in scores of designs, and these designs closely correspond to the mythological poems of Theocritus and his younger contemporaries Bion and Moschus.  Take as an example the adventure of Europa: Lord Tennyson’s lines, in The Palace of Art are intended to describe picture—

‘Or sweet Europa’s mantle blew unclasp’d,
   From off her shoulder backward borne:
From one hand droop’d a crocus: one hand grasp’d
      The mild bull’s golden horn.’

The words of Moschus also seem as if they might have derived their inspiration from a painting, the touches are so minute, and so picturesque—

‘Meanwhile Europa, riding on the back of the divine bull, with one hand clasped the beast’s great horn, and with the other caught up her garment’s purple fold, lest it might trail and be drenched in the hoar sea’s infinite spray.  And her deep robe was blown out in the wind, like the sail of a ship, and lightly ever it wafted the maiden onward.’

Now every single ‘motive’ of this description,—Europa with one hand holding the bull’s horn, with the other lifting her dress, the wind puffing out her shawl like a sail, is repeated in the Pompeian wall-pictures, which themselves are believed to be derived from Alexandrian originals.  There are more curious coincidences than this.  In the sixth idyl of Theocritus, Damoetas makes the Cyclops say that Galatea ‘will send him many a messenger.’  The mere idea of describing the monstrous cannibal Polyphemus in love, is artificial and Alexandrian.  But who were the ‘messengers’ of the sea-nymph Galatea?  A Pompeian picture illustrates the point, by representing a little Love riding up to the shore on the back of a dolphin, with a letter in his hand for Polyphemus.  Greek art in Egypt suffered from an Egyptian plague of Loves.  Loves flutter through the Pompeian pictures as they do through the poems of Moschus and Bion.  They are carried about in cages, for sale, like birds.  They are caught in bird-traps.  They don the lion-skin of Heracles.  They flutter about baskets laden with roses; round rosy Loves, like the cupids of Boucher.  They are not akin to ‘the grievous Love,’ the mighty wrestler who threw Daphnis a fall, in the first idyl of Theocritus.  They are ‘the children that flit overhead, the little Loves, like the young nightingales upon the budding trees,’ which flit round the dead Adonis in the fifteenth idyl.  They are the birds that shun the boy fowler, in Bion’s poem, and perch uncalled (as in a bronze in the Uffizi) on the grown man.  In one or other of the sixteen Pompeian pictures of Venus and Adonis, the Loves are breaking their bows and arrows for grief, as in the hymn of Bion.

Enough has perhaps been said about the social and artistic taste of Alexandria to account for the remarkable differences in manner between the rustic idyls of Theocritus and the epic idyls of himself and his followers Moschus and Bion.  In the rural idyls, Theocritus was himself and wrote to please himself.  In the epic idyls, as in the Hymn to the Dioscuri, and in the two poems on Heracles, he was writing to please the taste of Alexandria.  He had to choose epic topics, but he was warned by the famous saying of Callimachus (‘a great book is a great evil’) not to imitate the length of the epic. [0i]  He was also to shun close imitation of what are so easily imitated, the regular recurring formulae, the commonplace of Homer.  He was to add minute pictorial touches, as in the description of Alcmena’s waking when the serpents attacked her child,—a passage rich in domestic pathos and incident which contrast strongly with Pindar’s bare narrative of the same events.  We have noted the same pictorial quality in the Europa of Moschus.  Our own age has often been compared to the Alexandrian epoch, to that era of large cities, wealth, refinement, criticism, and science; and the pictorial Idylls of the King very closely resemble the epico-idyllic manner of Alexandria.  We have tried to examine the society in which Theocritus lived.  But our impressions about the poet are more distinct.  In him we find the most genial character; pious as Greece counted piety; tender as became the poet of love; glad as the singer of a happy southern world should be; gifted, above all, with humour, and with dramatic power.  ‘His lyre has all the chords’; his is the last of all the perfect voices of Hellas; after him no man saw life with eyes so steady and so mirthful.

About the lives of the three idyllic poets literary history says little.  About their deaths she only tells us through the dirge by Moschus, that Bion was poisoned.  The lovers of Theocritus would willingly hope that he returned from Alexandria to Sicily, about the time when he wrote the sixteenth idyl, and that he lived in the enjoyment of the friendship and the domestic happiness and honour which he sang so well, through the golden age of Hiero (264 B.C.)  No happier fortune could befall him who wrote the epigram of the lady of heavenly love, who worshipped with the noble wife of Nicias under the green roof of Milesian Aphrodite, and who prophesied of the return of peace and of song to Sicily and Syracuse.