FOOTNOTES:

"Never was Hannibal's genius more displayed than during this long period of inactivity. More than half of his army consisted of Gauls, of all barbarians the most impatient and uncertain in their humour, whose fidelity, it was said, could only be secured by an ever open hand; no man was their friend any longer than he could gorge them with pay or plunder. Those of his soldiers who were not Gauls, were either Spaniards or Africans; the Spaniards were the newly conquered subjects of Carthage, strangers to her race and language, and accustomed to divide their lives between actual battle and the most listless bodily indolence; so that when one of their tribes first saw the habits of a Roman camp, and observed the centurions walking up and down before the prætoriumfor exercise, the Spaniards thought them mad, and ran up to guide them to their tents, thinking that he who was not fighting could do nothing but lie at his ease and enjoy himself. Even the Africans were foreigners to Carthage; they were subjects harshly governed, and had been engaged within the last twenty years in a war of extermination with their masters. Yet the long inactivity of winter quarters, trying to the discipline of the best national armies, was borne patiently by Hannibal's soldiers; there was neither desertion nor mutiny amongst them; even the fickleness of the Gauls seemed spell-bound; they remained steadily in their camp in Apulia, neither going home to their own country, nor over to the enemy. On the contrary, it seems that fresh bands of Gauls must have joined the Carthaginian army after the battle of Thrasymenus, and the retreat of the Roman army from Ariminum. For the Gauls and the Spaniards and the Africans were overpowered by the ascendancy of Hannibal's character; under his guidance they felt themselves invincible; with such a general the yoke of Carthage might seem to the Africans and Spaniards the natural dominion of superior beings; in such a champion the Gauls beheld the appointed instrument of their country's gods to lead them once more to assault the Capitol."—Vol. iii. 131-132.

It was the battle of Cannæ which first shook the fidelity of the Roman allies, and by opening to the Carthaginians the gates of Capua, gave them the command of a city in the south of Italy, second only to Rome herself in wealth and consideration. Of this great and memorable battle, when upwards of eighty thousand Romans fell, and their power was, to all appearance, irrecoverably broken, Arnold give the following interesting account:—

"The skirmishing of the light-armed troops preluded as usual to the battle; the Balearian slingers slung their stones like hail into the ranks of the Roman line, and severely wounded the consul Æmilius himself. Then the Spanish and Gaulish horse charged the Romans front to front, and maintained a standing fight with them, many leaping off their horses and fighting on foot, till the Romans, outnumbered and badly armed, without cuirasses, with light and brittle spears, and with shields made only of ox-hide, were totally routed and driven off the field. Hasdrubal, who commanded the Gauls and Spaniards, followed up his work effectually; he chased the Romans along the river, till he had almost destroyed them, and then, riding off to the right, he came up to aid the Numidians, who, after their manner, had been skirmishing indecisively with the cavalry of the Italian allies. These, on seeing the Gauls and Spaniards advancing, broke away and fled; the Numidians, most effective in pursuing a flying enemy, chased them with unweariable speed, and slaughtered them unsparingly; while Hasdrubal, to complete his signal services on this day, charged fiercely upon the rear of the Roman infantry."He found its huge masses already weltering in helpless confusion, crowded upon one another, totally disorganized, and fighting each man as he best could, but struggling on against all hope, by mere indomitable courage. For the Roman columns on the right and left, finding the Gaulish and Spanish foot advancing in a convex line or wedge, pressed forwards to assail what seemed the flanks of the enemy's column; so that, being already drawn up with too narrow a front by their original formation, they now became compressed still more by their own movements, the right and left converging towards the centre, till the whole army became one dense column, which forced its way onwards by the weight of its charge, and drove back the Gauls and Spaniards into the rear of their own line. Meanwhile, its victorious advance had carried it, like the English column at Fontenoy, into the midst of Hannibal's army; it had passed between the African infantry on its right and left, and now, whilst its head was struggling against the Gauls and Spaniards, its long flanks were fiercely assailed by the Africans, who, facing about to the right and left, charged it home, and threw it into utter disorder. In this state, when they were forced together into one unwieldy crowd, and already falling by thousands, whilst the Gauls and Spaniards, now advancing in their turn, were barring further progress in front, and whilst the Africans were tearing their mass to pieces on both flanks, Hasdrubal, with his victorious Gaulish and Spanish horsemen, broke with thundering fury upon their rear. Then followed a butchery such as has no recorded equal, except the slaughter of the Persians in their camp, when theGreeks forced it after the battle of Platæa. Unable to fight or fly, with no quarter asked or given, the Romans and Italians fell before the swords of their enemies, till, when the sun set upon the field, there were left, out of that vast multitude, no more than three thousand men alive and unwounded, and these fled in straggling parties, under cover of the darkness, and found a refuge in the neighbouring towns. The consul Æmilius, the proconsul Cn. Servilius, the late master of the horse M. Minucius, two quæstors, twenty-one military tribunes, eighty senators, and eighty thousand men, lay dead on the field of battle. The consul Varro, with seventy horsemen, had escaped from the rout of the allied cavalry on the right. The loss of the victors was only six thousand men."—Arnold, iii. 140-143.

