 
tions of  things.  The  artistic  historian  rejects 
elements  of  serious  interest  in  order  to  satisfy 
the  taste  for  the  picturesque. 

Few  will  deny  the  solid  truth  that  underlies 
this  criticism.  But  we  cannot  lightly  accept 
the  suggestion  that  history  should  emancipate 
herself  from  literature.  Seeley  himself  fortun- 
ately possessed  so  fine  a  literary  gift  as  to  be 
unable  to  carry  out  his  own  theory.  But  the 
summons  has  again  been  addressed  to  history 
— and  in  a  more  peremptory  form — by  the 
present  holder  of  the  chair  at  Cambridge,  to 
quit  her  old  associates  and  come  out  into  a 
place  of  freedom.1  In  the  view  of  this  dis- 

1  Inaugural  Lecture,  J.  B.  Bury,  Cambridge  Press,  1903. 


252  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

tinguished  writer  history  is  not,  as  for  Seeley, 
limited  to  the  mass  of  facts  which  form  the 
material  of  political  science.  It  embraces  other 
groups  of  facts  and  is  more  comprehensive  in 
its  scope.  Still  for  him  too  history  is  a  science 
not  an  art ;  '  a  science  no  less  and  no  more '  ; 
in  close  relation  with  '  the  sciences  which  deal 
objectively  with  the  facts  of  the  universe.'  '  To 
clothe  the  story  of  a  human  society  in  a 
literary  dress  is  no  more  the  part  of  a  historian 
as  a  historian,  than  it  is  the  part  of  an 
astronomer  as  an  astronomer  to  present  in 
an  artistic  shape  the  story  of  the  stars.' 

Yet  may  we  not  urge  that  the  form  of 
a  work  must  be  mainly  determined  by  the 
nature  of  the  subject-matter  ?  Human  action 
cannot  be  told  in  just  the  terms  applicable  to 
cosmic  processes.  History  is  not  merely  the 
story  of  movements,  of  institutions,  or  of 
changes  in  the  order  of  society.  It  is  also 
the  story  of  men,  doing,  feeling,  thinking ; 
acting  as  individuals,  though  within  and  in 
relation  to  the  political  organism.  A  purely 
scientific  history  could  hardly  touch  the  fringe 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


of  the  inward  world  of  human  motive  and  human 
personality.  That  world,  with  its  reactions 
on  the  outer,  can  never  be  reduced  to  the 
certitude  of  scientific  truth  :  its  facts  cannot 
be  tested  or  authenticated  by  the  methods 
which  strict  science  recognises.  They  need 
some  divining  power,  some  faculty  of  imagin- 
ative interpretation  to  make  them  intelligible  ; 
and  such  a  faculty  demands  the  art  of  literary 
expression.  Different  periods,  again,  call  for 
different  kinds  of  writing.  In  describing  scenes 
of  stirring  and  dramatic  interest  it  is  right 
that  the  style  should  reflect  the  colour  and 
movement  of  the  time.  Great  deeds  should 
be  nobly  told.  There  are  other  periods  which 
carry  within  them  the  silent  growth  of  institu- 
tions or  the  shaping  of  events  still  in  the 
future.  It  is  the  part  of  the  literary  historian 
not  to  omit  these  less  inspiring  pages  of 
history,  but  to  relate  them  in  a  manner  adapted 
to  the  subject.  We  are  here  within  the  proper 
region  of  literature. 

