Wright's phased Meleager

Taking on faith the conventional story that Meleager arranged his Garland alphabetically (he did not), and therefore finding no trace of its original structure in the Palatine Anthology (where in fact its traces are plain), Wright must decide on an appropriate arrangement for his English versions.

In this too he follows an interpretative tradition, though a minor one nurtured by amateurs. It goes back to a very early translator into English, Robert Bland (1806), whom I quote here:

The first of Meleager’s collections was necessarily exposed to [mediaeval monks’] fury. The specimens of that work which yet remain too abundantly justify the persecution. It was written for the express purpose of celebrating Eastern sensuality...

But unfortunately its indiscriminating enemies appear to have been actuated by a rage no less furious, against those beautiful relics of affection and sorrow, by which the poet endeavoured to make amends to an insulted world for the extravagance of his youth.

Bland and his collaborator John Herman Merivale proposed a version of the Anthology's prehistory whereby Meleager was the author of (at least) two epigram-books before he embarked on the Garland:

1. An early book of pederastic verses;
2. A subsequent book of heterosexual love-poems.
   

The claim that few of Meleager's erotic poems have survived the censors' wrath reads oddly today, in the light of the sixty-odd poem attributed to Meleager in Book 12 ('Strato's Boyish Muse'); but clearly Bland was working from one of the various print editions that derived from Maximus Planudes' castrated thirteenth-century redaction. The older and fuller version of Cephalas' Anthology preserved in the Palatine MS was known of, among those in the know, but its first useable modern edition was not yet complete -- and indeed publishers were to carry on reprinting their old Planudes-based properties well into the nineteenth century, because it was well known and they had the plates in hand.

If his introductory remarks are any guide, Wright had not investigated any of the modern scholarship on the Anthology. He had looked into Symonds's Studies of the Greek Poets (1873), though he had skipped or forgotten the bit about manuscripts and versions; and he had happened upon an ancient copy of Bland. That was the limit of his learning. Accordingly his Meleager is a poet of three phases:

1. Poems of youth;
2. Poems of manhood;
3. Poems of age.

I'll look at how he handles this three-act structure in another blog post.

Introducing F. A. Wright

'Noteworthy as perhaps the feeblest verse translation of any ancient poet'

-- so wrote Peter Whigham (1975) as he surveyed the predecessors to his own Meleager. Whigham himself, though, was reliably dreadful, so let us not prejudge. Who then was 'F. A. Wright', and what can we make of his Complete Poems of Meleager of Gadara (1924)?

Frederick Adam Wright (1869-1946), F.A., LL.D., was educated at Magdalen College, Oxford. He taught classics at Birkbeck for an astounding thirty-seven years (1898-1935) and seems to have thrown himself into the role of affable don. In the 1910s he had published a small handful of classical notes, giving his address as 'Katoombah', Thorpe Bay, Essex. Then came a flurry. He wrote a History of Later Greek Literature and translated later Greek authors: Alciphron's Mimes, Heliodorus' Ethiopian Story, and what he called the Complete Love Poems of the Palatine Anthology, all in the same year, 1923. His Meleager of 1924 will have been spun off from that last one. The same year he had a full Martial out, though at least for that there was a co-author.

Frankly I don't understand his publication history at all. Look on his (online) works, ye research-active, and despair:

https://onlinebooks.library.upenn.edu/webbin/book/lookupname?key=Wright%2C%20F%2E%20A%2E%20%28Frederick%20Adam%29%2C%201869%2D1946

How did he possibly cram in so much between 1923 and 1925? A trickle before his mid-fifties, and then all this. Had he been stockpiling it all in a trunk under his bed? Actually that is my least hopeless guess. Roger Pearse has done better digging than I, on his excellent blog.

When Wright comes to the Anthology -- and we may presume he comes in a hurry -- he accepts the erroneous tradition that Meleager had arranged his Garland alphabetically, finds no trace of that arrangement in the Greek Anthology today, and concludes that all traces of it must have been obliterated by its 'later editors' (one would not go to him for the details). Accordingly he is free to devise an arrangement that respects the evident trajectory of Meleager's career, and in this too he follows a known though misleading path. We will look into that next time.