"He found its huge masses already weltering in helpless confusion, crowded upon one another, totally disorganized, and fighting each man as he best could, but struggling on against all hope, by mere indomitable courage. For the Roman columns on the right and left, finding the Gaulish and Spanish foot advancing in a convex line or wedge, pressed forwards to assail what seemed the flanks of the enemy's column; so that, being already drawn up with too narrow a front by their original formation, they now became compressed still more by their own movements, the right and left converging towards the centre, till the whole army became one dense column, which forced its way onwards by the weight of its charge, and drove back the Gauls and Spaniards into the rear of their own line. Meanwhile, its victorious advance had carried it, like the English column at Fontenoy, into the midst of Hannibal's army; it had passed between the African infantry on its right and left, and now, whilst its head was struggling against the Gauls and Spaniards, its long flanks were fiercely assailed by the Africans, who, facing about to the right and left, charged it home, and threw it into utter disorder. In this state, when they were forced together into one unwieldy crowd, and already falling by thousands, whilst the Gauls and Spaniards, now advancing in their turn, were barring further progress in front, and whilst the Africans were tearing their mass to pieces on both flanks, Hasdrubal, with his victorious Gaulish and Spanish horsemen, broke with thundering fury upon their rear. Then followed a butchery such as has no recorded equal, except the slaughter of the Persians in their camp, when theGreeks forced it after the battle of Platæa. Unable to fight or fly, with no quarter asked or given, the Romans and Italians fell before the swords of their enemies, till, when the sun set upon the field, there were left, out of that vast multitude, no more than three thousand men alive and unwounded, and these fled in straggling parties, under cover of the darkness, and found a refuge in the neighbouring towns. The consul Æmilius, the proconsul Cn. Servilius, the late master of the horse M. Minucius, two quæstors, twenty-one military tribunes, eighty senators, and eighty thousand men, lay dead on the field of battle. The consul Varro, with seventy horsemen, had escaped from the rout of the allied cavalry on the right. The loss of the victors was only six thousand men."—Arnold, iii. 140-143.

The dreadful battle of Cannæ bears a close resemblance in many important particulars to two of the most important which have been fought in modern times—those of Agincourt and Aspern. The close agglomeration of legionary soldiers in the Roman centre, the tempest of stones which fell on their ranks from the slings of the Balearic marksmen, and the laying bare of the huge unwieldy mass by the defeat of the cavalry on their flanks was precisely the counterpart of what occurred in the army of Philippe of Valois in the first of these memorable fields, when the French men-at-arms, thirty-two deep, were thrown into confusion by the incessant discharges of the English archers, their flanks laid open by the repulse of the vehement charge of their horse by Henry V., and their dense columns slaughtered where they stood, unable alike to fight or to fly, by the general advance of the English billmen. Still closer, perhaps, is the resemblance to the defeat of the French centre under Lannes, which penetrated in a solid column into the centre of the Austrian army at Aspern. Its weight, and the gallantry of the leading files, brought the huge mass even to the reserves of the Archduke; but that gallant prince at length stopped their advance by six regiments of Hungarian grenadiers; the German artillery and musketry tore their flanks by an incessant discharge on either side; and at length the formidable column was forced back like an immense wild beast bleeding at every pore, but still combating and unsubdued, to the banks of the Danube. The repulse of the formidable English column, fourteen thousand strong, which defeated in succession every regiment in the French army except the last reserve of two regiments of guards at Fontenoy, and the still more momentous defeat of the last attack of the Imperial Guard at Waterloo, also bear a striking and interesting resemblance to the rout of the Roman centre after it had penetrated the Carthaginian line at the battle of Cannæ. In truth, the attack in column, formidable beyond measure if not met by valour and combated with skill, is exposed to the most serious dangers if the line in its front is strong and resolute enough to withstand the impulse, till its flanks are overlapped and enveloped by a cross fire from the enemies' lines, converging inwards, as Colborne and Maitland did at Waterloo on the flank of the Old Guard; and thence it is that the French attack in column, so often victorious over the other troops in Europe, has never succeeded against the close and destructive fire of the English infantry; guided by the admirable dispositions with which Wellington first repelled that formidable onset.

Arnold, whose account of Hannibal's campaigns in Italy is by much the best which has been given in modern times to the world, and more scientific and discriminating than either of the immortal narratives of the ancient historians, has clearly brought out two important truths from their examination. The first is, that it was Hannibal's superiority in cavalry, and, above all, the incomparable skill and hardihood of his Numidian horse, which gave him what erelong proved an undisputed superiority in the field; the second, that it was the strength of the towns in the Roman alliance in the south of Italy, and the want of siege artillery on the side of the Carthaginian general, which proved their salvation. So undisputed did the superiority of the invading army become, that, after the battle of Cannæ, it was a fixed principle with the Roman generals, during the thirteen subsequent campaignsthat ensued in Italy, never on any occasion, or with any superority of force whatever, to hazard a general battle. Such was their terror of the African horse, that the sight of a few Numidian uniforms in the fields was sufficient to make a whole consular army stand to its arms. So paralysed was the strength of Rome by the slaughter of Cannæ, that Capua soon after revolted and became the headquarters of Hannibal's army; and, out of the thirty Roman colonies, no less than twelve sent in answer to the requisitions of the consuls, that they had not a man or a penny more to send, and that Rome must depend on its own resources. Never, not even when the disasters of Thrasymene and Cannæ were first heard, was such consternation apparent in Rome, as when that mournful resolution was communicated in the Forum.

