by Meleager.
Originally published in Temple Bar (Ward and Lock) vol.1 #7 (Jun 1861).
Part III.
Iamblichus, and Xenophon the Ephesian.
Our view of the regular order in which fiction developed itself has been somewhat interrupted by the introduction of Lucian into the series, who no doubt deserves recognition more as a generally amusing writer than purely as a novelist. We trust, however, that the specimens we have given of his wit, humour, and power of narrative have justified this deviation from the strict path of literary genealogy. All the writers who remain to be discussed are the lineal successors of the Antonius Diogenes already mentioned; and the first of the two authors whose names head this Paper may even be considered a novelist in the usual modern sense,—since he uses as the chief basis of interest the difficulties which retard the fortunate completion of a love-affair.
Iamblichus—whose work is entitled Babylonica—is not to be confounded with the author of the Life of Pythagoras, who lived in the time of Julian. Our Iamblichus[1] was a Syrian, and flourished under the Emperor Trajan. He was educated at Babylon, and only learnt Greek late in life, but is said to have acquired it perfectly enough to become a rhetorician himself. What sort of Greek he wrote, however, we cannot say, for though we are going to give an account of his book, we have nothing but the Epitome of Photius to draw upon, the original having entirely perished. There is a story that the work existed in Ms. down to the year 1671, and was then destroyed by fire; but this does not seem to be supported by trustworthy evidence, nor is it certain that the supposed fragments really belonged to it at all.[2] The plot of the story, however, is clearly enough told by the Patriarch of Constantinople, and is as follows.
Sinonis, an Assyrian lady of great beauty, was engaged to be married to Rhodanes, a lover in every way worthy of her. Garmus, the king of Babylonia, proposed to deprive Rhodanes of his betrothed; and on her refusal to accede to this arrangement, took both into custody, ordered Rhodanes to be crucified, and confined Sinonis with a golden chain. By coaxing her jailors, Sacas and Damas, she escaped; and Rhodanes got away also. When this fact came to the king's ears, he cut off those of the two officers, and having also deprived them of their noses, sent them in quest of the fugitives. The latter took refuge in the cottage of an old woman, who showed them a cave with its mouth concealed by brushwood, and extending for three miles (thirty stadia). The pursuers, though they had surrounded the spot, were at fault; but a shield happening to fall through the opening betrayed the hiding-place. Damas and his followers dug a trench of circumvallation round it; but made so much noise in giving his orders, that the lovers had timely warning, and got away to the further opening. The digging of the trench disturbed a nest of wild bees, which had fed on poisonous flowers; they stung most of Damas's soldiers, who either died or became very ill; and Rhodanes and Sinonis, having eaten some of the honey, were overcome by its narcotic effects, and falling by the wayside were left for dead by their pursuers, who charitably covered them up, and left some food as offerings to their manes. In time they were awoke by finding the crows fighting for the honour of devouring their bodies; and meeting with two asses, took possession of them to continue their journey. They next fell into the hands of a robber, who was also a cannibal, but were saved from appearing at his table by the wretch himself being caught by Damas, who, not knowing of their proximity, set the premises on fire, from which they only escaped by killing their animals and walking out over their carcasses. Captured by the soldiers, they pretended to be ghosts of some of the people whom the robber had murdered, and next took possession of an empty tomb, which had just been vacated, owing to the intended occupier's having come to life in the middle of his funeral ceremonies, Here they feasted so luxuriously on the food and wine they found, that on being traced by their pursuers they were again taken for dead. On resuming their journey, Sinonis attempted to sell some of the clothes taken from the tomb, but was taken up for sacrilege, and brought before a magistrate named Sorœchus, who thought her pretty enough to be an acceptable offering to the king. Rather than come before Garmus again, Rhodanes and the lady prepared to take poison; but Sorœchus, having discovered their design, abstracted it, and substituted a soporific drug, during the operation of which he attempted to convey them to the king; but on their waking and trying a more effectual means of suicide, and relating their misfortunes, he let them go, pointing out the temple of Venus on an island in the river, where the wound of Sinonis might be cured. The priestess of this temple had two sons, named Tigris and Euphrates, exactly alike, and a daughter called Mesopotamia. Tigris had died some time before, owing to his having swallowed a beetle in a rose he was eating; but his mother believed that he was turned into a demi-god. As soon as Rhodanes approached, she discovered so remarkable a likeness to her son that she fancied he had come back from the shades, with Proserpine (in the shape of Sinonis) to conduct him. Rhodanes availed himself of the hint, and "assumed the god," as the readiest means of baffling his pursuers.
