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Phoenicians among Others
Phoenicians among Others
Why Migrants Mattered in the Ancient Mediterranean
DENISE DEMETRIOU
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You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same
condition on any acquirer.
ISBN 978–0–19–763485–1
eISBN 978–0–19–763487–5
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197634851.001.0001
For Alexis and Alexandra,
Myrto and Melina
Contents
List of Illustrations
Acknowledgments
List of Abbreviations
Bibliography
Index
Illustrations
Maps
1. The Mediterranean
2. The Levant
3. The Aegean
4. The central Mediterranean
Figures
1.1. Grave Stele of Shem——/Antipatros from Ashkelon, c. 300 BCE
(IG II2 8388)
1.2. Tombstone of Benhodesh/Noumenios the Kitian, 350–300 BCE
1.3. Tombstone of Abtanit/Artemidoros from Sidon, c. 400 BCE
1.4. Close-up of the relief and epigram of Shem——/Antipatros’
tombstone with the relief and epigram (IG II2 8388)
1.5. Marble stele of Abdeshmoun, early fourth century BCE
1.6. Tombstone of Eirene from Byzantion, early fourth century BCE
1.7. Painted funerary stele of Mettounmikim of Ashkelon from
Demetrias, third century BCE
2.1. Stele with the Kitian traders’ request for the right to own
property, 333/332 BCE (IG II3 1 337)
2.2. Plan of the building of the Berytian association of traders,
shippers, and warehouse workers (the Poseidoniastai) on
Delos
3.1. Bilingual dedication by the Sidonian royal family on Kos, late
fourth century BCE (IG XII.4 2 546 = KAI 292)
3.2. Bilingual dedication in the Sanctuary of Apollo on Delos by
the Tyrian hieronautai, 340s–330s BCE (I.Délos 50 = CIS I
114)
3.3. A Sidonian koinon honoring one of its members in Athens,
late fourth / early third century BCE (IG II2 2946 = KAI 60)
4.1. Stele recording the honors and privileges granted to
Herakleides over the period of 330–325 BCE (IG II3 1 367)
4.2. Attic stele honoring King Abdashtart of Sidon, c. 360s BCE (IG
II2 141)
5.1. Dedicatory stele by Paalashtart with a Phoenician and
hieroglyphic inscription, second or first century BCE
5.2. Dedication to Tanit and Baal Hammon by a descendant of a
Tyrian immigrant in Carthage, fourth–second centuries BCE
5.3a– Bronze statuette of Harpokrates with a Phoenician inscription
b. (KAI 52)
5.4a– Bronze statuette of Harpokrates with a Phoenician inscription
b. and hieroglyphic inscription
5.5a– One of the twin monuments from Malta dedicated by two
b. Tyrian brothers, second century BCE (IG XIV 600 = KAI 47 =
CIS I 122bis)
5.6. The second of the twin monuments from Malta dedicated by
two Tyrian brothers, second century BCE (IG XIV 600 = KAI
47 = CIS I 122bis)
5.7. Bronze altar base with a trilingual inscription in Latin, Greek,
and Punic, from Sardinia, first century BCE (CIL 10 7856 = IG
XIV 608 = KAI 66)
5.8a– Ivory hospitality token between a Phoenician and a Greek
b. from Lilybaion, second or first century BCE (IG XIV 279)
Acknowledgments
—From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part II.
MY MOSCOW FIREPLACE
Scarcely have we seen summer, behold, winter is here! The frosts
drive us into our rooms, and will for a long time keep us within.
Nature’s beauty is changed, and dimmed by the veil of night. Oh,
what shall I do? What begin? I will move up to my dear fireplace, and
will share with it, as before, my melancholy.
Whatever countries I have been in, whether my house was large
or small, whether I paraded in high palace halls, or retired to my
apartments,—the fireplace, my winter benefactor, was everywhere
the witness of my acts: whole days I passed with it alone; pining,
sorrows and annoyances, consolation, pleasure, joy,—my fireplace
has experienced them all.
Whenever I mentally survey all human lots in this world, and by
the fireplace in my study judge of humanity, I with difficulty can
harmonise in my imagination the opinions of happiness that are
common to all. The whole world lives in a noise and din; but what
does it find in place of happiness? New causes for worriment.
Kings, of their own free will, leave the throne and hasten to arms;
in their elevated place they not seldom curse their lives. No matter
how boyárs grow stout, they also pale in their good fortune, like their
lowest slave. He in his unbounded sphere, the other in his earth hut,
or cave,—both are weak against the attack.
Everywhere they have written of happiness, and will always prate
about it, but they have nowhere found it. Yes, ’tis difficult to attain!
And I, though a simple man, can also like a philosopher aver it is
within me; but where, and how to find it?—I do not know! In sorrow I
suffer openly; whenever I am merry, ’tis as if in a dream.