Headlam's sphragis, and self-censorship

Headlam signs off his selection with -- what else? -- an epigram of his own devising, as follows. 'Transformed' in line 1 scans as three syllables, olde-worlde-style:

Transformed fifty blossoms are of Meleager's soul,
   all with the Muses and the Graces grown:
Let these suffice thee; for by far the half exceeds the whole,
   say we to whom is Hesiod's wisdom known.

The second couplet invokes line 40 of Hesiod's famously pious Works and Days, where the poet propounds exactly this axiom: πλέον ἥμισυ παντός. It has the ring of something already proverbial, or on its way to becoming so.

Fifty is rather less than half of the Anthology's 134 Meleagrian epigrams -- but then, so many are ruled out already by being addressed to beautiful boys. Headlam has preceded his own sphragis with two of the self-epitaphs with which Meleager wound up his collection (and indeed 'Muses and Graces' riffs on the first of them). He excludes the third such epitaph, in which the poet dedicated his Garland to a current or former lover, Diocles. Here is the second:

Tread softly, stranger: here at rest among pure souls below
An old man, Meleager, sleeps the sleep that all men owe:
The son of Eucrates; that did together of his wit
Muses and Love the sweet in tears with merry Graces knit:
Whom Tyre divine to manhood reared, and Gadara's holy land;
Cos of the Merops nursed his age upon her lovely strand.
If thou art Syrian, then Salaam! Naidios! if Phenician:
Prithee to me return the same, or Chaere!, if a Grecian.

The selection came out in 1890. A very few years later (I do not know exactly how many) Headlam pulled the book from the market: I wonder how that conversation with his publisher went. The memoir says he was embarrassed at his juvenilia, and that may well have been true. I wonder also if growing public awareness of Oscar Wilde's sexually dissident Hellenism may have fed into his thinking, though I guess it would now be next to impossible to find out. Headlam's selection was decorous, but his introduction and notes had repeatedly exalted the fine remarks on Meleager in Studies of the Greek Poets by John Addington Symonds, whose idealising view of Greek love so strongly influenced Wilde. The posthumous and bestselling third edition of Studies came out in 1893, praising Meleager as a paragon of healthy bisexuality in terms it was hard to ignore.

Wilde on trial (1895) subsequently invoked Symonds's Uranian vision of a love that dared not presently speak its name but that had always been there, inspiring humanity's most sublime artistic achievements. He won over the crowd but not the court, and blew the cover on the nineteenth-century gay elite's favourite hanky code as he did so.

Two on Zenophila

 

In the Anthology these two poems are AP 5.174 and 171. Headlam invents his own numbering system, reordering the poems to imply a life-story in which Meleager moves on from one romantic prospect to the next, making a clean break each time. Zenophila is his first love; then Timarion, who is not a boy! honestly! Last comes the great and defining love of the poet's life as the Victorians liked to imagine it: Heliodora.

The translations are faithful enough, though padded. Some of the rhymes set my teeth on edge.

VII

Zenophile, my tender bloom,
thou sleepest. Oh the guise
of gliding slumber to assume
and enter on thine eyes!

That thereby might not even he
have unto thee access
who lulls the lids of Zeus, but thee
I only might possess. 

VII

The cup in bliss rejoiceth much
because, so boasteth he,
'tis his the prattling mouth to touch
of sweet Zenophile.

O happy cup, to be so quaffed!
would she her lips might strain
to my lips now, and at a draught
the soul within me drain!

Headlam limbers up

To set the scene for his own versions of the poems he considers decently Englishable -- 'half of them will hardly bear translation' -- Headlam offers a brief life of Meleager and then an excerpted rendition of the verse proem to that poet's Garland. I think it's rather lovely and I reproduce it here.

Sweet Muse, to whom this fruitage of singing hast thou brought?
who was it that the poets' garland wrought?
'twas Meleager made it, for noble Diocles
contriving a remembrance that might please;
of Moero many lilies enweaving in his posies,
and Anyte  of Sappho few, — but roses;
with daffodils hymn-teeming of Melanippides,
and young vine-tendril of Simonides…

With marjoram from fragrant Rhianus therewithal,
and sweet Erinna's crocus virginal.
The pansy, Damagetus, and of Callimachus
sweet myrtle, full of honey rigorous…


And, from the pasture, blossom from off that crisped thorn,
Archilochus, small drops from ocean borne…

With ever-golden branches of Plato the divine,
that everywhere do of their virtue shine…

And many shoots of others new-writ; and with them set
of his own muse white snowdrops early yet.

