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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　Aucassin　laid　hand　to　sword；　and　fell　a…

smiting　to　right　and　left；　and　smote　through　helm　and　headpiece；　and

arm　and　shoulder；　making　a　murder　about　him；　like　a　wild　boar　the

hounds　fall　on　in　the　forest。　　There　slew　he　ten　knights；　and　smote

down　seven；　and　mightily　and　knightly　he　hurled　through　the　press；

and　charged　home　again；　sword　in　hand。〃　　For　that　hour　Aucassin

struck　like　one　of　Mallory's　men　in　the　best　of　all　romances。　　But

though　he　took　Count　Bougars　prisoner；　his　father　would　not　keep　his

word；　nor　let　him　have　one　word　or　two　with　Nicolette；　and　one　kiss。

Nay；　Aucassin　was　thrown　into　prison　in　an　old　tower。　　There　he　sang

of　Nicolette；





〃Was　it　not　the　other　day

That　a　pilgrim　came　this　way？

And　a　passion　him　possessed；

That　upon　his　bed　he　lay；

Lay；　and　tossed；　and　knew　no　rest；

In　his　pain　discomforted。

But　thou　camest　by　his　bed；

Holding　high　thine　amice　fine

And　thy　kirtle　of　ermine。

Then　the　beauty　that　is　thine

Did　he　look　on；　and　it　fell

That　the　Pilgrim　straight　was　well；

Straight　was　hale　and　comforted。

And　he　rose　up　from　his　bed；

And　went　back　to　his　own　place

Sound　and　strong；　and　fair　of　face。〃





Thus　Aucassin　makes　a　Legend　of　his　lady；　as　it　were；　assigning　to

her　beauty　such　miracles　as　faith　attributes　to　the　excellence　of

the　saints。



Meanwhile；　Nicolette　had　slipped　from　the　window　of　her　prison

chamber；　and　let　herself　down　into　the　garden；　where　she　heard　the

song　of　the　nightingales。　　〃Then　caught　she　up　her　kirtle　in　both

hands；　behind　and　before；　and　flitted　over　the　dew　that　lay　deep　on

the　grass；　and　fled　out　of　the　garden；　and　the　daisy　flowers　bending

below　her　tread　seemed　dark　against　her　feet；　so　white　was　the

maiden。〃　　Can't　you　see　her　stealing　with　those　〃feet　of　ivory；〃

like　Bombyca's；　down　the　dark　side　of　the　silent　moonlit　streets　of

Beaucaire？



Then　she　came　where　Aucassin　was　lamenting　in　his　cell；　and　she

whispered　to　him　how　she　was　fleeing　for　her　life。　　And　he　answered

that　without　her　he　must　die；　and　then　this　foolish　pair；　in　the

very　mouth　of　peril；　must　needs　begin　a　war　of　words　as　to　which

loved　the　other　best！



〃Nay；　fair　sweet　friend；〃　saith　Aucassin；　〃it　may　not　be　that　thou

lovest　me　more　than　I　love　thee。　　Woman　may　not　love　man　as　man

loves　woman；　for　a　woman's　love　lies　no　deeper　than　in　the　glance　of

her　eye；　and　the　blossom　of　her　breast；　and　her　foot's　tip…toe；　but

man's　love　is　in　his　heart　planted；　whence　never　can　it　issue　forth

and　pass　away。〃



So　while　they　speak





〃In　debate　as　birds　are；

Hawk　on　bough；〃





comes　the　kind　sentinel　to　warn　them　of　a　danger。　　And　Nicolette

flees；　and　leaps　into　the　fosse；　and　thence　escapes　into　a　great

forest　and　lonely。　　In　the　morning　she　met　shepherds　merry　over

their　meat；　and　bade　them　tell　Aucassin　to　hunt　in　that　forest；

where　he　should　find　a　deer　whereof　one　glance　would　cure　him　of　his