Protesting against the evil of the passions, knitting his brow, like
Cato, when all is quiet in his soul, the philosopher proclaims his law:
“Why be enslaved by passions? We must submit to reason. All our
desires are an empty dream; all upon earth, O men, is transitory:
seek eternal happiness in Heaven, for the world is vanity of vanities.
“If one dish satisfies your hunger, why have three? If you have a
caftan, what is the use of five? What need is there of a pile of
money? When you die, you will not take it with you. Contract the
limits of your necessities, flee from the city into the country, live
quietly your allotted time, with equanimity bear insults,
magnanimously suffer sorrow, be more than man!”
What are you yourself, my teacher? Are you a god, or an angel in
the flesh? Guardian of deep wisdom, permit me to look within you!
Reveal to us not your mind alone, but your feelings, announce to us
without ambiguity: are you yourself? I see, you are a vain hypocrite:
you do not believe your own sermon, you are an empty-sounding
cymbal.
Oh, if people all lived as reason bids them! If feelings were more
gentle, if the fount of blood did not boil,—how nice life would be! All
would be peace and security, and love the tie of all the lands; people
would not devour each other; and a Frenchman, an Arab, a
Mussulman would live in harmony together.
Oh, if ... I need but place this word at the head, and my pen
creates at once a new earth, nay, heaven. All kingdoms will flow with
abundance, all men will be equally strong, nowhere there shall be
snow, nor winter, but flowers will grow the year around, and we will
not run to the fireplace,—we shall be regenerated.
Oh no! I am sorry for the fireplace! Let us leave all as it is: we
cannot reproduce what my reason has evoked. Let the sphere circle
around, and let each various chimera disport with every mind! The
Creator will turn all for the best: to-day the chill disturbs us, but the
thunder of the summer does not terrify us.
I hear at all times of the good qualities of countrymen, what
beautiful lives they lead, and how the law of nature is not trampled
upon by them. “Their manners,” they assert, “are coarser, but their
amusements are incomparably simpler than ours: they live in
freedom with each other, do not drink nor eat according to the
fashion.” ’Tis not true!
When we listen to serenades on a beautiful summer day, while
limpid waterfalls make a rippling noise, and the shade of cedars
protects us from the heat, the peasant hitches his horse to the
plough and tears up the earth, or hauls a log, or, if it be winter, looks
through dim windows, through which nothing can be seen, at the
blizzard without.
Fireplace, I will not exchange you for all the treasures of the lords!
You are often my consolation, and always pleasant and agreeable to
me. Let sorrows be inevitable: joy is coextensive with them. You are
the throne of my amusements; but I am satisfied with my books; I
feel with them neither pain, nor think my room small, and I read them
as my spirit prompts me.
But when I leave my book, and fix my eyes upon the fireplace, with
what pleasure I recall the host of various incidents! I at once
reproduce in my mind the picture of my youth, and the progress and
cause of my cares; I even now, as it were, glance to the north, and
south, and the capital, and the Finland border.
I accuse myself before thee, my Lord! I have in vain killed my
youth; carried on the wave of habit, I have given my days and nights
to dreaming. I, tossed now hither, now thither, hastened to make new
acquaintances, and thought: “This is all a loan I make; some day the
debt, I am sure, will be duly returned to me.”
’Tis time to adapt myself to the custom! I shall soon be forty years
old: it is time to learn from experience that to judge people rightly, to
know this world, to seek friends is a self-deception and vain
endeavour of the heart. The measure of human indifference is in our
days full to overflowing; ask for no examples: alas! there are too
many of them.
In your presence all will praise you, but let there be an occasion
for helping you, and your worth will be depreciated, or without saying
a word they will walk away. If one be cunning, he will so oppress you
that he will compel you to think all your life of him in tears; if he be
foolish, he will, wherever he may meet you, cast a heap of stones
before you and bar your way.
From all such evils my consolation art Thou, only God, God of all
creation! I need nothing more, for I expect no happiness from men. A
hundredfold more pleasant it is, staying at home, and not perceiving
in it the temptations of the world, to live simply with your family and,
modestly passing your time and vigorously communing with reason,
to stir the wood in the fireplace.
Iván Ivánovich Dmítriev. (1760-1837.)
Dmítriev was born in the Government of Simbírsk, where
his friend and colleague Karamzín was also born. He entered
the army in 1775 as a common soldier, and did not advance
to the grade of commissioned officer until 1787. During his
military service he privately studied foreign languages and
wrote poetry. His first collection of poems, containing Ermák,
What Others Say and The Little Dove, appeared in 1795.