In truth, such was the prostration of the strength of Rome by these terrible defeats, that the republic was gone but for the jealousy of the Carthaginian government, which hindered them from sending any efficient succours to Hannibal, and the unconquerable spirit of the Roman aristocracy, which rose with every disaster which ensued, and led them to make efforts in behalf of their country which appear almost superhuman, and never have been equalled by any subsequent people on earth. Republican as he is in his ideas, Arnold, with his usual candour as to facts, admits, in the strongest manner, those prodigious efforts made by the patricians of Rome on this memorable occasion; and that the issue of the contest, and with it the fate of the civilized world, depended on their exertions. Out of 270,000 men, of whom the citizens of Rome consisted before the war, no less than seventy thousand were in arms in its fourth year. No such proportion, has ever since been heard of in the world. One in a hundred of the whole population is the utmost which experience has shown a state is capable of bearing, for any length of time, in her regular army. "As Hannibal," says he, "utterly eclipses Carthage, so, on the contrary, Fabius, Marcellus, Claudius Nero, even Scipio himself, are as nothing when compared to the spirit, and wisdom, and power of Rome. The senate, which voted its thanks to its political enemy Varro, 'because he had not despaired of the commonwealth,' and which disdained either to solicit, or to reprove, or to threaten, or in any way to notice the twelve colonies which had refused to send their accustomed supplies of men for the army, is far more to be honoured than the conqueror of Zama. Never was the wisdom of God's providence more manifest than in the issue of the struggle between Rome and Carthage. It was clearly for the good of mankind that Hannibal should be conquered; his triumph would have stopped the progress of the world. For great men can only act permanently by forming great nations, and no one man, even though it were Hannibal himself, can, in one generation, effect such a work. But where the nation has been merely enkindled for a while by a great man's spirit, the light passes away with him who communicated it; and the nation, when he is gone, is like a dead body to which magic power had for a moment given an unnatural life; when the charm has ceased, the body is cold and stiff as before. He who grieves over the battle of Zama, should carry on his thoughts to a period thirty years later, when Hannibal must, in the course of nature, have been dead; and consider how the isolated Phœnician city of Carthage was fitted to receive and to consolidate the civilization of Greece, or by its laws and institutions to bind together barbarians of every race and language into an organized empire, and prepare them for becoming, when that empire was dissolved, the free members of the commonwealth of Christian Europe."[30]

Such was Hannibal; a man capable by his single capacity of arresting and all but overturning a nation, destined by Providence for such mighty achievements, such lasting services to the human race. His combat with Rome was not that of a general with a general, of an army with an army; it was like the subsequent contest betweenNapoleon and England, the contest of a man with a nation; and in both cases, the nation, after being reduced to the most grievous straits, proved victorious over the man. But Hannibal was not supported as the French emperor was during the great part of his splendid career; no nation with forty millions of souls laid its youth at his feet; no obsequious senate voted him two millions of men in fifteen years; he did not march with the military strength of the half of Europe at his back. Alone, unaided, unbefriended, with the Roman legions in front, and the jealous Carthaginian senate in rear, without succour, reinforcements, or assistance from home, he maintained the contest for fifteen years in Italy, against the might, the energy, and the patriotism of Rome. Such was the terror inspired by his name and exploits, that it rendered even the fierce plebeians of Rome, usually so jealous of patrician interference with their rights, obsequious even in the comitia to their commands. "Go back," said Fabius, when the first centuries had returned consuls of their own choice, whom he knew to be unfit for the command, "and bid them recollect that the consuls must head the armies, and that Hannibal is in Italy." The people succumbed, the votes were taken anew, and the consuls whom he desired were returned.

After the battle of Cannæ had rendered hopeless any further contest in the field, the war in Italy degenerated into a mere succession of attempts to gain possession of fortified towns. Hannibal's total want of siege artillery left him no resource for this but stratagem or internal assistance, and in gaining both his great capacity was eminently conspicuous. Capua, Beneventum, Tarentum, and a great many others, were successively wrested or won from the Romans; and it at one period seemed exceedingly doubtful whether, in this war of posts and stratagems, the Carthaginian would not prevail over them, as he had done in the field. This war, and from the influence of the same necessity in both cases, much resembled the wars of the League and Henry IV. in France; and the military conduct of Hannibal bore alternately a striking resemblance to the skill and resources of the chivalrous king of Navarre, and the bold daring of the emperor Napoleon. The gallant irruption, in particular, of the Carthaginian general, by which he relieved Capua when closely besieged by the Roman forces, bears, as Arnold has observed, the most remarkable resemblance to the similar march of Napoleon from Silesia to relieve Dresden, when beset by the Allied armies under the command of Schwartzenberg in 1813. Nor did the admirable skill of the consul Nero—who took advantage of his interior line of communication, and brought a decisive superiority of force from the frontiers of Apulia to bear on the army which Hamilcar had led across the Pyrenees and the Alps, to aid his brother in the south of Italy, and thus decide the war in Italy—bear a less striking analogy to Napoleon's cross marches from Rivoli to the neighbourhood of Mantua in 1796, to the able movement of the Archduke Charles on the Bavarian plains to the banks of the Maine, which proved the salvation of Germany in 1796, or to the gallant irruption of Napoleon, first into the midst of Blucher's scattered columns on the plains of Champagne, and then against the heads of Schwartzenberg's weighty columns at the bridge of Montereau in 1814, during his immortal campaign in France.

