her of the malady, of all others as well.

Such is the story, such, rather, is its outline, one interesting from the
fact that it constitutes the initial love-tragedy of the Occident, as,
also, because of a climax befitting the singer of the bitterness of things
too sweet.

V

THE AGE OF ASPASIA

"Eros is son of earth and heaven, but persuasion is Aphrodite's daughter."
So Sappho sang. The note, new and true as well, became, as fresh truth
ever does become, revolutionary. Athens heard it. Even Sparta listened.
Corinth and Miletus repeated it in clinging keys.

With the new truth came a new era. Through meditations patient and
prolonged Calypso had succeeded in adding coquetry to love. With a distich
Sappho emancipated it. To the despotism that insisted she suggested the
duty of asking; to the submission that had obeyed she indicated the grace
that grants; yet, posing as barrier between each, the right and liberty of
choice, which already Rhodopis had exacted.

Then the new era came. The gynaeceum was not emptied. Wives were still shut
apart. But elsewhere, with that marvel which Atticism was, came the sense
of personal dignity, the conception of individuality, the theory of
freedom, and, ultimately, in streets where women of position could not
venture unaccompanied and unveiled, they were free to come and go at
will, to mingle with men, to assist at comedies and games, to become what
women are to-day, with this difference, they were more handsome and less
pretty. To a people naturally aesthetic the revolution naturally appealed.
Led by the irresistible authority of beauty, for support it had the
sovereign prestige of the muse.

In stooping to conquer, Erato smiled, supplying, as she did so, another
conception, one as novel as the first, the idea that, after all, though
love is a serious thing, the mingling of a little gayety in it is not
forbidden. It was to Anacreon that Erato offered that chord, threw it
rather, laughing, in his face. The poet, laughing too, took and plucked it
lightly, producing quick airs, conceits of pleasure and of wine. When
Sappho sang, it was with all her fervent soul. When she loved it was with
all her fervid heart. She sang as the nightingales of Lesbos sang, because
singing was her life, and she sang of love because she could sing of
nothing else. Anacreon did not pretend to sing. He hummed as the bees of
Hymettus hummed, over this flower and over that, indifferent to each,