letters on literature-第7章

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daily　parsed；　not　without　stripes　and　anguish。　　So　I　retain　a

sentiment　for　Virgil；　though　I　well　perceive　the　many　drawbacks　of

his　poetry。



It　is　not　always　poetry　at　first　hand；　it　is　often　imitative；　like

all　Latin　poetry；　of　the　Greek　songs　that　sounded　at　the　awakening

of　the　world。　　This　is　more　tolerable　when　Theocritus　is　the　model；

as　in　the　〃Eclogues；〃　and　less　obvious　in　the　〃Georgics；〃　when　the

poet　is　carried　away　into　naturalness　by　the　passion　for　his　native

land；　by　the　longing　for　peace　after　cruel　wars；　by　the　joy　of　a

country　life。　　Virgil　had　that　love　of　rivers　which；　I　think；　a　poet

is　rarely　without；　and　it　did　not　need　Greece　to　teach　him　to　sing

of　the　fields：





Propter　aquam；　tardis　ingens　ubi　flexibus

Mincius　et　tenera　praetexit　arundine　ripas。





〃By　the　water…side；　where　mighty　Mincius　wanders；　with　links　and

loops；　and　fringes　all　the　banks　with　the　tender　reed。〃　　Not　the

Muses　of　Greece；　but　his　own　Casmenae；　song…maidens　of　Italy；　have

inspired　him　here；　and　his　music　is　blown　through　a　reed　of　the

Mincius。　　In　many　such　places　he　shows　a　temper　with　which　we　of

England；　in　our　late　age；　may　closely　sympathize。



Do　you　remember　that　mediaeval　story　of　the　building　of　Parthenope；

how　it　was　based；　by　the　Magician　Virgilius；　on　an　egg；　and　how　the

city　shakes　when　the　frail　foundation　chances　to　be　stirred？　　This

too　vast　empire　of　ours　is　as　frail　in　its　foundation；　and　trembles

at　a　word。　　So　it　was　with　the　Empire　of　Rome　in　Virgil's　time：

civic　revolution　muttering　within　it；　like　the　subterranean　thunder；

and　the　forces　of　destruction　gathering　without。　　In　Virgil；　as　in

Horace；　you　constantly　note　their　anxiety；　their　apprehension　for

the　tottering　fabric　of　the　Roman　state。　　This　it　was；　I　think；　and

not　the　contemplation　of　human　fortunes　alone；　that　lent　Virgil　his

melancholy。　　From　these　fears　he　looks　for　a　shelter　in　the　sylvan

shades；　he　envies　the　ideal　past　of　the　golden　world。





Aureus　hanc　vitam　in　terris　Saturnus　agebat！





〃Oh；　for　the　fields！　　Oh；　for　Spercheius　and　Taygetus；　where　wander

the　Lacaenian　maids！　　Oh；　that　one　would　carry　me　to　the　cool

valleys　of　Haemus；　and　cover　me　with　the　wide　shadow　of　the　boughs！

Happy　was　he　who　came　to　know　the　causes　of　things；　who　set　his　foot

on　fear　and　on　inexorable　Fate；　and　far　below　him　heard　the　roaring

of　the　streams　of　Hell！　　And　happy　he　who　knows　the　rural　deities；

Pan；　and　Sylvanus　the　Old；　and　the　sisterhood　of　the　nymphs！

Unmoved　is　he　by　the　people's　favour；　by　the　purple　of　kings；

unmoved　by　all　the　perfidies　of　civil　war；　by　the　Dacian　marching

down　from　his　hostile　Danube；　by　the　peril　of　the　Roman　state；　and

the　Empire　hurrying　to　its　doom。　　He　wasteth　not　his　heart　in　pity

of　the　poor；　he　envieth　not　the　rich；　he　gathereth　what　fruits　the

branches　bear　and　what　the　kindly　wilderness　unasked　brings　forth；

he　knows　not　our　laws；　nor　the　madness　of　the　courts；　nor　the

records　of　the　common　weal〃does　not　read　the　newspapers；　in　fact。



The　sorrows　of　the　poor；　the　luxury　of　the　rich；　the　peril　of　the

Empire；　the　shame　and　dread　of　each　day's　news；　we　too　know　them；

like　Virgil　we　too　deplore　them。　　We；　in　our　reveries；　long　for　some

such　careless　paradise；　but　we　place　it　not　in　Sparta　but　in　the

Islands　of　the　Southern　Seas。　　It　is　in　passages　of　this　temper　that

Virgil　wins　us　most；　when　he　speaks　for　himself　and　for　his　age；　so

distant；　and　so　weary；　and　so　modern；　when　his　own　thought；

unborrowed　and　unforced；　is　wedded　to　the　music　of　his　own