Eight years have now elapsed since we had the gratification of reviewing, on its publication, the first volume of Arnold's Rome; and we then foretold the celebrity which that admirable writer was qualified to attain.[31]The publication since that period of two additional volumes has amply verified that prediction; and augmented the bitterness of the regret which, in common with all his countrymen, we felt at his untimely death. It is clear that he was qualified beyond any modern writer who has yet undertaken the glorious task, to write a history of the Rise and Progress of the Roman Republic. What a workwould eight volumes such as that before us on Hannibal have formed, in conjunction with Gibbon's immortal Decline and Fall! His ardent love of truth, his warm aspiration after the happiness of the human race, his profound and yet liberal religious feeling, as much gave him the spirit requisite for such an undertaking, as his extensive scholarship, his graphic power, his geographical eye, and brilliant talents for description, fitted him for carrying it into execution. It is one of the most melancholy events of our times, which has reft one of the brightest jewels from the literary crown of England, that such a man should have been cut off at the zenith of his power, and the opening of his fame. Arnold was a liberal writer; but what then? We love and respect an honest opponent. He was candid, ingenuous, and truth-loving; and if a historian is such, it matters not what his political opinions are, for he cannot avoid stating facts that support the conservative side. His errors, as we deem them, in politics, arose from the usual causes which mislead men on human affairs, generosity of heart and inexperience of mankind. He could not conceive, with an imagination warmed by the heroes of antiquity, what a race of selfish pigmies the generality of men really are. No man of such an elevated cast can do so, till he is painfully taught it by experience. Arnold died of a disease of the heart, which physicians have named by the expressive words "angina pectoris." They were right: it was anxiety of the heart which brought him to an untimely grave. He died of disappointed hope, of chilled religious aspirations, of mortified political expectations of social felicity. Who can estimate the influence, on so sensitive and enthusiastic a disposition, of the heart-rending anguish which his correspondence proves he felt at the failure of his long-cherished hopes and visions of bliss in the Reform Bill, and all the long catalogue of political and social evils, now apparent to all, it has brought in its train?

FOOTNOTES:[20]History of Rome.ByThomas Arnold, D.D. London: 1843. Vol. 3.[21]Hannibal was born in the year 247 before Christ, or 2092 before this time.[22]Virtusfromvir—exercitusfromexerceo.[23]Arnold, iii. 89.[24]Ibid.iii. 486, note.[25]Livy, xxi. 33.[26]Polybius, iii. 52.[27]Ibid.iii. 54.[28]"The way on every side was utterly impassable, through an accident of a peculiar kind, which is peculiar to the Alps. The snows of the former yearshaving remainedunmelted upon the mountains, were now covered over by that which had fallen in the present autumn, and when the soldiers feet went through the latter they fell, and slid down with great violence."—Polybius, iii. 54. This shows the place was within the circle of perpetual snow; whereas that on the Little St Bernard is much below it, and far beneath any avalanches.[29]Polybius, iii. 54.[30]Arnold, iii. 64, 65[31]See Arnold's Rome, Blackwood's Magazine, July 1837.

[20]History of Rome.ByThomas Arnold, D.D. London: 1843. Vol. 3.

[21]Hannibal was born in the year 247 before Christ, or 2092 before this time.

[22]Virtusfromvir—exercitusfromexerceo.

[23]Arnold, iii. 89.

[24]Ibid.iii. 486, note.

[25]Livy, xxi. 33.

[26]Polybius, iii. 52.

[27]Ibid.iii. 54.

[28]"The way on every side was utterly impassable, through an accident of a peculiar kind, which is peculiar to the Alps. The snows of the former yearshaving remainedunmelted upon the mountains, were now covered over by that which had fallen in the present autumn, and when the soldiers feet went through the latter they fell, and slid down with great violence."—Polybius, iii. 54. This shows the place was within the circle of perpetual snow; whereas that on the Little St Bernard is much below it, and far beneath any avalanches.

[29]Polybius, iii. 54.

[30]Arnold, iii. 64, 65

[31]See Arnold's Rome, Blackwood's Magazine, July 1837.

Another, yet another! year by year,As time progresses with resistless sweep,Sever'd from life, the patriots disappear,Who bore St George's standards o'er the deep;—Heroic men, whose decks were Britain's trust,When banded Europe scowl'd around in gloom;Nor least, though latest Thou, whose honour'd dustOur steps this day live follow'd to the tomb.Yet, gallant Milne, what more could'st thou desire,Replete in fame, in years, and honours, saveTo wrap thy sea-cloak round thee, and expire,Where thou had'st lived in glory, on the wave?From boyhood to thy death-day, 'mid the scenesWhere love is garner'd, or the brave have striven,With scarce a breathing-time that intervenes,Thy life was to our country's service given.A British sailor! 'twas thy proud delightUp glory's rugged pathway to aspire;Ready in council, resolute in fight,And Spartan coolness temper'd Roman fire!Yes; sixty years have pass'd, since, in thy prime,Plunging from off the shatter'd Blanche, o'erboardAmid the moonlight waves, twas thine to climbLa Pique's torn side, and take the Frenchman's sword.And scarcely less remote that midnight dread,Or venturous less that daring, when La SeineDismay'd, dismasted, cumber'd with her dead,Struck to the ship she fled—and fought in vain.And veterans now are all, who, young in heart,Burn'd as they heard, how o'er the watery way,Compell'd to fight, yet eager to depart,The Vengeance battled through the livelong day—Battled with thee, who, steadfast, on her track,Not to be shaken off, untiring bent;And how awhile the fire from each grew slack,The shatter'd masts to splice, and riggings rent,—And how, at dawn, the conflict was renew'd,Muzzle to muzzle, almost hand to hand,Till useless on the wave, and carnage-strew'd,The foe lay wreck'd on St Domingo's strand,—And how huzza'd his brave triumphant crew!And how the hero burn'd within his eye,When Milne beheld upon the staff, where flewThe Tricolor, the flag of Britain fly!!And yet once more thy country calls!—beneathThe towers and demi-lune of dark AlgiersThe Impregnable is anchor'd, in the teethOf bomb-proof batteries, frowning, tiers on tiers.Another day of triumph for the right,—Of laurels fresh for Exmouth and for thee,—When Afric's Demon, palsied at the sightOf Europe's Angel, bade the slave go free!But when away War's fiery storms had burn'd,And Peace re-gladden'd Earth with skies of blue,Thy sword into the pruning-hook was turn'd,And Cæsar into Cincinnatus grew.The poor's protector, the unbiass'd judge,'Twas thine with warm unwearied zeal to lendTime to each duty's call, without a grudge;The Christian, and the Patriot, and the Friend.Farewell! 'tis dust to dust within the grave;But while one heart beats high to Scotland's fame,Best of the good, and bravest of the brave,The name of Milne shall be an honour'd name.