'  What  a  pity  it  is,'  says  Edward  FitzGerald, 
'  that  only  Lying  Histories  are  readable.'    Would 


254  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

not,  however,  the  unreadable  histories — divorced 
from  the  literary  art  and  omitting  many  vital 
but  non-scientific  facts — be  also  to  a  large 
extent  untrue  ?  History,  in  short,  would  seem 
to  be  partly  a  science,  and  partly  an  art.  It 
is  a  very  human  affair,  this  story  of  the  past, 
and  it  must  be  so  told  that  men  will  read  it 
with  sympathy  and  even  with  delight.  Let 
us  search  the  records,  collate  the  manuscripts, 
investigate  the  sources,  classify  and  collect  the 
facts  :  yet  all  this  is  not  yet  history,  but  the 
materials  of  history — '  not  tragedy,'  in  Plato's 
phrase,  '  but  the  preliminaries  of  tragedy.' l  It 
remains  for  the  writer  of  genius  and  imagination 
to  fuse  the  elements,  the  outward  and  the 
inward  facts,  into  an  orderly  whole.  The 
antithesis  between  history  and  literary  history 
is  surely  a  false  one.  History  rightly  told  is 
literature ;  but  it  is  not  therefore  rhetorical, 
unreal,  fantastic.  We  do  not  ask  the  historian 
to  be  '  the  epic  poet  or  ballad  writer  in  verse.' 2 
We  do  say  that  he  should  be  at  once  a  literary 

1  Plat.  Phaedr.  269  A  TO.  irpb  Tpay^dias  d\X'  ou  TO.  rpayiKa.. 
-  Seeley,  Introduction  to  Political  Science,  p.  27. 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  255 


man  and  a  man  of  science.  The  task  of  writing 
literary  history  becomes  indeed  every  day 
more  difficult  owing  to  specialised  learning, 
the  accumulation  of  materials,  and  the  stricter 
standard  of  truth.  To  be  a  literary  historian 
will  probably  be  a  rare  achievement  in  the 
future.  But  the  ideal  should  not  on  that 
account  be  lowered.  What  is  needed  is,  not 
that  history  should  cease  to  be  literary,  but 
that  it  should  be  literary  in  a  higher  than  the 
ordinary  sense ;  the  style  should  be  more 
flexible  and  sensitive ;  ready  obediently  to 
follow  the  thought,  and  delicately  responsive 
to  the  nature  of  the  subject-matter.  When 
one  considers  how  various  that  subject-matter 
is,  it  will  be  seen  that  no  literary  demand  could 
well  be  more  exacting.  I  am  not  sure  that 
the  historical  scientists  would,  if  they  were 
pressed,  reject  some  such  literary  ideal.  But, 
in  any  case,  history  severed  from  literature 
loses  her  place  and  power  in  the  world.  Her 
productions  become  ephemeral  ;  each  fresh  fact 
that  is  discovered  loosens  their  precarious  hold 
on  life. 


256  HARVARD  LECTURES 


Looking  back  on  the  general  course  of 
Greek  criticism  we  can  see  that  not  a  few  of 
its  defects  may  be  traced  to  the  fact  that  the 
Greeks  knew  no  literature  but  their  own.  In 
the  region  of  literary  production  they  were 
probably  the  gainers  for  being  thrown  upon 
their  own  resources.  Their  literature  must 
otherwise  have  lost  some  of  that  incomparable 
freshness  which  distinguishes  it  from  the  other 
literatures  of  Europe.  It  could  not  have 
evolved  itself  on  the  same  natural  lines  and  in 
such  close  relation  to  the  organic  life  of 
society.  But  the  province  of  criticism  is  one 
of  observation  and  comparison,  and  a  wider 
comparison  would  have  brought  with  it  an 
enlarged  comprehension.  The  chief  danger, 
perhaps,  which  besets  a  critic  is  that  of  attempt- 
ing to  restrict  the  rights  of  genius  by  framing 
arbitrary  canons  of  literary  uniformity.  Even 
Aristotle  in  the  Poetics  is  not  free  from  the 
failing ;  and  it  may  perhaps  be  questioned 
whether  the  highest  literary  criticism  is  possible 
without  a  knowledge  of  at  least  one  foreign 
literature.  In  the  critical  appreciation  of  our 