In the mean time, however, the medical man who had been called in by Sorœchus to cure Sinonis's wound had violated professional confidence, and delated the affair to Damas, who immediately sent Sorœchus under a guard before the king, and despatched the informer to the temple with a letter ordering the extradition of the fugitives. He had to cross the river on a camel, and hung the letter, in the usual way, on the animal's right ear; but happening somehow or other to get drowned when half-way across, the camel finished the passage, and Rhodanes, taking the letter from its ear, understood the fate in store for him. He instantly set off with Sinonis, and happening to meet with Sorœchus on his way to Garmus, killed the guards and set him free, as a return for his former kindness. The priest was arrested by Damas, and condemned to change his profession for that of an executioner; his son Euphrates, whom from his likeness he had addressed as Rhodanes, shared his fate. Sacas,—who it will be remembered was the fellow-officer of Damas,—supposing Euphrates to be Rhodanes, and Mesopotamia to be the missing Sinonis, sent word to Garmus that the birds were caught.
The real Rhodanes and Sinonis had taken refuge in the cottage of a rustic, whose daughter was in mourning for her husband, and had cut off her hair. Sinonis had been provident enough to preserve the gold chain with which she had been at first fastened up, and now sent the daughter out to sell it. The latter happened to go to the very goldsmith who had made it, who, suspecting her to be the lady who was "wanted," sent a message to Damas, and put his customer under surveillance. She observed herself followed, and, being too clever to go home, attempted to lead them off the scent by going to another house, which she supposed to be deserted, but which was, in fact, occupied by a slave who had just murdered a young woman there, and was hiding till the affair should blow over. On her arrival,—thinking, probably, that he was discovered,—he killed himself. A quantity of his blood got sprinkled over the girl's person; and her appearance was so shocking, that, as she came back towards her home, she frightened the detectives entirely away. The gold chain had been in the mean time sent to Garmus; but his informants were not positive enough about the person to induce him to inquire further.
Rhodanes and Sinonis, finding themselves harassed as usual, prepared to leave the rustic, and Rhodanes, without thinking any harm, gave the pretty widow a kiss in return for her trouble. Sinonis found him out, of course; the girl had apparently forgotten to wash her face, and some of the blood had become transferred—like the wine-stain in Goethe's ballad[3]—to the cheeks of Rhodanes. Sinonis, being a violent young person, seized a sword, and rushed off to kill her supposed rival, but was diverted from her purpose by Sorœchus, with whom she put up at the house of a rich fellow named Setapus. Setapus attempted to exact the ransom which some people expect from ladies whom they assist on their travels; but Sinonis, who had no idea of carrying her weapon about for nothing, pretended to submit to the conditions of her host, and then played the part of Judith or Jael; after which feat, feeling herself in the humour for more work, quitted the house without telling Sorœchus what she had done, and went to the cottage with a view of exacting vengeance on the widow for the kiss, which still rankled in her mind. Sorœchus, finding her gone, took some of the servants and a carriage, and brought her back in time to prevent further mischief; but the attendants of the late Setapus, finding their master killed, arrested the fair homicide, and took her off, not as a fugitive, but as a criminal.
Soreechus put dust on his head, cut his clothes, and went, like a refractory pauper, to tell Rhodanes, who did not see his way out of the affair except by going through the operation of "happy despatch." However, his friend suggesting that while there was life there was hope, with other equally original topics of consolation, turned him from his fell purpose. Garmus, having had letters from Sacas about a lady who had tried to dispose of a gold chain, took it for granted that the prey was captured at last, settled to marry Sinonis as soon as she should arrive, sacrificed to the gods, rejoiced abundantly, and—out of the gladness of his heart—commanded a general gaol-delivery throughout all the kingdom. The real Sinonis of course got the benefit of this act, and was at large again almost as soon as arrested. As for Damas, Garmus ordered him to be put to death; and, hearing from the goldsmith that Sinonis (as he supposed her to be—but really the cottager's daughter) had made her escape, he issued a warrant for the execution of that unfortunate tradesman, and ordered all the messengers that had been sent after her, together with their wives and children, to be buried alive.
At this point we learn that Rhodanes had a dog, and Sinonis a father, neither of which appendages have been previously mentioned. The former animal appears to have followed the widow—that is, the cottager's daughter (why didn't Mr. Iamblichus give her a name?)—when she went to the deserted house where the slave killed himself, and staying behind ate the whole of the slave's body, as well as a good deal of that of the girl he had murdered. The father of Sinonis happened to enter this house, and recognised the dog, though after having had two corpses to himself for about ten days he must have grown out of all knowledge. Without ever asking him to bark and explain himself, which Anubis would surely have enabled him to do if time had been given, the irate parent exclaimed, like Llewellyn in the ballad of "Beth Gelert,"
"Hell-hound, by thee my child's devour'd!"