Another, yet another! year by year,As time progresses with resistless sweep,Sever'd from life, the patriots disappear,Who bore St George's standards o'er the deep;—

Heroic men, whose decks were Britain's trust,When banded Europe scowl'd around in gloom;Nor least, though latest Thou, whose honour'd dustOur steps this day live follow'd to the tomb.

Yet, gallant Milne, what more could'st thou desire,Replete in fame, in years, and honours, saveTo wrap thy sea-cloak round thee, and expire,Where thou had'st lived in glory, on the wave?

From boyhood to thy death-day, 'mid the scenesWhere love is garner'd, or the brave have striven,With scarce a breathing-time that intervenes,Thy life was to our country's service given.

A British sailor! 'twas thy proud delightUp glory's rugged pathway to aspire;Ready in council, resolute in fight,And Spartan coolness temper'd Roman fire!

Yes; sixty years have pass'd, since, in thy prime,Plunging from off the shatter'd Blanche, o'erboardAmid the moonlight waves, twas thine to climbLa Pique's torn side, and take the Frenchman's sword.

And scarcely less remote that midnight dread,Or venturous less that daring, when La SeineDismay'd, dismasted, cumber'd with her dead,Struck to the ship she fled—and fought in vain.

And veterans now are all, who, young in heart,Burn'd as they heard, how o'er the watery way,Compell'd to fight, yet eager to depart,The Vengeance battled through the livelong day—

Battled with thee, who, steadfast, on her track,Not to be shaken off, untiring bent;And how awhile the fire from each grew slack,The shatter'd masts to splice, and riggings rent,—

And how, at dawn, the conflict was renew'd,Muzzle to muzzle, almost hand to hand,Till useless on the wave, and carnage-strew'd,The foe lay wreck'd on St Domingo's strand,—

And how huzza'd his brave triumphant crew!And how the hero burn'd within his eye,When Milne beheld upon the staff, where flewThe Tricolor, the flag of Britain fly!!

And yet once more thy country calls!—beneathThe towers and demi-lune of dark AlgiersThe Impregnable is anchor'd, in the teethOf bomb-proof batteries, frowning, tiers on tiers.

Another day of triumph for the right,—Of laurels fresh for Exmouth and for thee,—When Afric's Demon, palsied at the sightOf Europe's Angel, bade the slave go free!

But when away War's fiery storms had burn'd,And Peace re-gladden'd Earth with skies of blue,Thy sword into the pruning-hook was turn'd,And Cæsar into Cincinnatus grew.

The poor's protector, the unbiass'd judge,'Twas thine with warm unwearied zeal to lendTime to each duty's call, without a grudge;The Christian, and the Patriot, and the Friend.

Farewell! 'tis dust to dust within the grave;But while one heart beats high to Scotland's fame,Best of the good, and bravest of the brave,The name of Milne shall be an honour'd name.

I.Take back into thy bosom, Earth,This joyous, May-eyed morrow,The gentlest child that ever MirthGave to be rear'd by Sorrow.'Tis hard—while rays half green, half gold,Through vernal bowers are burning,And streams their diamond-mirrors holdTo Summer's face returning—To say, We're thankful that His sleepShall never more be lighter,In whose sweet-tongued companionshipStream, bower, and beam grew brighter!II.But all the more intensely trueHis soul gave out each featureOf elemental Love—each hueAnd grace of golden Nature,The deeper still beneath it allLurk'd the keen jags of Anguish;The more the laurels clasp'd his brow,Their poison made it languish.Seem'd it that like the NightingaleOf his own mournful singing[32],The tenderer would his song prevailWhile most the thorn was stinging.III.So never to the Desert-wornDid fount bring freshness deeper,Than that his placid rest this mornHas brought the shrouded sleeper.That rest may lap his weary headWhere charnels choke the city,Or where, mid woodlands, by his bedThe wren shall wake its ditty:But near or far, while evening's starIs dear to hearts regretting,Around that spot admiring ThoughtShall hover unforgetting.IV.And ifthissentient, seething worldIs, after all ideal,Or in the Immaterial furl'dAlone resides the Real,Freed One! there's wail for thee this hourThrough thy loved Elves' dominions[33];Hush'd is each tiny trumpet-flower,And droopeth Ariel's pinions;Even Puck, dejected, leaves his swing[34],To plan, with fond endeavour,What pretty buds and dews shall keepThy pillow bright for ever.V.And higher, if less happy, tribes—The race of earthly Childhood,Shall miss thy Whims of frolic wit,That in the summer wild-wood,Or by the Christmas hearth, were hail'dAnd hoarded as a treasureOf undecaying merrimentAnd ever-changing pleasure.Things from thy lavish humour flung,Profuse as scents are flyingThis kindling morn, when blooms are bornAs fast as blooms are dying.VI.Sublimer Art own'd thy control,The minstrel's mightiest magic,With sadness to subdue the soul,Or thrill it with the Tragic.How, listening Aram's fearful dream,We see beneath the willow,That dreadfulThing,[35]or watch him steal,Guilt-lighted, to his pillow.[36]Now with thee roaming ancient groves,We watch the woodman fellingThe funeral Elm, while through its boughsThe ghostly wind comes knelling.[37]VII.Dead Worshipper of Dian's face,In solitary placesShalt thou no more steal, as of yore,To meet her white embraces?[38]Is there no purple in the roseHenceforward to thy senses?For thee has dawn, and daylight's closeLost their sweet influences?No!—by the mental might untamedThou took'st to Death's dark portal,The joy of the wide universeIs now to thee immortal!VIII.How fierce contrasts the city's roarWith thy new-conquer'd Quiet!This stunning hell of wheels that pourWith princes to their riot,—Loud clash the crowds—the very cloudsWith thunder-noise are shaken,While pale, and mute, and cold, afarThou liest, men-forsaken.Hot Life reeks on, nor recks that One—The playful, human-hearted—Who lent its clay less earthinessIs just from earth departed.