vi  GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  257 

own  literature  no  first-rate  work  was  produced 
till  the  way  had  been  prepared  by  the  study 
of  Greek  and  Latin  masterpieces.  Char- 
acteristics long  familiar  became  significant  only 
when  light  was  first  flashed  on  them  from  the 
study  of  antiquity.  A  lesson  even  in  com- 
parative politics  may  have  a  salutary  influence 
on  the  literary  art.  In  the  expiring  days  of 
Greece  Rome  opened  up  larger  horizons  to 
writers  who  had  hitherto  been  brought  up  in 
the  seclusion  of  libraries  or  in  rhetorical  schools. 
The  stirrings  of  political  life  were  now  again 
felt.  The  History  of  Polybius  was  one  result 
of  this  outlook  into  a  wider  world.  Greek 
criticism  too  had  showed  signs  of  renewed 
vitality  ;  and  the  return  to  a  sounder  taste  in 
the  Augustan  age  is  noted  by  Dionysius  of 
Halicarnassus  as  due  to  the  invigorating  con- 
tact of  Rome.1 

It  was  the  confluence  of  these  two  civilisa- 
tions that  led  to  the  comparative  study  of 
literature  in  however  rudimentary  a  form.  The 
early  experiments  were  not  altogether  felicitous. 

1  De  Antiq.  Orat.  proem,  c.  3. 


258  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

A  habit  arose  of  drawing  artificial  comparisons 
between  Greek  and  Roman  authors.  Ennius 
answered  to  Homer,  Afranius  to  Menander, 
Sallust  to  Thucydides,  Livy  to  Herodotus. 
Still  more  remote  are  the  analogies  suggested 
by  Plutarch's  Parallel  Lives.  None  the  less 
the  method  was  a  true  one,  and  needed  only 
riper  knowledge  and  judgment  to  become 
fruitful  in  results.  The  first  Greek  critic  who 
employed  it  to  any  purpose  is  the  author  of 
the  treatise  On  the  Sublime.  He  has  the 
unique  distinction  of  drawing  his  illustrations 
from  three  literatures, — not  only  from  the  Greek 
and  Latin  classics,  but  also,  in  one  passage, 
from  the  Jewish  Scriptures  (Gen.  \.  3).1 

In  another  respect  the  same  writer  ap- 
proaches to  our  modern  point  of  view.  He 
thinks  of  literature  not  merely  as  a  product 
of  the  individual  mind,  but  as  an  expression  of 
national  life.  Certain  conditions  are  necessary 
to  produce  great  thinking  and  great  speaking. 

1  De  Subl.  c.  ix.  9  rctirr??  Kal  6  r&v  'lovdaiuv  deff/jLodfrys,  ov\ 
6  rvx&v  dv/ip,  .  .  .  ?u6ti$  4v  TT?  el<rj3o\ri  ypdij/as  TUV  v6/J.wi> 
"elirev  6  6e6s"  07?<n-  ri ;  "yevtcrdu  <pws,  Kal  eyivero ; 
yrj,  Kal  eytvero." 


GREEK  LITER AR  Y  CRITICISM  259 


It  is  not  enough  that  the  author  should  have 
the  natural  gift  of  beautiful  speech,  or  that  he 
should  have  been  trained  to  emulate  the  great 
models  of  antiquity.  An  atmosphere  is  needed, 
a  fitting  social  environment  to  call  forth  his 
powers.  True  as  it  is  that  elevation  of  style 
is  'the  image  reflected  from  nobility  of  soul,'1 
yet  noble  faculties  may  be  starved  for  want  of 
moral  sustenance.  What,  he  asks,  are  the 
causes  for  the  decline  of  eloquence  ?  for  the 
'  great  and  world-wide  dearth  of  high  utterance 
that  attends  our  age '  ?  '2  Two  causes  he 
assigns,  both  of  them  rooted  in  social  con- 
ditions. First,  the  decay  of  liberty.  '  We 
seem  to  have  learnt  from  infancy  that  sub- 
serviency is  the  law  of  life,  being  from  our 
tenderest  years  of  thought  all  but  swaddled  in 
its  manners  and  customs,  and  having  never 
tasted  that  most  beautiful  and  fertile  fountain 
of  eloquence,  Freedom — so  that  we  turn  out 
merely  sublime  in  Courtiership.' 3  Next,  '  the 

1  De  Subl.  c.  ix.  2  v\f/os  fjifjaXotypoa-vvris  air-f}X'rllJLa~ 

2  Ib.    c.    xliv.    I    Tocravrr)  \6ywv   KOff/juic/i  T«  e7re%«  TOV    fiiov 
d<f>opia  (Trans.  Rhys  Roberts). 