and incontinently slew the creature. He then partially interred the bodies, and having written on the wall with the dog's blood an inscription, "Here lies the fair Sinonis," hanged himself then and there. Sorœchus and Rhodanes soon arrived, by some extraordinary chance, at this fatal domicile; and the latter, seeing his intended father-in-law sus. per coll., prepared to follow the suicidal example; having also written, "And the fair Rhodanes," as his own modest epitaph. Sorœchus thought they might as well all go together, so he, too, put his head into the noose. Just as both were on the brink of Elysium, and Rhodanes had gone so far as to inflict a slight wound, the widow rushed in, and seeing the situation with surprising quickness, cried out, "It is not Sinonis who lies here," cut down Sorœchus, snatched the sword from Rhodanes, told them the whole history of the dead slave, explaining that she came to possess herself of some money which he was supposed to have buried in the place. Sorœchus went for a doctor, while she stayed to dress the wound of Rhodanes; and while thus engaged, who should make her appearance but Sinonis. She had not in the least forgotten her jealousy—had gone to the girl's father with a drawn sword in her hand; and that extraordinary rustic, who seems to have had the queerest notions of parental duty that Babylonian was ever blessed with, actually told her where his daughter was to be found. The situation was awkward; Sinonis did not in the least believe in Sisters of Charity; and here was her lover tended by a handsome widow, whom he was proved to have surreptitiously kissed once before. She made a furious rush at the object of her enmity, but Rhodanes could not as a gentleman suffer his nurse to be turned into a patient, so he restrained Sinonis, and after a struggle took away her sword. This, as might be expected, did not mitigate her rage; she flew out of the house, exclaiming, "I invite you to Garmus's wedding," and did not return.
The son and daughter of the priestess, Euphrates and Mesopotamia, were in the mean time brought before Garmus, who, finding that the latter was not Sinonis, gave her over to an officer named Zobaras to be beheaded; to deter, as he said, any one from assuming her name a second time. Zobaras, of course, fell in love with his charge, and instead of beheading her took her to the court of Berenice, who had just sueceeded to the throne of Egypt by the death of her father. Berenice protected the lovers, and was in consequence immediately involved in a war with King Garmus. The latter gave Euphrates over to the executioner; but the unlucky monarch was fated to disappointment in all his cherished projects; for the fact is, though we cannot expect the reader to remember it, that, as a punishment for harbouring Sinonis, the priest of Venus had been compelled to undertake the unpleasant office; and Euphrates therefore found himself in no worse hands than those of his own father. The latter as yet had had no work, and as it was important that the priest should not stain his hands with human blood, his son performed his duty for him, and soon had the opportunity of saving a life, as his own had been saved. Sinonis[4] does not appear to have carried out her threat of marrying Garmus; but she somehow or other became the wife of a king of Syria, of whom we had not previously heard. The first use she made of her power was to wreak her vengeance on the cottager's daughter; but the latter found favour in the eyes of Euphrates, and evaded discovery by wielding in an official capacity—and we conclude in male attire—the axe which had been destined for her own throat. This arrangement gave Euphrates an opportunity of escaping in the disguise of the jailor's daughter.
Sorœchus was ordered by Garmus to be crucified; and his cross was set up in the very spot where Rhodanes and Sinonis had made their first halt, and where they had discovered a mysterious treasure, which they had no time to carry away. Just in time he was taken down by a body of soldiers of the Alani, whose pay was in arrear, and whom he persuaded to acknowledge him as king and levy war against Garmus. In the mean time Garmus had crucified Rhodanes also, had got drunk, and was dancing round him with intense delight, enjoying. his agonies, when news came of the marriage of Sinonis to the King of Syria. Garmus at once took down his victim, made him a general officer, and put him in command of an expedition against the Syrian prince; but secretly gave orders to his private emissaries, that as soon as Rhodanes had conquered his adversary and recovered the lady, he was to be assassinated. Rhodanes obtained a victory and possession of Sinonis; but the plot against him failed, and he turned his forces against Garmus, whom he overthrew and deprived of his kingdom.—
Iamblichus did not describe Rhodanes married, or the Patriarch of Constantinople has not thought it necessary to continue his abridgment beyond this point; but we have an idea that Sinonis was a vixen, and that Rhodanes did not find her worth all the coil that had been made about her. It is evident that she never forgave her lover for taking the widow's part, which is an unamiable trait in her character; and it destroys our interest in her to find that she married some one else instead of waiting for Rhodanes to the end of the seventeenth book.[5] Possibly it was the fashion for novelists to be realistic in the days of Iamblichus; and the poetic justice, which has since been so useful to writers and agreeable to readers, was not then considered as a matter of course. The Oriental education of our author might also lead him to look upon such matters in a light different from that in which they appear to us.