These are the best of his productions. He also wrote a
number of fables that do not suffer by comparison with those
of Krylóv. His shorter songs, like The Little Dove, have
become very popular, and are part of every song-book,
together with Neledínski’s “To the streamlet I’ll repair” and
other similar songs. Dmítriev did for poetry what Karamzín
was doing for prose,—he purified Russian from the dross of
the Church-Slavic language, an inheritance from the days of
Lomonósov, and he popularised the Romantic spirit in
Russian literature. He also encouraged younger men of
talent, such as Krylóv. Dmítriev rapidly rose in honours, until
he was made Minister of Justice in 1810. He retired a few
years later to his estates near Moscow, where he passed his
days surrounded by a coterie of literary men.
The following English versions of his poems have
appeared: During a Thunder-Storm, The Tsar and the Two
Shepherds, The Broken Fiddle, Over the Grave of
Bogdanóvich, Love and Friendship, in Sir John Bowring’s
Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part I.; Yermak, Moskva
Rescued, To the Volga, Enjoyment, “O had I but known
before,” The Little Dove, To Chloe, ib., Part II.; Counsel, The
Little Dove, in W. D. Lewis’s The Bakchesarian Fountain;
Yermak, The Siskin and the Chaffinch, The Doctor,
Sympathy, in C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics; The Moon, in
Fraser’s Magazine, 1842 (article, Russian Fabulists).
THE LITTLE DOVE
DURING A THUNDER-STORM
ERMÁK
How strange a sight is this I see,
By thee revealed, Antiquity!
Beneath the gloomy garb of night,
By the pale moonbeam’s cloudy light,
I gaze upon the Irtýsh stream,
Whose waters foaming, whirling, gleam,
As on they rush with angry tide.
Two men I see, exhausted, there,
Like shadows in the murky air;
Their faces in their hands they hide.
One youthful is, the other old,
His beard hangs down with wavy fold;
Each wears a dress whose every part
With awe and wonder fills the heart;
Descending from their helmets down,
The coiling tails of serpents frown,
Mingled with owlet’s bristling wing,
Their coats wild-beasts’ skins borrowing.
Their breasts entire with thongs are hung,
Of flints, and rusty iron, strung;
Within each belt is firmly prest
A knife, whose edge well sharpened is;
Two drums are at their feet, I wis,
And close beside their lances rest:
They both are sorcerers of Siberian race,
And thus the meaning of their words I trace.
“How strange! More than twenty years have passed since we, with
mind intent and furrowed brow, have assiduously been writing odes,
yet we nowhere hear praises sung to them or us! May it be that
Phœbus has sent forth his stern decree that none of us should ever
aspire to equal Flaccus, Ramler[170] and all their brotherhood, or
ever be renowned as they in song? What do you think? I took
yesterday the pains to compare their song and ours: in theirs, there
is not much to read! a page; if much, three pages, and yet what joy
to read! You feel—how shall I say it?—as if you flew on wings!
Judging by their briefness, you are sure they wrote them playfully,
and not labouring four days: then why should we not be more
fortunate than they, since we are a hundred times more diligent and
patient? When one of us begins to write, he leaves all play aside,
pores a whole night over a couple of verses, sweats, thinks, draws
and burns his paper; and sometimes he rises to such daring that he
passes a whole year over one ode! And, of course, he uses up all his
intelligence upon it! And there you have a most solemn ode! I cannot
say to what species it belongs, but it is very full,—some two hundred
strophes! Judge for yourself how many fine verses there are in it!
Besides, it is written according to the rules: at first you read the
introduction, then the argument, and finally the conclusion,—
precisely as the learned speak in the church! And yet, I must
confess, there is no pleasure in reading it.
“Let me take, for example, the odes on victories, how that they
conquered the Crimea, how the Swedes were drowned at sea: I find
there all the details of a battle, where it happened, how, when,—in
short, a report in verse! Very well!... I yawn! I throw it away, and open
another, one written for a holiday, or something like it: here you
discover things that a less clever mind would not have thought out
within a lifetime: ‘Dawn’s rosy fingers,’ and ‘lily of paradise,’ and
‘Phœbus,’ and ‘heaven cleft open’! So vociferous, so loud! No, it
does not please, nor move our hearts in the least.”
Thus an old man of our grandfathers’ times spoke yesterday to me
in gentle simplicity. I, being myself a companion of those singers, the
action of whose verse he so marvelled at, was much disturbed, nor
knew how to answer him. But luckily, if at all that may be called luck
to hear your own terrible sentence, a certain Aristarch began to
speak to him.