3  ib.   c.  xliv.  3  (Trans.  Saintsbury). 


260  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

love  of  money  and  the  love  of  pleasure  carry 
us  away  into  bondage,  or  rather,  as  one  may 
say,  drown  us  body  and  soul  in  the  depths,  the 
love  of  money  causing  meanness,  and  the  love 
of  pleasure  being  the  ignoblest  of  all  diseases.' 
No  previous  Greek  critic,  not  even  Aristotle, 
had  noted  the  moral  atmosphere,  the  social 
ideals  of  an  age,  as  a  main  factor  in  the 
creation  of  noble  works  of  literature.  The 
only  other  ancient  writer  who  lays  any  stress 
on  this  topic — now  so  trite — is  Tacitus  in  the 
remarkable  dialogue  De  Oratoribus. 

The  inadequate  perception  of  the  correspon- 
dence between  a  writer  and  his  age  is  closely 
related  to  what  was  perhaps  the  most  persistent 
defect  of  ancient  criticism — a  want  of  historic 
imagination,  of  a  faculty  for  apprehending  the 
whole  environment  of  a  bygone  time.  The 
critic,  as  we  now  understand  his  office,  is  an 
interpreter  between  the  present  and  the  past ; 
he  must  be  imbued  with  the  historic  no  less 
than  with  the  literary  spirit.  Yet  it  has 
taken  centuries  for  this  idea  to  be  established. 
It  is  foreshadowed  in  Bacon,  who  in  sketching 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM  261 


the  principles  on  which  a  critical  history  of 
literature  should  be  composed,  says  that  the 
writer  should  '  evoke  from  the  dead  as  by  a 
sort  of  spell  the  literary  genius  of  the  age.' l 
Not  until  recent  years  has  either  Greek  or 
English  literature  been  handled  in  this  spirit. 
Criticism  so  practised  becomes  an  art  of 
constructive  imagination. 

Nor  must  we  forget  that  the  critic's  office 
is  not  completely  summed  up  in  the  word 
'  interpretation.'  He  must  needs  form  a  judg- 
ment. He  cannot  renounce  this  his  original 
function.  If  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  standard 
of  excellence  and  a  tribunal  of  criticism,  the 
decisions  of  that  tribunal  will  admit  of  in- 
telligent exposition.  '  A  judgment,'  however, 
'  on  literature  is  ' — once  more  to  quote  Lon- 
ginus — 'the  final  aftergrowth  of  much  en- 
deavour '  ; 2  and  the  critic  is  aware  that  the 
ultimate  appeal  is  to  Time — to  the  many  not 
to  the  few,  to  the  consentient  opinion  of 

1  DC  Augm.  Scient.   B.   ii.   c.   iv.    '  ut  genius  illius  temporis 
litterarius  veluti  incantatione  quadam  a  mortuis  evocetur.' 

-  De    Subl.     c.     vi    r\    yap    rQiv    \6yui>     Kpiffis    TroXX?}?    e<rrt 
Trei'pas  Tf\€vralov  firiy^vvrjij.a.  (Trans.   Saintsbury). 