On the ground of representation of manners, character, or style, it is of course impossible now to form any judgment of this novel; but in respect of its narrative, it may be allowed to possess some ingenuity. Let it be remembered that it was probably the first of its kind; that is, the first having any pretension to a plot in which one part bears upon another, as distinguished from a succession of adventures which may be cut short at any moment. At the same time, it cannot be said that the invention of the author is very brilliant; many of the incidents are too much alike, and that of the likeness between Rhodanes and the sons of the priest, on which so much is made to turn, is excessively forced. The best incident in the story appears to be the release of the real Sinonis, in consequence of the king's intended marriage to the supposed Sinonis,—certainly a most unexpected turn of fortune, and one which has a good deal of comic force about it. The circumstances in general are perhaps sufficiently probable for a pantomime; for the libretto of an opera they would be scarcely good enough, though the trials of the lovers in the Zauberflöte have a certain degree of resemblance to those which we have just related.
We cannot detain the reader with any thing even distantly approaching to a biographical account of the next novelist; for there is absolutely no mention of him in any ancient writer except Suidas, and scholars have always wondered why Photius did not epitomize him. It is not even certain that Xenophon was his real name, or that he lived at Ephesus; for the rhetoricians sometimes concealed themselves under pseudonyms, just as prizefighters call themselves Wednesbury Wallopers or Birmingham Pets. There is only one Ms. of his work, which is preserved in the Monastery of the Monte Cassino, near Florence, written in extremely tiny characters, and supposed to belong to the eleventh century. From certain internal evidence, it seems pretty clear that the writer, whoever he was, lived in the age of the Antonines; and we are the less inclined to believe that he belonged to a later period, because his Greek is remarkably good, his style singularly clear, and almost, though not quite, free from conceits or rhetorical turns of thought. An easier or more perspicuous style it would be difficult to find any where, except perhaps in the works of his Athenian namesake. The story is a better one than that of Iamblichus, and a reader may really find himself interested in parts of the original; though we cannot flatter ourselves that this quality will be preserved in our account of it. However, here it is. It is called Ephesiaca; or, the Adventures of Habrocomas and Anthia.
Habrocomas was an Ephesian youth, of such surpassing beauty that his fellow-citizens almost adored him as a god. He was accomplished in music and literature, and skilled in all manly exercises,—a complete Admirable Crichton of his time. But he was as vain as he was clever and handsome, and was particularly scornful on the subject of love, whose statues he thought quite below comparison with his own person. Certainly they were, but it was not good manners to say so; and the God of Love resented the insult, and prepared a dire revenge on this upstart rival. He found his opportunity at a festival of Diana, to whose temple, a short distance from the city, it was the custom for the youths and maidens of Ephesus to walk in procession, bearing the insignia of the goddess,—torches, bows, arrows, baskets,—and followed by horses and dogs. This time it was Habrocomas who headed the youths; while the leader of the girls, and the fairest of the whole troop, was a certain maiden named Anthia, whose beauty was enhanced by the richness and elegance of her attire. Her hair was auburn; part of it was plaited round her head, but the greater quantity was left to the wind to play with as it pleased. Her eyes were spirited,[6] but with the gaiety of girlhood they combined the severer expression of a modest maiden. Her dress was a purple tunic, fastened at the shoulders and gathered up just above the knee ;over it was thrown a fawn-skin, and her bow and arrows hung behind. In her hands she held a couple of spears, and was followed by her hounds.[7] It was not wonderful that the Ephesians, who, when they had met her walking about in her every-day costume, had adored her as much as Diana, should now take her for the goddess herself. Nothing else was talked about while she was passing but the beautiful Anthia; but when Habrocomas came in sight, most of the crowd forgot the previous object of their admiration, and concentrated their gaze upon him,—only a few observed, what a handsome couple the two would make. The consequence, however, was that each of the two admired people wished to see the other, and the amorous deity might be said to have drawn his first parallel.