Headlam ends by assuring Greekless readers that they may trust his translation to be faithful to the Greek. With a final sign-off ('Florence, May 1890') we are under way...

... by way of yet another flourish of original and metrically various verse. 'Of every flower his garland did Meleager twine, | but he doth of the garland himself the garland shine...', and so on. With half of Meleager's 130-ish epigrams already written off as too hot to handle, even a slender volume may find itself in need of padding:

...

Sweet utterances we bring to thee
of Meleager's voice,
that are of all his poesy
the treasures of our choice.

Come, if thou canst, receive the gift;
but if thy learning fails
to rede the dulcet-sounding drift
of Grecian nightingales,

For thee the twitterings musical,
so hardly to be read,
in our outlandish phrases all
have we interpreted.

That last stanza... not great.

Headlam's classical precocity

Walter Headlam's extraordinary gift for classical language was recognised early. At Harrow he won a great many prizes for poetic versions from, and into, Latin and Greek. I know of these from the memoir compiled by his brother Cecil: it ends with a thorough catalogue of works compiled by the Cambridge-educated art historian, Lawrence Haward.

Walter's prizewinning poems appeared often in the school magazine and were reprinted in a volume titled Prolusiones Scholae Harroviensis (I regre that I've not yet laid eyes on either source). By Haward's report they include an 1883 translation into Latin from John Addington Symonds's Studies of the Greek Poets, of which Headlam was clearly an early adopter; versions of passages from tragedy; and original Latin Alcaics, repeatedly. Clearly Walter was a whizz with metre. There were also a number of original Greek epigrams. The headmaster, George Butler, singled out one such epigram inspired by General Gordon's deeds at Khartoum for special mention on Speech Day. The Symonds translation may carry significance, to which I may return in another post.

Once at Cambridge, where we know he also worked on his translation of Meleager, Headlam contributed to the university's own Prolusiones Academicae. Haward records Latin and Greek odes, and versions from Catullus. Again there were prizes: Sir William Browne's Medal, repeatedly (and again I have Haward to thank for all of this). One such victory was for a patriotic Latin ode felicitating Queen Victoria on the fiftieth year of her reign.

Jebb fans may wish to follow up the following curiosity:

'A Private Oration.' The Cambridge Review, vol. xi. pp. 228,  229 {Feb. 27).

A mock-Demosthenic oration put into the mouth of Professor Jebb, who opposes the Town Council’s proposal to convert a portion of his garden at Springfield into Sidgwick Avenue. Reprinted in 'The Book of the Cambridge Review,' pp. 225-229 (Cambridge, 1898); and v. supra, Part FE. p. 29.

Headlam's early contributions to the school magazine at Harrow appeared under the nom de plume 'Echo', the nymph who loved Narcissus.

Headlam welcomes his poet

Headlam's intro is of interest. His title page dedicates his translation to his slightly older contemporary and fellow Cambridge classicist, Hugh Vibart MacNaghten, just as (he goes on to say) Meleager had offered his Garland to his own 'friend' Diocles (MacNaghten, a big name at Eton, never married). And he begins with a sweet verse encomium:

With whatsoever skill is ours
we Meleager praise,
the amorous nature, fond of flowers,
the master of sweet phrase:

We Meleager praise, that well
of unkind Love's despite
could tell in song, in song could tell
of kindly Love's delight

Foreign of race are we, that own
too harsh a voice to sing,
music of more entrancing tone,
to praise him, borrowing.

And yet no stranger he, nor dead,
for him among all men
the Muses have established
a deathless denizen.

The last stanza is a shout-out a famous self-epitaph (one of several) in which Meleager declares his cosmopolitanism, AP 7.417. Here are the relevant lines of my own translation of it:

And what surprise, good friend who passes by,
If MELEAGER is a Syrian?
For we are citizens of all the world;
It is one nation, and the same expanse
Gives birth to all of us...

I recall how bittersweet it was to translate from Meleager for the World's Classics as my own nation turned its back on community with its neighbours. More on Headlam's introductory matter another time.