S  2 


262  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 


educated  mankind.  This  principle  of  Quod 
semper  quod  ubiqne  in  literature  is  first 
enunciated  in  the  treatise  On  the  Sublime  : 

'  If  then  any  work  on  being  repeatedly  sub- 
mitted to  the  judgment  of  an  acute  and 
cultivated  critic,  fails  to  dispose  his  mind  to 
lofty  ideas  ;  if  it  does  not  leave  in  the  mind 
more  food  for  reflection  than  the  words  seem 
to  convey  ;  and  if,  the  longer  you  read  it,  the 
less  you  think  of  it,  there  can  be  here  no  true 
sublimity,  when  the  effect  is  not  sustained 
beyond  the  mere  act  of  perusal.  But  when  a 
passage  is  pregnant  in  suggestion,  when  it  is 
hard,  nay,  impossible  to  distract  the  attention 
from  it,  and  when  it  takes  a  strong  and  lasting 
hold  on  the  memory,  then  we  may  be  sure  that 
we  have  lighted  on  the  true  Sublime.  In 
general  we  may  regard  those  words  as  truly 
noble  and  sublime  which  please  all  and  please 
always.  For  when  the  same  book  produces 
the  same  impression  on  all  who  read  it,  what- 
ever be  the  difference  in  their  pursuits,  their 
manner  of  life,  their  aspirations,  their  ages,  or 
their  language,  such  a  harmony  of  opposites 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


gives  irresistible  authority  to  their  favourable 
verdict.'  l 

This  consentient  verdict  of  the  ages  Greece 
has  gained.  In  the  Hymn  to  the  Dclian  Apollo 
you  may  remember  the  description  of  the  lonians 
assembled  at  their  festival  :  '  Whosoever  should 
meet  them  at  that  gathering  would  deem  that 
they  were  exempt  from  death  and  age  for  ever, 
beholding  their  gracious  beauty  and  rejoicing 
in  heart  at  the  sight  of  the  men  and  the  deep- 
girdled  women.' 2  What  is  here  said  of  the 
lonians  applies  with  literal  truth  to  the  gracious 
creations  of  Greek  literature — '  deathless  they 
are  and  ageless  for  ever.'  They  are  embalmed 
in  writings  which  possess  the  greatest  of  all  anti- 
septic qualities,  the  quality  of  style  ; — and  there 
lies  the  answer  to  the  question  so  often  asked  : 
Why  can  we  not  be  content  to  read  Greek 
literature  in  translations  ? 

Style  and  thought  perfectly  blended— it  is 
thus  that  Pindar's  saying  comes  true  :  '  The  word 

1  De  Subl.  c.  vii.  3-4  (Trans.  H.  L.  Havell,  Macmillan  and 
Co.  1890). 

2  Hymn  to  Delian  Apollo,  151-154. 


264  HARVARD  LECTURES  VI 

lives  longer  than  the  deeds.' 1  And  it  is  herein 
precisely  that  the  Greeks  stand  out  as  the 
models  of  the  true  literary  spirit.  They  show 
us  that  he  who  would  worthily  pursue  the 
calling  of  letters  should  attempt  to  rise  above 
a  purely  mechanical  skill  ;  that,  however  lowly 
may  be  the  material  in  which  he  works,  he 
must  do  so  in  the  spirit  of  the  artist,  not  of 
the  artisan.  There  is  of  course  a  weak  side  to 
literary  aestheticism.  In  Don  Quixote  we  read 
of  a  certain  author  who  was  renowned  for  '  the 
brilliancy  of  his  prose  and  the  beautiful  perplexity 
of  his  expression.'  We  seem  to  know  the  type. 
Let  the  phrase  be  but  beautiful  and  rhythmical, 
musical  and  flowing,  and  it  matters  not  if 
the  fine  words  conceal  emptiness  beneath.  A 
literary  aesthete  was  described  by  Lucian  as  '  a 
strange  phantom  fed  upon  dew  or  ambrosia.' 2 
Him  too  we  know.  His  home  is  not  upon  the 

1  Find.  Nem.  iv.  6 : 

pijfJM  §'  fpypArwv  \povi(aTfpov  /Sioretfa. 
Cp.  Istk.  iii.  58 : 

TOVTO  yap  a6a.vo.TOV  <f>uvaev  epirfi, 

fl    TtS    fZ    eiTTTJ    Tl. 