II.But all the more intensely trueHis soul gave out each featureOf elemental Love—each hueAnd grace of golden Nature,The deeper still beneath it allLurk'd the keen jags of Anguish;The more the laurels clasp'd his brow,Their poison made it languish.Seem'd it that like the NightingaleOf his own mournful singing[32],The tenderer would his song prevailWhile most the thorn was stinging.

III.So never to the Desert-wornDid fount bring freshness deeper,Than that his placid rest this mornHas brought the shrouded sleeper.That rest may lap his weary headWhere charnels choke the city,Or where, mid woodlands, by his bedThe wren shall wake its ditty:But near or far, while evening's starIs dear to hearts regretting,Around that spot admiring ThoughtShall hover unforgetting.

IV.And ifthissentient, seething worldIs, after all ideal,Or in the Immaterial furl'dAlone resides the Real,Freed One! there's wail for thee this hourThrough thy loved Elves' dominions[33];Hush'd is each tiny trumpet-flower,And droopeth Ariel's pinions;Even Puck, dejected, leaves his swing[34],To plan, with fond endeavour,What pretty buds and dews shall keepThy pillow bright for ever.

V.And higher, if less happy, tribes—The race of earthly Childhood,Shall miss thy Whims of frolic wit,That in the summer wild-wood,Or by the Christmas hearth, were hail'dAnd hoarded as a treasureOf undecaying merrimentAnd ever-changing pleasure.Things from thy lavish humour flung,Profuse as scents are flyingThis kindling morn, when blooms are bornAs fast as blooms are dying.

VI.Sublimer Art own'd thy control,The minstrel's mightiest magic,With sadness to subdue the soul,Or thrill it with the Tragic.How, listening Aram's fearful dream,We see beneath the willow,That dreadfulThing,[35]or watch him steal,Guilt-lighted, to his pillow.[36]Now with thee roaming ancient groves,We watch the woodman fellingThe funeral Elm, while through its boughsThe ghostly wind comes knelling.[37]

VII.Dead Worshipper of Dian's face,In solitary placesShalt thou no more steal, as of yore,To meet her white embraces?[38]Is there no purple in the roseHenceforward to thy senses?For thee has dawn, and daylight's closeLost their sweet influences?No!—by the mental might untamedThou took'st to Death's dark portal,The joy of the wide universeIs now to thee immortal!

VIII.How fierce contrasts the city's roarWith thy new-conquer'd Quiet!This stunning hell of wheels that pourWith princes to their riot,—Loud clash the crowds—the very cloudsWith thunder-noise are shaken,While pale, and mute, and cold, afarThou liest, men-forsaken.Hot Life reeks on, nor recks that One—The playful, human-hearted—Who lent its clay less earthinessIs just from earth departed.

FOOTNOTES:[32]In his beautifulOde to Melancholy;originally published in Blackwood's Magazine.[33]See hisPlea of the Midsummer Fairies, a poem perfectly unrivalled for the intimate sense of nature, tender fancy, and pathetic playfulness displayed in it.[34]"Pity it was to hear the Elfins' wailRise up in concert from their mingled dread,Pity it was to see them all so paleGaze on the grass as for a dying bed.But Puck was seated on a spider's threadThat hung between two branches of a brier,And 'gan to swing and gambol, heels o'er head,Like any Southwark tumbler on a wire,For him no present grief could long inspire."Plea of the Midsummer Fairies.[35]Witness the terror of Aramafterhis victim lies dead before him—(we quote from memory.)"Nothing but lifeless flesh and boneThat could not do me ill!And yet I fear'd him all the moreFor lying there so still;There was a manhood in his lookThat murder could not kill."Dream of Eugene Aram.[36]"For Guilt was my grim chamberlainWho lighted me to bed,And drew my midnight curtains roundWith fingers bloody red."Dream of Eugene Aram.[37]See his impressive poem onThe Elm-Tree. It appeared, a couple of years back, inThe New Monthly Magazine.[38]"Before I lived to sigh,Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills,Beautiful Orb! and so,whene'er I lieTrodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills.Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills,And blessed be thy face, O Mother Mild!"Ode to the Moon, published likewise in Blackwood, 1829.