unsurpassable　style。



But　he　does　not　always　write　for　himself　and　out　of　his　own　thought；

that　style　of　his　being　far　more　frequently　misapplied；　wasted　on

telling　a　story　that　is　only　of　feigned　and　foreign　interest。

Doubtless　it　was　the　〃AEneid；〃　his　artificial　and　unfinished　epic；

that　won　Virgil　the　favour　of　the　Middle　Aces。　　To　the　Middle　Ages；

which　knew　not　Greek；　and　knew　not　Homer；　Virgil　was　the

representative　of　the　heroic　and　eternally　interesting　past。　　But　to

us　who　know　Homer；　Virgil's　epic　is　indeed；　〃like　moonlight　unto

sunlight；〃　is　a　beautiful　empty　world；　where　no　real　life　stirs；　a

world　that　shines　with　a　silver　lustre　not　its　own；　but　borrowed

from　〃the　sun　of　Greece。〃



Homer　sang　of　what　he　knew；　of　spears　and　ships；　of　heroic　chiefs

and　beggar　men；　of　hunts　and　sieges；　of　mountains　where　the　lion

roamed；　and　of　fairy　isles　where　a　goddess　walked　alone。　　He　lived

on　the　marches　of　the　land　of　fable；　when　half　the　Mediterranean　was

a　sea　unsailed；　when　even　Italy　was　as　dimly　descried　as　the　City　of

the　Sun　in　Elizabeth's　reign。　　Of　all　that　he　knew　he　sang；　but

Virgil　could　only　follow　and　imitate；　with　a　pale　antiquarian

interest；　the　things　that　were　alive　for　Homer。　　What　could　Virgil

care　for　a　tussle　between　two　stout　men…at…arms；　for　the　clash　of

contending　war…chariots；　driven　each　on　each；　like　wave　against　wave

in　the　sea？　　All　that　tide　had　passed　over；　all　the　story　of　the

〃AEneid〃　is　mere　borrowed　antiquity；　like　the　Middle　Ages　of　Sir

Walter　Scott；　but　the　borrower　had　none　of　Scott's　joy　in　the　noise

and　motion　of　war；　none　of　the　Homeric　〃delight　in　battle。〃



Virgil；　in　writing　the　〃AEneid；〃　executed　an　imperial　commission；

and　an　ungrateful　commission；　it　is　the　sublime　of　hack…work；　and

the　legend　may　be　true　which　declares　that；　on　his　death…bed；　he

wished　his　poem　burned。　　He　could　only　be　himself　here　and　there；　as

in　that　earliest　picture　of　romantic　love；　as　some　have　called　the

story　of　〃Dido；〃　not　remembering；　perhaps；　that　even　here　Virgil　had

before　his　mind　a　Greek　model；　that　he　was　thinking　of　Apollonius

Rhodius；　and　of　Jason　and　Medea。　　He　could　be　himself；　too；　in

passages　of　reflection　and　description；　as　in　the　beautiful　sixth

book；　with　its　picture　of　the　under　world；　and　its　hints　of　mystical

philosophy。



Could　we　choose　our　own　heavens；　there　in　that　Elysian　world　might

Virgil　be　well　content　to　dwell；　in　the　shadow　of　that　fragrant

laurel　grove；　with　them　who　were　〃priests　pure　of　life；　while　life

was　theirs；　and　holy　singers；　whose　songs　were　worthy　of　Apollo。〃

There　he　might　muse　on　his　own　religion　and　on　the　Divinity　that

dwells　in；　that　breathes　in；　that　is；　all　things　and　more　than　all。

Who　could　wish　Virgil　to　be　one　of　the　spirits　that





Lethaeum　ad　flumen　Dues　evocat　agmine　magno；





that　are　called　once　more　to　the　Lethean　stream；　and　that　once　more；

forgetful　of　their　home；　〃into　the　world　and　wave　of　men　depart？〃



There　will　come　no　other　Virgil；　unless　his　soul；　in　accordance　with

his　own　philosophy；　is　among　us　to…day；　crowned　with　years　and

honours；　the　singer　of　〃Ulysses；〃　of　the　〃Lotus　Eaters；〃　of

〃Tithonus；〃　and　〃OEnone。〃



So；　after　all；　I　have　been　enthusiastic；　〃maugre　my　head；〃　as　Malory

says；　and　perhaps；　Lady　Violet；　I　have　shown　you　why　it　is　〃right〃

to　admire　Virgil；　and　perhaps　I　have　persuaded　nobody　but　myself。



P。S。Mr。　Coleridge　was　no　great　lover　of　Virgil；　inconsistently。

〃If　you　take　from　Virgil　his　diction　and　metre；　what　do　you　leave

him？〃　　Yet　Mr。　Coleridge　had　defined　poetry　as　〃the　best　words；　in

the　best　order〃that　is；　〃diction　and　metre。〃　　He；　therefore；

