has so well said, 'the Medea and Jason of the Argonautica are at once more interesting and more natural than their copies, the Dido and Aeneas of the Aeneid. The wild love of the witch-maiden sits curiously on the queen and organizer of industrial Carthage; and the two qualities which form an essential part of Jason—the weakness which makes him a traitor, and the deliberate gentleness which contrasts him with Medea—seem incongruous in the father of Rome.' But though Virgil turned to the Greek epics for the general framework and many of the details of his poem, he always remains master of his materials, and stamps them with the impress of his own genius. The spirit which inspires the Aeneid is wholly Roman, and the deep faith in the National Destiny, and stern sense of duty to which it gives expression, its profoundly religious character and stately and melodious verse, have always caused it to be recognized as the loftiest expression of the dignity and greatness of Rome at her best. But the sympathetic reader will be conscious of a deeper and more abiding charm in the poetry of Virgil. Even in his most splendid passages his verses thrill us with a strange pathos, and his sensitiveness to unseen things—things beautiful and sad—has caused a great writer, himself a master of English prose, to speak of 'his single words and phrases, his pathetic half lines, giving utterance as the voice of Nature herself to that pain and weariness, yet hope of better things, which is the experience of her children in every age.'
The task of translating such a writer at all adequately may well seem to be an almost impossible one; and how far any of the numerous attempts to do so have succeeded, is a difficult question. For not only does the stated ideal at which the translator should aim, vary with each generation, but perhaps no two lovers of Virgil would agree at any period as to what this ideal should be. Two general principles stand out from the mass of conflicting views on this point. The translation should read as though it were an original poem, and it should produce on the modern reader as far as possible the same effect as the original produced on Virgil's contemporaries. And here we reach the real difficulty, for the scholar who can alone judge what that effect may have been, is too intimate with the original to see clearly the merits of a translation, and the man who can only read the translation can form no opinion. However, it seems clear that a prose translation can never really satisfy us, because it must always be wanting in the musical quality of continuous verse. And our critical experience bears this out, since even Professor Mackail with all his literary skill and insight has failed to make his version of the Aeneid more than a very valuable aid to the student of the original. The meaning of the poet is fully expressed, but his music has been lost. That oft-quoted line—
'Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt'
haunts us like Tennyson's
'When unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square,'
and no prose rendering can hope to convey the poignancy and pathos of the original. The ideal translation, then, must be in verse, and perhaps the best way for us to determine which style and metre are most suited to convey to the modern reader an impression of the charm of Virgil, will be to take a brief glance at some of the best-known of the verse translations which have appeared.
The first translation of the Aeneid into English verse was that of Gawin Douglas, bishop of Dunkeld in Scotland, which was published in 1553. It is a spirited translation, marked by considerable native force and verisimilitude, and it was certainly unsurpassed until that of Dryden appeared. In the best passages it renders the tone and feeling of the original with extreme felicity—indeed, all but perfectly. Take for instance this passage from the Sixth Book—
'Thai walking furth fa dyrk, oneth thai wyst
Quhidder thai went, amyd dym schaddowys thar,
Quhar evir is nycht, and nevir lyght dois repar,
Throwout the waist dongion of Pluto Kyng,
Thai voyd boundis, and that gowsty ryng:
Siklyke as quha wold throw thik woddis wend
In obscure licht, quhen moyn may nocht be kenned;
As Jupiter the kyng etheryall,
With erdis skug hydis the hevynnys all
And the myrk nycht, with her vissage gray,
From every thing hes reft the hew away.'
But in spite of its merits, its dialect wearies the modern reader, and gives it an air of grotesqueness which is very alien to the spirit of the Latin. One other sixteenth-century translation deserves notice, as it was written by one who was himself a distinguished poet; namely, the version of the second and fourth books of the Aeneid written by Henry, Earl of Surrey. It gained the commendation of that stern critic Ascham, who praises Surrey for avoiding rhyme, but considers that he failed to 'fully hit perfect and true versifying'; which is hardly a matter for wonder since English blank verse was then in its infancy. But it has some fine passages—notably the one which relates the death of Dido—
'As she had said, her damsell might perceue
Her with these wordes fal pearced on a sword
The blade embrued and hands besprent with gore.
The clamor rang unto the pallace toppe,
The brute ranne throughout al thastoined towne,
With wailing great, and women's shrill yelling,
The roofs gan roare, the aire resound with plaint,
As though Cartage, or thauncient town of Tyre
With prease of entred enemies swarmed full,
Or when the rage of furious flame doth take
The temples toppes, and mansions eke of men.'
Of the translations into modern English, that of Dryden may still be said to stand first, in spite of its lack of fidelity. It owes its place to its sustained vigour, and the fact that the heroic couplet is in the hands of a master. In its way nothing could be better than—
'Just in the gate, and in the jaws of hell,
Revengeful cares, and sullen sorrows dwell,
And pale diseases, and repining age—
Want, fear, and famine's unresisted rage,
Here toils and death, and death's half-brother sleep,
Forms terrible to view, their sentry keep.
With anxious pleasures of a guilty mind,
Deep frauds, before, and open force behind;
The Furies' iron beds, and strife that shakes
Her hissing tresses, and unfolds her snakes.'
But though the heroic couplet may have conveyed to Dryden's age something of the effect of the Virgilian hexameter, it does nothing of the kind to us. Probably we are prejudiced in the matter by Pope's Homer.
Professor Conington's translation certainly has spirit and energy, but he was decidedly unfortunate in his choice of metre. To attempt to render 'the stateliest measure ever moulded by the lips of man' by fluent octosyllabics was bound to result in incongruity, as in the following passage, where the sombre warning of the Sibyl to Aeneas becomes merely a
