letters on literature-第8部分

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To　Lady　Violet　Lebas。



Dear　Lady　Violet；Who　can　admire　too　much　your　undefeated

resolution　to　admire　only　the　right　things？　　I　wish　I　had　this

respect　for　authority！　　But　let　me　confess　that　I　have　always

admired　the　things　which　nature　made　me　prefer；　and　that　I　have　no

power　of　accommodating　my　taste　to　the　verdict　of　the　critical。　　If

I　do　not　like　an　author；　I　leave　him　alone；　however　great　his

reputation。　　Thus　I　do　not　care　for　Mr。　Gibbon；　except　in　his

Autobiography；　nor　for　the　elegant　plays　of　M。　Racine；　nor　very　much

for　some　of　Wordsworth；　though　his　genius　is　undeniable；　nor

excessively　for　the　late　Prof。　Amiel。　　Why　should　we　force　ourselves

into　an　affection　for　them；　any　more　than　into　a　relish　for　olives

or　claret；　both　of　which　excellent　creatures　I　have　the　misfortune

to　dislike？　　No　spectacle　annoys　me　more　than　the　sight　of　people

who　ask　if　it　is　〃right〃　to　take　pleasure　in　this　or　that　work　of

art。　　Their　loves　and　hatreds　will　never　be　genuine；　natural；

spontaneous。



You　say　that　it　is　〃right〃　to　like　Virgil；　and　yet　you　admit　that

you　admire　the　Mantuan；　as　the　Scotch　editor　joked；　〃wi'

deeficulty。〃　　I；　too；　must　admit　that　my　liking　for　much　of　Virgil's

poetry　is　not　enthusiastic；　not　like　the　admiration　expressed；　for

example；　by　Mr。　Frederic　Myers；　in　whose　〃Classical　Essays〃　you　will

find　all　that　the　advocates　of　the　Latin　singer　can　say　for　him。

These　heights　I　cannot　reach；　any　more　than　I　can　equal　that

eloquence。　　Yet　must　Virgil　always　appear　to　us　one　of　the　most

beautiful　and　moving　figures　in　the　whole　of　literature。



How　sweet　must　have　been　that　personality　which　can　still　win　our

affections；　across　eighteen　hundred　years　of　change；　and　through　the

mists　of　commentaries；　and　school…books；　and　traditions！　　Does　it

touch　thee　at　all；　oh　gentle　spirit　and　serene；　that　we；　who　never

knew　thee；　love　thee　yet；　and　revere　thee　as　a　saint　of　heathendom？

Have　the　dead　any　delight　in　the　religion　they　inspire？





Id　cinerem　aut　Manes　credis　curare　sepultos？





I　half　fancy　I　can　trace　the　origin　of　this　personal　affection　for

Virgil；　which　survives　in　me　despite　the　lack　of　a　very　strong　love

of　parts　of　his　poems。　　When　I　was　at　school　we　met　every　morning

for　prayer；　in　a　large　circular　hall；　round　which；　on　pedestals；

were　set　copies　of　the　portrait　busts　of　great　ancient　writers。

Among　these　was　〃the　Ionian　father　of　the　rest；〃　our　father　Homer；

with　a　winning　and　venerable　majesty。　　But　the　bust　of　Virgil　was；　I

think；　of　white　marble；　not　a　cast　（so；　at　least；　I　remember　it）；

and　was　of　a　singular　youthful　purity　and　beauty；　sharing　my

affections　with　a　copy　of　the　exquisite　Psyche　of　Naples。　　It　showed

us　that　Virgil　who　was　called　〃The　Maiden〃　as　Milton　was　named　〃The

Lady　of　Christ's。〃　　I　don't　know　the　archeology　of　it；　perhaps　it

was　a　mere　work　of　modern　fancy；　but　the　charm　of　this　image；　beheld

daily；　overcame　even　the　tedium　of　short　scraps　of　the　〃AEneid〃

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　wor