proposed　to　take　from　Virgil　his　poetry；　and　then　to　ask　what　was

left　of　the　Poet！







AUCASSIN　AND　NICOLETTE







To　the　Lady　Violet　Lebas。



Dear　Lady　Violet；I　do　not　wonder　that　you　are　puzzled　by　the

language　of　the　first　French　novel。　　The　French　of　〃Aucassin　et

Nicolette〃　is　not　French　after　the　school　of　Miss　Pinkerton；　at

Chiswick。　　Indeed；　as　the　little　song…story　has　been　translated　into

modern　French　by　M。　Bida；　the　painter　（whose　book　is　very　scarce）；　I

presume　even　the　countrywomen　of　Aucassin　find　it　difficult。　　You

will　not　expect　me　to　write　an　essay　on　the　grammar；　nor　would　you

read　it　if　I　did。　　The　chief　thing　is　that　〃s〃　appears　as　the　sign

of　the　singular；　instead　of　being　the　sign　of　the　plural；　and　the

nouns　have　cases。



The　story　must　be　as　old　as　the　end　of　the　twelfth　century；　and　must

have　received　its　present　form　in　Picardy。　　It　is　written；　as　you

see；　in　alternate　snatches　of　verse　and　prose。　　The　verse；　which　was

chanted；　is　not　rhymed　as　a　rule；　but　each　laisse；　or　screed；　as　in

the　〃Chanson　de　Roland；〃　runs　on　the　same　final　assonance；　or　vowel

sound　throughout。



So　much　for　the　form。　　Who　is　the　author？　　We　do　not　know；　and　never

shall　know。　　Apparently　he　mentions　himself　in　the　first　lines：





〃Who　would　listen　to　the　lay；

Of　the　captive　old　and　gray；〃





for　this　is　as　much　sense　as　one　can　make　out　of　del　deport　du　viel

caitif。



The　author；　then；　was　an　old　fellow。　　I　think　we　might　learn　as　much

from　the　story。　　An　old　man　he　was；　or　a　man　who　felt　old。　　Do　you

know　whom　he　reminds　me　of？　　Why；　of　Mr。　Bowes；　of　the　Theatre

Royal；　Chatteris；　of　Mr。　Bowes；　that　battered；　old；　kindly

sentimentalist　who　told　his　tale　with　Mr。　Arthur　Pendennis。



It　is　a　love　story；　a　story　of　love　overmastering；　without

conscience　or　care　of　aught　but　the　beloved。　　And　the　viel　caitif

tells　it　with　sympathy；　and　with　a　smile。　　〃Oh；　folly　of　fondness；〃

he　seems　to　cry；　〃oh；　pretty　fever　and　foolish；　oh；　absurd　happy

days　of　desolation：





〃When　I　was　young；　as　you　are　young；

And　lutes　were　touched；　and　songs　were　sung！

And　love…lamps　in　the　windows　hung！〃





It　is　the　very　tone　of　Thackeray；　when　Thackeray　is　tender；　and　the

world　heard　it　first　from　this　elderly　nameless　minstrel；　strolling

with　his　viol　and　his　singing　boys；　a　blameless　D'Assoucy；　from

castle　to　castle　in　the　happy　poplar　land。　　I　think　I　see　him　and

hear　him　in　the　silver　twilight；　in　the　court　of　some　chateau　of

Picardy；　while　the　ladies　around　sit　listening　on　silken　cushions；

and　their　lovers；　fettered　with　silver　chains；　lie　at　their　feet。

They　listen；　and　look；　and　do　not　think　of　the　minstrel　with　his

gray　head；　and　his　green　heart；　but　we　think　of　him。　　It　is　an　old

man's　work；　and　a　weary　man's　work。　　You　can　easily　tell　the　places

where　he　has　lingered　and　been　pleased　as　he　wrote。



The　story　is　simple　enough。　　Aucassin；　son　of　Count　Garin；　of

Beaucaire；　loved　so　well　fair　Nicolette；　the　captive　girl　from　an

unknown　land；　that　he　would　never　be　dubbed　knight；　nor　follow

tourneys；　nor　even　fight　against　his　father's　mortal　foe；　Count

Bougars　de　Valence。　　So　Nicolette　was　imprisoned　high　in　a　painted

chamber。　　But　the　enemy　were　storming　the　town；　and；　for　the　promise

of　〃one　word　or　two　with　Nicolette；　and　one　kiss；〃　Aucassin　armed

himself　and　led　out　his　men。　　But　he　was　all　adream　about　Nicolette；

and　his　horse　bore　him　into　the　press　of　foes　ere　he　knew　it。　　Then

he　heard　them　contriving　his　death；　and　woke　out　of　his　dream。



〃The　damoiseau　was　tall　and　strong；　and　the　horse　whereon　he　sat

fierce　and　great；　and　Aucass