[32]In his beautifulOde to Melancholy;originally published in Blackwood's Magazine.

[33]See hisPlea of the Midsummer Fairies, a poem perfectly unrivalled for the intimate sense of nature, tender fancy, and pathetic playfulness displayed in it.

[34]"Pity it was to hear the Elfins' wailRise up in concert from their mingled dread,Pity it was to see them all so paleGaze on the grass as for a dying bed.But Puck was seated on a spider's threadThat hung between two branches of a brier,And 'gan to swing and gambol, heels o'er head,Like any Southwark tumbler on a wire,For him no present grief could long inspire."Plea of the Midsummer Fairies.

[34]

"Pity it was to hear the Elfins' wailRise up in concert from their mingled dread,Pity it was to see them all so paleGaze on the grass as for a dying bed.But Puck was seated on a spider's threadThat hung between two branches of a brier,And 'gan to swing and gambol, heels o'er head,Like any Southwark tumbler on a wire,For him no present grief could long inspire."Plea of the Midsummer Fairies.

[35]Witness the terror of Aramafterhis victim lies dead before him—(we quote from memory.)"Nothing but lifeless flesh and boneThat could not do me ill!And yet I fear'd him all the moreFor lying there so still;There was a manhood in his lookThat murder could not kill."Dream of Eugene Aram.

[35]Witness the terror of Aramafterhis victim lies dead before him—(we quote from memory.)

"Nothing but lifeless flesh and boneThat could not do me ill!And yet I fear'd him all the moreFor lying there so still;There was a manhood in his lookThat murder could not kill."Dream of Eugene Aram.

[36]"For Guilt was my grim chamberlainWho lighted me to bed,And drew my midnight curtains roundWith fingers bloody red."Dream of Eugene Aram.

[36]

"For Guilt was my grim chamberlainWho lighted me to bed,And drew my midnight curtains roundWith fingers bloody red."Dream of Eugene Aram.

[37]See his impressive poem onThe Elm-Tree. It appeared, a couple of years back, inThe New Monthly Magazine.

[38]"Before I lived to sigh,Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills,Beautiful Orb! and so,whene'er I lieTrodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills.Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills,And blessed be thy face, O Mother Mild!"Ode to the Moon, published likewise in Blackwood, 1829.

[38]

"Before I lived to sigh,Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills,Beautiful Orb! and so,whene'er I lieTrodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills.Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills,And blessed be thy face, O Mother Mild!"Ode to the Moon, published likewise in Blackwood, 1829.

Dryden's poetical power appears most of all, perhaps, in his translations; and his translation of the most vulgar renown is that which unites his name to that of the great Roman epopeist; but it is not his greatest achievement. The tales modernized and paraphrased from Chaucer, and those filled up into poetical telling from Boccacio, as they are the works of Dryden's which the most fasten themselves with interest upon a mind open to poetry and free from preconceived literary opinion, so do they seem to us to be, after all, those which a versed critic must distinguish as stamped, beyond the others, with the skilled ease, the flow as of original composition, the sustained spirit, and force, and fervour—in short, by the mastery, and by the keen zest of Writing. They are the works of his more than matured mind—of his waning life; and they show a rare instance of a talent so steadfastly and perseveringly self-improved, as that, in life's seventh decennium, the growth of Art overweighed the detriment of Time. But, in good truth, no detriment of time is here perceptible; youthful fire and accomplished skill have the air of being met in these remarkable pieces. Chaucer, in his last and greatest labour, theCanterbury Tales, first effectually creating his own style, and his translator, Dryden, at about the same years, excelling himself to infuse renovated life into theCanterbury Tales—are brought singularly together.

The age of Chaucer was widely and variously different from that of Dryden. Knowledge, taste, art, had advanced with strides between the two dates; and the bleak and stormy English political atmosphere of the fourteenth century had changed, notwithstanding the commotion of the later civil war, into a far milder and more settled element when the seventeenth drew towards close. Genius, likewise, in the two poets, was distinguished by marked differences. Strength, simplicity, earnestness, human affection, characterize Chaucer. Dryden has plenty of strength, too, but it shows itself differently. The strength of Chaucer is called out by the requisition of the subject, and is measured to the call. Dryden bounds and exults in his nervous vigour, like a strong steed broke loose. Exuberant power and rejoicing freedom mark Dryden versifying—a smooth flow, a prompt fertility, a prodigal splendour of words and images. Old Chaucer, therefore, having passed through the hands of Dryden, is no longer old Chaucer—no longer Chaucer. But the well-chosen, and well-disposed, and well-told tale, full of masculine sense, lively with humour, made present with painting—for all this Chaucer brings to Dryden—becomes, by nothing more than the disantiquating and the different hand, a new poem.

Place the two side by side, and whilst you feel that a total change has been effected, you shall not always easily assign the secret of the change wrought. There then comes into view, it must be owned, something like an unpractised awkwardness in the gait of the great elder bard, which you less willingly believe, or to which you shut your eyes, when you have him by himself to yourself. The step of Dryden is rapid, and has perfect decision. He knows, with every spring he takes, where he shall alight. Now Chaucer, you would often say, is retarded by looking where he shall next set down his foot. The old poetry details the whole series of thinking. The modern supposes more. That is the consequence of practice. Writer and reader are in better intelligence. A hint goes further—that which is known to be meant needs not be explicitly said. Style, as the art advances, gains in dispatch. There is better keeping, too, in some respects. The dignityof the style—the purpose of the Beautiful—is more considerately maintained. And perhaps one would be justified in saying, that if the earnestness of the heart, which was in the old time the virtue of virtues, is less—the glow of the fancy, the tone of inspiration, is proportionally more. And if any where the thought is made to give way to the straits of the verse, the modern art more artfully hides the commission.