As soon as they entered the temple, both processions broke up and mingled together. Habrocomas and Anthia saw each other, and instantly fell head over ears in love. Habrocomas, who was not used to admiring any one but himself, resisted the pleasing enchantment as much as he could, but was obliged to give in at last, and could not keep his eyes off the young lady. As for Anthia, she surrendered her heart at once, and, though it is shocking to relate of one whose looks have just been described as severely modest, we fear there is no doubt that she did her best to attract the object of her admiration, by talking on purpose for him to hear her charming voice, and even allowing him to see the elegance of her figure.[8] Xenophon does not say whether his hero and heroine enjoyed the delight of each other's conversation, though it would have been amusing to know what was the usual way, in his time, of beginning a flirtation with a young person to whom one has not been introduced. Did Habrocomas suggest that Anthia might see the ceremony better if she stood a little on this side? did he tread on the sandals of some stout Ephesian common-councillor, to make him move out of the way, or remove his stool—"for a lady, sir"—just as he was going to sit down? or did he venture to remark that it was very warm in such a crowd? or did he ask Anthia where she bought her fawn-skin? or did he quiz the other girls? or was he bashful,—which Mrs. Ellis says is always the way at first with genuine attachments,—and did he in that case confine himself to making friends with the dogs, which, indeed, would be a prudent thing to do in any case, seeing that people then wore no trousers, and presented, in respect of their calves, a terrible easy prey? On these points we have no information; but from the perturbed state in which both parties passed the night, it is to be inferred that neither had had the courage to say any thing. Habrocomas, who had now no further thought of resistance to the God of Love, did not see his way to making acquaintance; and Anthia was miserable, because, though dreadfully handsome, he seemed so proud. They both went to the temple the next day, when Habrocomas poured out his soul in loud and lamentable prayers, which set Anthia's mind at rest about his feelings; but she immediately discovered a fresh source of torment in the way the other women looked at him, fancying, of course, that he could not help being attracted by some of them. Both the lovers soon carried their passion to such a pitch that they became quite ill, and their respective parents could not think (they never can) what was the matter. Anthia's papa and mamma sent for several priests; but as it never occurred to her to tell these reverend persons that she was merely dying for a handsome young man, of course they went away as wise as they came. A somewhat similar process having been tried in the case of Habrocomas with a similar result, both families sent to consult the Oracle of Apollo at Colophon, requesting particularly that the god would give them "a true answer," which, we should say, conveyed a shocking insult, as implying that he sometimes told fibs,—but then the ancients were not so nice as we are about these imputations. He returned nine indifferent Greek verses, to the effect that the remedy was to be sought in the same quarter as the disease; that both parties had a good deal of trouble before them; that their "destiny'—like that of a more recently celebrated pair of lovers—would in great measure "hang by boats;" that a tomb and a fire would be their nuptial couch; and that all would come right at the Temple of Isis in Egypt. The anxious parents then understood the state of affairs, and married the couple out of hand. The wedding was splendid, and the nuptial chamber was ornamented with beautiful paintings,—Venus sat attended by Cupids, who rode on the backs of sparrows, while before Mars, crowned with the garland of peace, Love himself walked, with a lamp in his hand, to guide his footsteps[9] to the chamber of his mistress.
It was not till the doors were shut, and the hymeneal song died away as the chorus receded through the house, that the bride and bridegroom regained their faculty of speech. Habrocomas said nothing worth recording, except that he congratulated Anthia on being "properly married" to the man she happened to be in love with, which shows that the idea expressed in the well-known lines of Shakespeare was then a recognised truth. Anthia gently reproached him for having been so long falling in love. She knew how unhappy he must have been when he had done so, from what she had suffered herself. She kissed his eyes, which had first wounded her by their brightness, and then thanked them for having conveyed her image to the soul of her lover, and told them she hoped they would never show her husband any woman whom he could think more beautiful than herself. Nothing could be more happy than the lovers, both then and for some time afterwards: they were so absorbed in each other, that they forgot all about the Oracle; but their parents, who seem to have thought that Fate might be propitiated by meeting it half-way, determined to send them to travel in Egypt under the care of a tutor (!), and attended by a valet and a maid, called Leucon and Rhoda. Habrocomas and his young wile were very miserable at leaving home, and did nothing for the first day or two but kiss each other, and swear eternal fidelity in case of separation. After a short voyage they touched at the island of Rhodes, where they offered, in the Temple of the Sun, a golden suit of armour, with an inscription stating the names and country of the donors. Their misfortunes now began. Soon after setting sail again they were becalmed, and the sailors, having nothing to do, took to drinking, and left the vessel unguarded. Habrocomas dreamt that the ship was burnt, and that he and Anthia swam away from it; and the dream was not long coming true, for the next day some pirates took advantage of the calm to creep up to the ship and board her. Nobody thought of making any resistance, and Habrocomas and Anthia fell at their feet, imploring them to take their money and spare their life,[10] sell them for slaves, any thing, provided they sold them both to the same master. The scene was horrible and heartrending; part of the sailors were left behind in the burning ship, while those who were carried away congratulated them on dying before becoming slaves.[11] The unfortunate tutor threw himself into sea, and his pupil tried to induce the pirates to stop and take him in; but they paid no attention to either, and the tutor was consequently drowned. The pirates sailed away with Habrocomas and his wife to Tyre, where the latter, as was to be expected, excited the cupidity of the pirate-captain, who, finding that his own suit made little progress, sent a friend to Habrocomas to point out to him that he had better, under the circumstances, make up his mind to part with her. What did such a very young man want with a lady at all? Certainly, when a married gentleman is found travelling in statu pupillari, pirates, whose perceptions are coarse, may be excused for thinking that he is scarcely old enough to be trusted with either wife or property. The negotiation, however, was cut short by the arrival of the pirate's employer, Absyrtus, who took a purely commercial view of the two well-looking captives, and sent them and their attendants to his house, to be kept there till he could find good purchasers. But Absyrtus had a daughter named Manto, who immediately fell in love with Habrocomas, and told Rhoda to make the requisite proposals. Rhoda consulted her fellow-servant (and lover), Leucon, who took the message, and advised compliance; and Anthia gave the same counsel, because she thought it would save the life of her husband. "I will go away somewhere," she said, "and kill myself; all I ask is, that you will kiss me when I am dead, bury me, and never forget Anthia." Manto, impatient of delay, sent a letter signed with her name to Habrocomas, to the same effect as her message, which he answered with as much indignation as Don Juan showed in his interview with Gulleyaz:
"Love is for the free.
