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The　〃Garden　of　Florence〃　is　written　in　the　couplets　of　〃Endymion；〃

and　is　a　beautiful　version　of　the　tale　once　more　retold　by　Alfred　de

Musset　in　〃Simone。〃　　From　〃The　Romance　of　Youth〃　let　me　quote　one

stanza；　which　applies　to　Keats：





〃He　read　and　dreamt　of　young　Endymion；

Till　his　romantic　fancy　drank　its　fill；

He　saw　that　lovely　shepherd　sitting　lone；

Watching　his　white　flocks　upon　Ida's　hill；

The　Moon　adored　himand　when　all　was　still；

And　stars　were　wakefulshe　would　earthward　stray；

And　linger　with　her　shepherd　love；　until

The　hooves　of　the　steeds　that　bear　the　car　of　day；

Struck　silver　light　in　the　east；　and　then　she　waned　away！〃





It　was　on　Latmos；　not　Ida；　that　Endymion　shepherded　his　flocks；　but

that　is　of　no　moment；　except　to　schoolmasters。　　There　are　other

stanzas　of　Reynolds　worthy　of　Keats；　for　example；　this　on　the　Fairy

Queen：





〃Her　bodice　was　a　pretty　sight　to　see；

Ye　who　would　know　its　colour；be　a　thief

Of　the　rose's　muffled　bud　from　off　the　tree；

And　for　your　knowledge；　strip　it　leaf　by　leaf

Spite　of　your　own　remorse　or　Flora's　grief；

Till　ye　have　come　unto　its　heart's　pale　hue；

The　last；　last　leaf；　which　is　the　queen；the　chief

Of　beautiful　dim　blooms：　　ye　shall　not　rue；

At　sight　of　that　sweet　leaf　the　mischief　which　ye　do。〃





One　does　not　know　when　to　leave　off　gathering　buds　in　the　〃Garden　of

Florence。〃　　Even　after　Shakespeare；　and　after　Keats；　this　passage　on

wild　flowers　has　its　own　charm：





〃We　gathered　wood　flowers；some　blue　as　the　vein

O'er　Hero's　eyelid　stealing；　and　some　as　white；

In　the　clustering　grass；　as　rich　Europa's　hand

Nested　amid　the　curls　on　Jupiter's　forehead；

What　time　he　snatched　her　through　the　startled　waves；　…

Some　poppies；　too；　such　as　in　Enna's　meadows


Forsook　their　own　green　homes　and　parent　stalks；

To　kiss　the　fingers　of　Proserpina：

And　some　were　small　as　fairies'　eyes；　and　bright

As　lovers'　tears！〃





I　wish　I　had　room　for　three　or　four　sonnets；　the　Robin　Hood　sonnets

to　Keats；　and　another　on　a　picture　of　a　lady。　　Excuse　the　length　of

this　letter；　and　read　this：





〃Sorrow　hath　made　thine　eyes　more　dark　and　keen；

And　set　a　whiter　hue　upon　thy　cheeks；　…

And　round　thy　pressed　lips　drawn　anguish…streaks；

And　made　thy　forehead　fearfully　serene。

Even　in　thy　steady　hair　her　work　is　seen；

For　its　still　parted　darknesstill　it　breaks

In　heavy　curls　upon　thy　shouldersspeaks

Like　the　stern　wave；　how　hard　the　storm　hath　been！



〃So　looked　that　hapless　lady　of　the　South；

Sweet　Isabella！　at　that　dreary　part

Of　all　the　passion'd　hours　of　her　youth；

When　her　green　Basil　pot　by　brother's　art

Was　stolen　away；　so　look'd　her　pained　mouth

In　the　mute　patience　of　a　breaking　heart！〃





There　let　us　leave　him；　the　gay　rhymer　of　prize…fighters　and　eminent

personslet　us　leave　him　in　a　serious　hour；　and　with　a　memory　of

Keats。　　｛5｝







ON　VIRGIL







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

repre