when he ‘had not yet reached the mid-point of the way, nor had the tomb yet risen on his sight.’  He reveals himself as he was at the height of morning, at the best moment of the journey, in midsummer of a genius still unchecked by doubt, or disappointment, or neglect.  Life seems to accost him with the glance of the goatherd Lycidas, ‘and still he smiled as he spoke, with laughing eyes, and laughter dwelling on his lips.’  In Cos, Theocritus found friendship, and met Myrto, ‘the girl he loved as dearly as goats love the spring.’  Here he could express, without any afterthought, an enthusiastic adoration for the disinterested joys, the enchanted moments of human existence.  Before he entered the thronged streets of Alexandria, and tuned his shepherd’s pipe to catch the ear of princes, and to sing the epithalamium of a royal and incestuous love, he rested with his friends in the happy island.  Deep in a cave, among the ruins of ancient aqueducts, there still bubbles up, from the Coan limestone, the well-spring of the Nymphs.  ‘There they reclined on beds of fragrant rushes, lowly strown, and rejoicing they lay in new stript leaves of the vine.  And high above their heads waved many a poplar, many an elm-tree, while close at hand the sacred water from the nymph’s own cave welled forth with murmurs musical’ (Idyl VII).

The old Dorian settlers in Syracuse pleased themselves with the fable that their fountain, Arethusa, had been a Grecian nymph, who, like themselves, had crossed the sea to Sicily.  The poetry of Theocritus, read or sung in sultry Alexandria, must have seemed like a new welling up of the waters of Arethusa in the sandy soil of Egypt.  We cannot certainly say when the poet first came from Syracuse, or from Cos, to Alexandria.  It is evident however from the allusions in the fifteenth and seventeenth idyls that he was living there after Ptolemy Philadelphus married his own sister, Arsinoë.  It is not impossible to form some idea of the condition of Alexandrian society, art, religion, literature and learning at the court of Ptolemy Philadelphus.  The vast city, founded some sixty years before, was now completed.  The walls, many miles in circuit, protected a population of about eight hundred thousand souls.  Into that changing crowd were gathered adventurers from all the known world.  Merchantmen brought to Ptolemy the wares of India and the porcelains of China.  Marauders from upper Egypt skulked about the native quarters, and sallied forth at night to rob the wayfarer.  The king’s guards were recruited with soldiers from turbulent Greece, from Asia, from Italy.  Settlers were attracted from Syracuse by the prospect of high wages and profitable labour.  The Jewish quarters were full of Israelites who did not disdain Greek learning.  The city in which this multitude found a home was beautifully constructed.  The Mediterranean filled the northern haven, the southern walls were washed by the Mareotic lake.  If the isle of Pharos shone dazzling white, and wearied the eyes, there was shade beneath the long marble colonnades, and in the groves and cool halls of the Museum and the Libraries.  The Etesian winds blew fresh in summer from the north, across the sea, and refreshed the people in their gardens.  No town seemed greater nor wealthier to the voyager, who (like the hero of the Greek novel Clitophon and Leucippe) entered by the gate of the Sun, and found that, after nightfall, the torches borne by men and women hastening to some religious feast, filled the dusk with a light like that of ‘the sun cut up into fragments.’  At the same time no town was more in need of the memories of the country, which came to her in well-watered gardens, in landscape-paintings, and in the verse of Theocritus.

It is impossible to give a clearer idea of the opulence and luxury of Alexandria and her kings, than will be conveyed by the description of the coronation-feast of Ptolemy Philadelphus.  This great masquerade and banquet was prepared by the elder Ptolemy on the occasion of his admitting his son to share his throne.  The entertainment was described (in a work now lost) by Callixenus of Rhodes, and the record has been preserved by Atheneaus (v. 25).  The inner pavilion in which the guests of Ptolemy reclined, contained one hundred and thirty-five couches.  Over the roof was placed a scarlet awning, with a fringe of white, and there were many other awnings, richly embroidered with mythological designs.  The pillars which sustained the roof were shaped in the likeness of palm-trees, and of thyrsi, the weapons of the wine-god Dionysus.  Round three outer sides ran arcades, draped with purple tissues, and with the skins of strange beasts.  The fourth side, open to the air, was shady with the foliage of myrtles and laurels.  Everywhere the ground was carpeted with flowers, though the season was mid-winter, with roses and white lilies and blossoms of the gardens.  By the columns round the whole pavilion were arrayed a hundred effigies in marble, executed by the most famous sculptors, and on the middle spaces were hung works by the painters of Sicyon and tapestry woven with stories of the adventures of the gods.  Above these, again, ran a frieze of gold and silver shields, while in the higher niches were placed comic, tragic, and satiric sculptured groups ‘dressed in real clothes,’ says the historian, much admiring this realism.  It is impossible to number the tripods, and flagons, and couches of gold, resting on golden figures of sphinxes, the salvers, the bowls, the jewelled vases.  The masquerade of this winter festival began with the procession of the Morning-star, Heosphoros, and then followed a masque of kings and a revel of various gods, while the company of Hesperus, the Evening-star followed, and ended all.  The revel of Dionysus was introduced by men disguised as Sileni, wild woodland beings in raiment of purple and scarlet.  Then came scores of satyrs with gilded lamps in their hands.  Next appeared beautiful maidens, attired as Victories, waving golden wings and swinging vessels of burning incense.  The altar of the God of the Vine was borne behind them, crowned and covered with leaves of gold, and next boys in purple robes scattered fragrant scents from golden salvers.  Then came a throng of gold-crowned satyrs, their naked bodies stained with purple and vermilion, and among them was a tall man who represented the year and carried a horn of plenty.  He was followed by a beautiful woman in rich attire, carrying in one hand branches of the palm-tree, in the other a rod of the peach-tree, starred with its constellated flowers.  Then the masque of the Seasons swept by, and Philiscus followed, Philiscus the Corcyraean, the priest of Dionysus, and the favourite tragic poet of the court.  After the prizes for the athletes had been borne past, Dionysus himself was charioted along, a gigantic figure clad in purple, and pouring libations out of a golden goblet.  Around him lay huge drinking-cups, and smoking censers of gold, and a bower of vine leaves grew up, and shaded the head of the god.  Then hurried by a crowd of priests and priestesses, Maenads, Bacchantes, Bassarids, women crowned with the vine, or with garlands of snakes, and girls bearing the mystic vannus Iacchi.  And still the procession was not ended.  A mechanical figure of Nysa passed, in a chariot drawn by eighty men, among clusters of grapes formed of precious stones, and the figure arose, and poured milk out of a golden horn.  The Satyrs and Sileni followed close, and behind them six hundred men dragged on a wain, a silver