I am not dazzled by this splendid roof:
Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to be,
Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne,
And hands obey,—our hearts are still our own."
Manto was as much annoyed as Gulleyaz; but she did not show so much knowledge of human nature. Perhaps, if she had sent for Habrocomas and burst into tears, Anthia might have acquired cause for jealousy; but she only got in a rage, and complained to her father in the manner in which the spouse of Potiphar complained of Joseph. He believed her; flogged the presumptuous youth, and put him in prison, where Anthia sometimes managed to pay him a visit and keep up his spirits. Absyrtus had brought home a husband for his daughter, and on her marriage and departure for Syria he made her a present of Anthia, Leucon, and Rhoda as slaves. Manto's first act on reaching her new abode was to sell Leucon and Rhoda to a man who lived at Xanthus, and to marry Anthia to a goatherd, named Mœris, out of revenge; but Aunthia, by telling him her sad story, persuaded him to remain only a husband in name. In the mean time Absyrtus happened to find the letter which Manto had sent to Habrocomas, and at once atoned for his injustice by giving him a high post in his household. Manto's troubles were not over; for her husband happened to observe the goatherd's supposed wife, and became enamoured of her. Mœris told Manto of this, who ordered him to kill Anthia, which she thought he did; but he only sold her to some merchants, who, sailing away with her, were the same night wrecked on an unknown coast, and fell into the hands of robbers, commanded by a captain named Hippothous. In the mean time Manto wrote to her father to complain of her husband's conduct, and stated that she had sold the cause of it to some people trading to Syria; news which, coming to the ears of Habrocomas, caused him to throw up his appointment, and set off in quest of his wife. She was just then about to be sacrificed by her captors, by being bound to a tree, and having spears thrown at her; but just as this amusement was commencing, Perilaus, a magistrate of Tarsus, made a descent upon the band, and destroyed all of them except Hippothous. Perilaus, like every one else, fell in love with Anthia, and wished to marry her. She did not disclose her history; but in the hope, we suppose, that "something might turn up," asked and obtained a month's grace before being led to the altar. The escaped Hippothous went into Cilicia, where he met and "fraternized" with Habrocomas, and a comparison of notes having shown that Anthia was the person he had nearly slaughtered, they both determined to go afresh in search of her. She, in the mean time, was approaching the day fixed for her marriage with Perilaus, but resolved to die rather than suffer it to take place. At this juncture, an Ephesian physician came, in the course of his travels, to Tarsus, and was introduced to her. Being, like Juliet's apothecary, in a needy condition, he took a heavy bribe to supply her with poison. The wedding was performed; but the moment the bride retired to her chamber, she sent for a glass of water, and swallowed the draught. Perilaus entered to find her lifeless, gave her a magnificent funeral, and placed the body in a large tomb outside the city. What the physician had given her turned out to be only a sleeping potion. She woke in the tomb; but had scarcely regained her senses, before she fell into the hands of a band of robbers, who had come to plunder the offerings. Willing enough to die, she was forced to live, and was carried off to Alexandria, and sold to a rich Indian traveller named Psammis, from whose violence she saved herself by pretending to be sacred to Isis, but was nevertheless kept in custody by him. Habrocomas heard the story of the marriage and the death, and followed the track to Egypt. There he was taken captive, and bought by a man named Araxus, whose wife immediately conceived a criminal passion for him, and proposed to kill her husband in order to marry him. Habrocomas, whose morality seems to have been confined to the sole virtue of conjugal fidelity, made no opposition to the first part of the scheme; but as soon as it was completed left the house in disgust, upon which the widow naturally denounced him as the murderer, and got him placed in prison.