“For this,” said he, “there are many causes; I will not promise to
unveil one-half of them, but some I will gladly expound to you. I
myself love the language of the gods, poetry, and just as you, am
little edified with ours. In former days I have much conversed in
Moscow with our Pindars, and have watched them well: the greater
part of them are corporals of the body-guard, assessors, officers,
scribes, or dust-covered guardians of monsters in the Museum of
Antiquities,—all of them busy government officials; I have often
noticed that they barely have time in two days or three to make a
proper rhyme, their mind being all taken up with their affairs. No
sooner has a lucky thought struck them, when, lo, the clock strikes
six! The carriage is waiting: ’tis time for the theatre, and then to the
ball, or to Lion,[171] and then ’tis night.... When are they to call on
Apollo? In the morning, no sooner has he opened his eyes, than
there is a note: ‘Rehearsal at five o’clock’.... Where? In fashionable
society, where our lyric poet is to play the part of the harlequin. Is
there any time left for odes? You have to learn our parts, then to
Kroll,[172] then home again, to primp yourself and get dressed, then
to the theatre, and good-bye another day. Besides, the ancients had
one purpose, we another: Horace, for example, who nurtured his
breast with ecstasy, what did he want? Not very much: in the æons
immortality, and in Rome but a wreath of laurels or of myrtle, that
Delia might say: ‘He is famous; through him I, too, am immortal!’ But
the aim of many of us is a present of a ring, at times a hundred
roubles, or friendship with a princelet who all his life has never read
anything except now and then the Court almanac, or praises from
their friends to whom each printed sheet appears to be sacred.
“Considering how different their views and ours are, it may safely
be asserted, without offending those mettlesome gentlemen, the
alumni of the Russian Muses, that they must have some especial
taste, and different means, and a special manner in the composition
of a lyrical poem; what they are I cannot tell you, but I shall
announce to you—and, truly, I will not lie about it—what a certain
poet thought of verses, of whose works the Mercury and the
Observer[173] and the book stores and the stalls are full. ‘We are
born into this world,’ he thought, ‘with rhymes; is it then not ridiculous
for us poets to waste our time, like Demosthenes, at the sea-shore in
a cabin, in doing nothing but reading and thinking, and relating what
we have thought out only to the noisy waves? Nature makes the
poet, and not study: he is without study learned when he becomes
enthused, but science will always remain science, and not a gift; the
only necessary equipments are boldness, rhymes and ardour.’
“And this is the way the natural poet wrote an ode: barely has the
thunder of the cannon given the nation the pleasant news that the
Rýmnikski Alcides[174] has vanquished the Poles, or that Férzen has
taken their chief, Kosciuszko, captive, he immediately grabs the pen,
and, behold, the word ‘ode’ is already on the paper.” Then follows in
one strain: “‘On such a day and year!’ How now? ‘I sing!’ Oh no,
that’s old! Were it not better: ‘Grant me, O Phœbus?’ Or, better still:
‘Not you alone are trod under heel, O turban-wearing horde!’ But
what shall I rhyme with it but ‘snored,’ or ‘bored’? No, no! it will not
do! I had better take a walk, and refresh myself with a whiff of air.”
He went, and thus he meditated on his walk: “The beginning never
daunts the singers: you simply say what first occurs to you. The
trouble only begins when you have to praise the hero. I know not
with whom to compare him; with Rumyántsev, with Greyg or with
Orlóv? What a pity I have not read the ancients! For it does not seem
proper to compare to the moderns. Well, I’ll simply write: ‘Rejoice,
hero, rejoice, O thou!’ That’s good! But what now? Ah, now comes
the ecstasy! I’ll say: ‘Who has rent the veil of eternity for me! I see
the gleam of lightning! From the upper world I hear, and so on.’ And
then? Of course: ‘Many a year!’ Most excellent! I have caught the
plan, and thoughts, and all! Hail to the poet! All I have to do now, is
to sit down and write, and boldly print!” He hurries to his garret,
scribbles, and the deed is done! And his ode is printed, and already
they wrap shoeblacking in his ode. Thus has he Pindarised, and all
his ilk who are scarcely capable to write a proper shop sign! “I wish
Phœbus would tell them in their dream: ‘He who in Catherine’s loud
age of glory cannot by his eulogy move the hearts of others, nor
water his sweet lyre with tears, let him throw it away, break it and
know he is not a poet!’”
FOOTNOTES:
END OF PART I.
INDEX
Ablesímov, A. O., his comic opera, 36;
biographical sketch and extract, 370 seq.
Academy founded, 316 seq.
Achronism, of Russ. literature, 9;
of legends, 14
Addison’s influence on Russ. literature, 30 seq., 291, 327
Alexander the Great in legend, 14
Alexander I., 304 seq., 378
Alexis Mikháylovich, school established during his reign, 17;
and the theatre, 26;
and see 35
All Kinds of Things, 272, 326
American interest in Russ. literature, vii. seq.
Anacreon, translated, 224
Andover, see Biblical Repository
Anglo-Russian Literary Society’s studies in Russ. literature, x.
Anthologies of Russ. literature, viii., x.
Apocrypha, 12 seq.;
legends, 114 seq.;
stories, 152 seq.
Aprakos, 11
Apuleius, 33, 358, 374
Athenæum, yearly reports on Russ. literature, xi.