~  Rhet.  Prec,  §  II  £fvov  <t>dcr/j.a  opbaip  T 


GREEK  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


solid  earth.  He  sings  and  soars,  he  loves  and 
laments,  he  knows  not  what  or  why  ;  harmonious 
and  meaningless  is  his  song.  The  cult  of 
the  meaningless  is  from  time  to  time  in  the 
ascendent.  Once  at  an  exhibition  of  pictures 
I  stood  in  wonder  before  a  certain  portrait.  I 
begged  a  friend  who  was  initiated  into  the 
principles  of  the  school  to  explain  it.  The  reply 
was  :  '  Think  away  the  head  and  the  face  and 
you  have  a  residuum  of  pure  colour.'  Whether 
this  doctrine  is  to  be  accepted  in  painting,  and 
more  particularly  in  portrait-painting,  I  do  not 
know  ;  but  in  literature  at  least  it  means  sure 
decay.  Think  away  the  meaning,  get  rid  of 
the  thought,  and  you  have  beautiful  and  pure 
form.  No, — form  is  essential,  but  not  form  with- 
out substance.  The  supreme  merit  of  the  Greeks 
is  that,  on  the  one  hand,  they  felt  and  showed 
that  beauty  is  of  the  essence  of  literature,  and 
that  a  formless  work  of  literature  is  in  truth  a 
misnomer,  being  dead  while  yet  it  lives  :  it  may 
have  philosophic,  it  may  have  scientific  merit, 
but  it  will  be  superseded  :  what  is  in  it  of  value 
will  be  incorporated  with  other  works  :  its  sub- 


266  HARVARD  LECTURES  vi 

stance  is  separable  from  its  form.  On  the  other 
hand,  Greek  example  reminds  us  that  beauty  of 
form  is  not  all.  The  literary  writer,  whether  in 
prose  or  verse,  is  not  a  maker  of  fine  phrases,  a 
singer  in  the  void.  The  Greek  poet  had  some- 
thing to  say,  and  was  not  merely  concerned 
how  he  said  it.  He  was  in  close  contact  with 
realities.  He  drew  his  sustenance  from  the 
soil  of  human  nature.  He  touched  the  springs 
of  national  life.  Even  the  idiom  of  the  people 
he  so  used  as  to  ennoble  it.  It  is  the  glory  of 
Greek  literature  that  of  all  literatures  it  is  at 
once  the  most  artistic  and  the  most  popular.  And 
our  hope,  our  best  hope,  for  the  literature  of  the 
future  is,  that  as  the  democratic  movement 
extends  and  calls  forth  enlarged  intellectual 
sympathies,  the  old  Hellenic  harmony  may  be 
re-established  between  that  eternal  love  of  beauty 
on  which  all  art  and  literature  rest,  and  that 
love  of  scientific  truth  which  is  the  dominant 
mark  of  our  own  age. 


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so  fluently  and  brightly,  that  in  reading  these  essays  we  are  in  danger 
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^t"— 

THE 

ODYSSEY  OF  HOMER 

DONE   INTO  ENGLISH   PROSE 
BY    S.   H.   BUTCHER,   D.LlTT.,   LL.D. 

AND 

A.  LANG,   M.A. 

SA  TURD  A  Y  REVIEW.— "  The  present  brilliant  translation  of  the  Odyssey 
is  another  most  gratifying  proof  of  the  taste  and  soundness  of  English  scholarship. 
.  .  .  The  brilliant  and  exact  scholarship  of  Mr.  Butcher  is  happily  combined 
with  Mr.  Lang's  wide  knowledge  of  the  early  poetry  of  different  peoples.  The 
translation  is  good  for  all  readers." 

'  PALL  MALL  GAZETTE.—"  .  .  .  may  be  heartily  congratulated  on  the 
success  of  their  attempt.  They  have  produced  a  work  which  will  not  only  be 
appreciated  by  scholars,  but  will  reproduce  for  those  who  are  unable  to  read 
Homer  in  the  original  an  unusually  large  measure  of  the  Homeric  power  and 
charm." 

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. 


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