Hippothous now thought of resuming his old trade, and with this view betook himself to Æthiopia, where he established himself with some followers in a range of hills convenient to a frequented caravan-track. About the same time Habrocomas suffered the extreme penalty of the law for the murder of Araxus, by being crucified on the bank of the Nile. The cross, however, was blown down into the stream, and floated with its burden to the mouth, where the unfortunate man was caught again, and brought before the Viceroy of Egypt, who ordered him to be burnt. He ascended the pile, which was lighted, and began to blaze, when a sudden rising of the Nile extinguished it. The viceroy was so much struck by this prodigy that he remanded Habrocomas to prison, pending further inquiries as to who he was, and why he should be the object of such care on the part of the gods. In the mean time Psammis, accompanied by Anthia, travelled to Æthiopia, where he was attacked and killed by the followers of Hippothous, who took possession of his whole train and baggage; but neither Anthia nor the bandit recognised each other, and she pretended to be an Egyptian named Memphitis. Habrocomas was soon afterwards released, the truth about the murder of Araxus being discovered, and set off again upon his search. He of course took the wrong direction, and stayed a long time at Syracuse with an old fisherman named Aegialeus, whose peculiar taste was to keep his wife, long since dead, in an embalmed state in his chamber, where he said he found the contemplation of her wonderfully refreshing after a hard day's work in his boat.
Returning to the fortunes of Anthia, we hear that she had her usual ill-luck in attracting the attentions of one of Hippothous's followers, which, during the absence of the rest, one day assumed so marked a character, that she found herself obliged to put an end to him. Hippothous was very angry when he returned, and punished Anthia by burying her alive in a pit with two fierce dogs, and placing Amphinomus, one of his men, as a guard. Amphinomus, however, took pity on her, and put down through a hole bread enough to feed her and the dogs as well, so that it did not occur to them to eat their companion; and on Hippothous preparing to quit Aithiopia, which had grown too narrow a field for his predatory ambition, he took her out altogether, and carried her to Coptus. But the authorities were determined to root out Hippothous and his bandits before they did further mischief, and Polyidus, an active magistrate, headed a successful descent upon them. Some of the prisoners happened to see Amphinomus in a village they were passing, and pointed him out as having been one of their number: both he and Anthia were seized, and Polyidus, though a married man, made the proposals to which she, by this time, must have been tolerably well accustomed. At Memphis she found herself in considerable peril, and took refuge in the Temple of Isis. Polyidus, then for the first time hearing her story, compassionated her, and promised to offer her no further molestation; and she was still more comforted by a response from the Oracle that she should soon see her husband again. She had not counted on female jealousy; for the wife of Polyidus, hearing of his apparent intimacy with his fair captive, had her cruelly beaten, and then sent her to Tarentum, to be sold to a pandar. She ran great risk again on this occasion; but pretending to have fits, was put up to sale, and eventually purchased by Hippothous, who had in the interim married and buried an heiress, and was now spending his fortune in buying any pretty thing that took his fancy. He had recognised her, and, on becoming her owner, acted like most of the other men she had met with. On hearing her story, however, and finding her to be the wife of his dearest friend, he treated her thenceforth with the greatest respect.
Habrocomas, who had left the Syracusan fisherman, and had been wandering about Italy, now turned his course homewards, and in his progress reached Rhodes. Alone, miserable, and in want of the necessaries of life, he could not help contrasting his present condition with that which he enjoyed on his former visit to the island. He walked into the Temple of the Sun, where his own offering still remained; but near it was a gift from Leucon and Rhoda, who had settled in the place long before, and had become their master's heirs, with an inscription relating to the lost Anthia and Habrocomas. While he was looking at it, Leucon and Rhoda themselves came in, and observed with surprise a stranger gazing intently on the two offerings. Their question produced recognition and disclosure of his name, and they received their former master hospitably, intending to do all they could to further his views.
Hippothous, in the mean time, thought the best thing he could do was to take Anthia home. But on his way he also touched at Rhodes. Anthia, struck by the contrast of present grief and former joy, cut off a lock of her hair, and left it as an offering to the Sun, with an inscription mentioning, as was usual, the donor's name. It would have been too perverse a trick for Fortune to separate the two again, now that the "magic music" of circumstances was playing so very rapidly. Anthia, who had meant to leave the next day, was detained by a storm, and was found by Leucon and Rhoda in the temple, who soon brought Habrocomas to her. The news spread, and the Rhodians, who had a lively recollection of their previous visit, crowded to see the meeting. When it was over, the whole party, including Hippothous, set sail for Ephesus. Every body's parents were dead, and Habrocomas and Anthia found a handsome fortune waiting for them, which they shared with their three companions; and all lived together in great comfort and harmony for the rest of their lives.