In our preceding paper, in which we spoke at large of the genius of Chaucer, we gave some very noble extracts from Dryden's version of the Knight's Tale. But we did not then venture to quote any long passages from the original, unassured how they might look on our page to the eyes of Young Britain. Having good reason to know that Young Britain desires some veritable Chaucer from the hands of Maga, we shall now indulge her with some specimens; and as we have been given to understand that Dryden's versions of the same passages will be acceptable for comparison, they shall be now produced, while the wishes of Young Britain shall be further gratified with an occasional running commentary from our popular pen on both poets. We shall confine ourselves to the Knight's Tale, with which all who love us are by this time familiar.

Let us lead off with one or two short specimens, and be not frightened, Fair-eyes, with the seemingly strange, mayhap obsolete-looking, words of the ancient bard. Con them over a few times, and they will turn into letters of light.

Chaucer.Thus passeth yere by yere, and day by day,Till it felle onès in a morwe of May,That Emelie, that fayrer was to seneThan is the lilie upon the stalkè grene,And fressher than the May with flourès newe(For with the rosè colour strof hire hewe;I n'ot which was the finer of hem two)Er it was day, as she was wont to do,She was arisen, and all redy dight,For May wol have no slogardie a-night.The seson priketh every gentil herte,And maketh him out of his slepe to sterte,And sayth 'arise, and do thin observance.'This maketh Emelie have remembranceTo don honour to May, and for to rise.Yclothed was she fresshe for to devise.Hire yelwe here was broided in a tresse,Behind hire back, a yerdè long I guess.And in the garden at the sonne upristShe walketh up and down where as hire list.She gathereth flourès, partie white and red,To make a sotel gerlond for hire hed,And as an angel hevenlich she sang, &c.Dryden.Thus year by year they pass, and day by day,Till once—'twas on the morn of cheerful May—The young Emilia, fairer to be seenThan the fair lily on the flowery green,More fresh than May herself in blossoms new,For with the rosy colour strove her hue,Waked, as her custom was, before the day,To do the observance due to sprightly May;For sprightly May commands our youth to keepThe vigils of her night, and breaks their sluggard sleep;Each gentle breast with kindly warmth she moves,Inspires new flames, revives extinguish'd loves.In this remembrance, Emily, ere day,Arose, and dress'd herself in rich array;Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair,Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair;A ribband did the braided tresses bind,The rest was loose, and wanton'd in the wind:Aurora had but newly chased the night,And purpled o'er the sky with blushing light,When to the garden-walk she took her way,To sport and trip along in cool of day,And offer maiden vows in honour of the May.At every turn she made a little stand,And thrust among the thorns her lily handTo draw the rose; and every rose she drew,She shook the stalk, and brush'd away the dew;Then party-colour'd flowers of white and redShe wove, to make a garland to her head.This done, she sung and caroll'd out so clear,That men and angels might rejoice to hear.Even wondering Philomel forgot to sing,And learn'd from her to welcome in the spring.

Chaucer.

Thus passeth yere by yere, and day by day,Till it felle onès in a morwe of May,That Emelie, that fayrer was to seneThan is the lilie upon the stalkè grene,And fressher than the May with flourès newe(For with the rosè colour strof hire hewe;I n'ot which was the finer of hem two)Er it was day, as she was wont to do,She was arisen, and all redy dight,For May wol have no slogardie a-night.The seson priketh every gentil herte,And maketh him out of his slepe to sterte,And sayth 'arise, and do thin observance.'

This maketh Emelie have remembranceTo don honour to May, and for to rise.Yclothed was she fresshe for to devise.Hire yelwe here was broided in a tresse,Behind hire back, a yerdè long I guess.And in the garden at the sonne upristShe walketh up and down where as hire list.She gathereth flourès, partie white and red,To make a sotel gerlond for hire hed,And as an angel hevenlich she sang, &c.

Dryden.

Thus year by year they pass, and day by day,Till once—'twas on the morn of cheerful May—The young Emilia, fairer to be seenThan the fair lily on the flowery green,More fresh than May herself in blossoms new,For with the rosy colour strove her hue,Waked, as her custom was, before the day,To do the observance due to sprightly May;For sprightly May commands our youth to keepThe vigils of her night, and breaks their sluggard sleep;Each gentle breast with kindly warmth she moves,Inspires new flames, revives extinguish'd loves.

In this remembrance, Emily, ere day,Arose, and dress'd herself in rich array;Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair,Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair;A ribband did the braided tresses bind,The rest was loose, and wanton'd in the wind:Aurora had but newly chased the night,And purpled o'er the sky with blushing light,When to the garden-walk she took her way,To sport and trip along in cool of day,And offer maiden vows in honour of the May.

At every turn she made a little stand,And thrust among the thorns her lily handTo draw the rose; and every rose she drew,She shook the stalk, and brush'd away the dew;Then party-colour'd flowers of white and redShe wove, to make a garland to her head.This done, she sung and caroll'd out so clear,That men and angels might rejoice to hear.Even wondering Philomel forgot to sing,And learn'd from her to welcome in the spring.

What can you wish more innocently beautiful than Chaucer's—what more graceful than Dryden's Emelie? And now look at Arcite—how he, too, does his observance of the May.

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