This story is less known than some of which we shall give an account in a future Paper; but it has been generally admired by those who have read it. Some passages will be allowed to be pretty, and the description of the visit of Habrocomas to Rhodes on the second occasion is conceived quite in the spirit of a modern novel. The narrative is skilfully managed, and the absence of confusion where so many people are introduced is rather remarkable. Of the incidents, the most interesting to us is the one of the sleeping potion, though we really cannot say how many hands it passed through before it reached those of Shakespeare, nor whether Xenophon was the original author of it. There is something a little like it in the Babylonica; but there the sleep is due to accident, not to design. Character, in the sense in which we use the term of fictitious personages, neither of the lovers possess in the least degree; and we may warn the reader at once that this is not an article in which the Greek novelists deal largely. Their chief virtues are ingenuity of incident and occasional beauty of description; and for much more than this we must not look. We may remark some traces of Orientalism in the tale. The transfer of Anthia from one master to another, whose selfish motives are not developed at first, reminds us of a story told by Mr. Lane in one of the notes to his Arabian Nights. A man one day came to the Caliph Moawiyah to complain that he had been deprived of his wife. He had become poor through a bad season, and her father had taken her away from him. On his complaining to the governor of the district, he sent for the woman with the intention of restoring her, but found her so beautiful, that he determined to keep her himself. When the Caliph ordered him to give her up, he complied, but sent a letter predicting that the Caliph when he saw her would do exactly as he himself had done. Moawiyah did in fact make the attempt, but was just enough to give the woman her choice, who returned to her own husband. This kind of adventure is repeated to a great extent in the Greek novelists, though not quite in so piquant a form; and in the tales of Heliodorus, Longus, and Achilles Tatius, which we propose to take up in the next Paper, we shall have an opportunity of observing it.
1. The penultimate syllable of his name is long, being derived from Iamlêk, a name which occurs in 1 Chron. iv. 34, among the posterity of Simeon.
2. We have not seen the "new one of some length" which the writer of the article "Iamblichus" in Dr. Smith's Dictionary states to have been discovered by Mai. Our opinion is based on the researches and reasonings of Chardon de la Rochette, who appears to have examined the question with much care. The fragment he gives is descriptive of a royal procession at Babylon, and contains nothing to connect it with any part of the story which Photius epitomises.
3. Wirkung in die Ferne (influence at a distance). At a court banquet, a girl happens to throw some wine over her dress, and runs off to change it. At the same time the queen sends her page (who happens te be the maiden's lover) for her purse. The pair meet in one of the passages, and exchange a kiss, which leaves a ruddy mark on the youth's countenance. The queen draws attention to the remarkable fact, that a cup of wine spilt in the banquet-hall should have had power to stain something at the other end of the palace.
4. This part of the story is rather obscurely told by Photius.
5. Or thirty-ninth, according to some authorities.
6. Γοργός is the Greek word. It generally means "fierce," but seems to be used here in the sense in which Xenophon the historian (whose style this one is said to have imitated) applies it to horses.
7. Those who have been fortunate enough to see Miss Herbert in the burlesque of Endymion will be able to realise this picture.
8. Mr. Hirschig, whose Latin translation is not of the most polished, has translated the words [GREEK] by "corporis partes inspiciendas nudavit," a bit of coarseness we do not find in the two former and better editors, Locella and Peerlkamp. They add, "quas honeste potuit," or some similar phrase, which makes all the difference.
9. This passage may possibly have suggested the pretty lines which Jortin, or some other modern scholar, passed off as part of an ancient inscription:
"Te sequar obscurum per iter: dux ibit eunti
Fidus amor, tenebras lampade discutiens."
And the latter may be the original of a striking couplet of Heber's, in one of his sacred poems.
10. [GREEK] Vacation tourists, who explore the classic sites of Acarnania, may find the formula useful. The modern Greek mode of deprecation is probably to be had at the office of our contemporary the [GREEK].
11. Xenophon here imitates a passage of Virgil, En. iii. 321, where Andromache, when Æneas finds her living with Pyrrhus at Buthrotum, avoids a direct answer to his questions by exclaiming how much Polyxena was to be envied, who died at Troy, and never passed into the hands of a master. It was all very well for Andromache to say this to Æneas years afterwards; but Virgil would scarcely have represented her as making such a speech at the actual moment of the sacrifice. Nothing, therefore, can be more tasteless than Xenophon's adoption of the idea under the existing circumstances. He is not, however, generally chargeable with similar want of judgment.