tion. Thus (1) gives a very vivid picture of the children at their play, (4) in stately language draws the grand sight of surf breaking against a rock, and the lines in (6) are very melodious.

At the same time the point of the comparison is in all these cases, as elsewhere in Vergil, more or less obvious.

In (1) a woman rushing wildly about, like a top: (2) an expansion of the ordinary metaphor 'boiling with rage': in (3) storm of battle rising like a storm at sea: in (4) a firm man amid surging populace like a firm rock amid surging waves; and so forth.

The thing compared lies on the surface, it is one prominent feature of the scene: the simile is an ornament rather than a true illustration. The art is shewn not so much in the choice of the comparison, as in the expression and workmanship: in the vividness of the picture, the beauty of the language, and the truth of the details.

And we must also observe that these details often have no bearing upon the comparison. Thus in (1) 'the silly crowd of boys stand wondering at the spinning box-wood' completes the picture no doubt: but it has nothing to do with Amata's fury: indeed we may go further, and say that the triviality and inappropriateness of the simile is here almost grotesque, and strongly inclines one to think with Heyne that the passage must be an imitation. Again in (4) the line 'the weed dashed against the cliffside washes back' is a very graphic touch, but corresponds to nothing in the stubborn resistance of Latinus1. So too in (6) though the point compared, the advancing song, is somewhat less obvious than others, yet the resemblance of a singing army to a troop of swans is not really very great: and 'e pastu' 'longa colla''sonat amnis' are all irrelevant to the army.

Thus in the Vergilian simile, for the most part the details are worked out independently, and while they relieve and adorn the epic narrative, the comparison usually turns on but one or two points and those commonplace.

1 Moreover, stranger still, Latinus actually does give way, five lines further down, and so the whole simile is stultified.

This is what we may call the primitive use of the simile, as it is employed in Homer, and imitated in many poets since. There is however a modern use of the simile which is quite different. If we open Shelley we read

"The golden gates of Sleep unbar

Where strength and beauty, met together,
Kindle their image like a star

In a sea of glassy weather."

Here there is nothing obvious in the comparison: we should never have thought, without the aid of the poet's superb imagination, of comparing the union of love to a star mirrored in the smooth sea: and yet there is a profound appropriateness, not only in the image, but in all the suggestions of it: the beauty, the isolation from others, the reflection of the brilliance, the infinity, the serenity. Or again,

"Life like a dome of many-coloured glass

Stains the white radiance of Eternity

Until Death tramples it to fragments."

Here too the comparison is not at all obvious: it is fetched from far by the poet's deeper insight and quicker sensibility: and it is splendidly illustrative all through: the bright colours compared with the pure white light resemble the chequered shifting imperfect beauties of life compared with the changeless perfection of eternity: the narrow limited dome and the endless vault of heaven give another equally deep contrast: and lastly the perishable glass contrasted with the eternal spaces of the universe.

The more such similes are studied, the richer light is thrown on the comparison: they are not, like Vergil's, poetic miniature pictures to be enjoyed independently; they are profound luminous resemblances, a permanent addition to our fancy and insight, for which we are grateful to the higher gifts of the poet.

I have said so much, to make it clear, that what Vergil aims at in his similes is something quite different (and in one sense far less) than what the modern poet (especially the lyric poet)

aspires to: for in order to appreciate the true poetic success of Vergil, it is clearly necessary to understand his object, and so avoid the mistake of judging him by an erroneous standard.

Note on the Seventh Book.

With the seventh book begins the second half of Vergil's great work, the main scope of which has been described above. 'The Odyssey of wanderings' as it has been tersely put 'is over: the Iliad of battle is to begin'. And one reason why the latter six books of the Aeneid are generally rated lower than the first six, is no doubt that there is much more fighting: and that the interest of battle is much less in a literary epic, where it must be artificial, than in a primitive epic, where it is natural. At the same time Vergil has used all his immense resources to vary and relieve such monotony.

And in this book there is a great deal of such variety. The real fighting is not begun: we have only the preliminaries. We have Latinus' oracle and royal palace, which gives scope for much stately description and antiquarian lore. We have very vigorous speeches-the later books are especially strong in rhetorical poetry, and Vergil seems here to have developed a new branch of his art-of various kinds : the royal courteous style (195), the indignant outcry of Juno (293), of Amata (359), and the bitter taunts of the Fury (421). We have a splendid passage which enshrines the ancient custom of opening in war time the Janus-gates, ending with the famous echo of Ennius 'belli ferratos rumpit Saturnia postes.' We have the beautiful idyllic picture of the forester's daughter and her pet-hind (475), which is full of lovely lines. And lastly we have the striking close about the warrior maiden Camilla, a subtle touch of art, as is remarked in the notes, after the long catalogue.

The catalogue itself presents, naturally, to a modern reader less interest. But it would be a great mistake to suppose that it is a mere cold and artificial reproduction of the Homeric catalogue of ships in the second book of the Iliad. On the contrary, it serves Vergil's main purpose markedly, as enabling

him to dwell on all the well-known spots of his loved land, and to preserve in his poem many old legends and old customs and local memories of all kinds.

Of Vergil's rarer qualities as a poet: of the art or inspiration which seems to give to his lines a power to haunt the memory and a significance beyond the immediate application: this book will supply instances, if not so richly as the sixth, still certainly without stint.

A word must be said, finally, of the imperfections. The tradition is well known that the poet, being surprised by his last illness before he had revised to his satisfaction his great poem, expressed a wish that it should be burned. This story, precious as a proof of Vergil's ideal standard of workmanship, is to some extent borne out by indications of incomplete polish in the later books.

In this book we have six unfinished lines (129, 248, 439, 455, 702, 760). Not much stress can be laid on these, as in some cases (notably 455, 760) the breaking off is rhetorically effective, like aposiopesis, and may have been intentional. Still it may be reasonably doubted whether the poet would have left them, if he had had time to complete his work. A clearer indication is a line like 654 (dignus, patriis qui laetior esset imperiis, et cui pater haud Mezentius esset), where the second phrase is a flatter repetition of the first; and oversights like armari...arma (429) and rumpit...proruptus (459).

Certain inconsistencies in the story also are noticed in the commentary, and will be readily found in the index. But after all these are slight blemishes.

Note on Vergil's peculiarities of style.

The object of style in literature, apart from the subjectmatter, is to produce effect by successful choice of words. Sometimes the effect is produced by using the simplest words and phrases to express the idea: sometimes by the use of rare or choice words, unusual turns of phrase, stretches of meaning, or even stretches of grammar. The first we may call the

simple, the second the elaborate or artificial style. It is useless to ask which is the best: each will suit best in turn the genius of certain writers, the subject of certain poems, certain situations or ideas, and the taste of certain readers: many poets will use them both at different times: and both may be most effective in the hand of a master. And each too has its danger: the simple is liable to fall into bathos and commonplace: the elaborate has a tendency to become turgid, stilted, over-artificial.

Take as an instance of the simple style the well-known line of Wordsworth::

"Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”

Or this from Milton's Christmas Ode:

"And kings sate still with awful eye,

As if they surely knew their sovran lord was by."

In these none but the commonest words are used, and yet the poetical effectiveness of the style is consummate. Now take as an example of the elaborate style Hamlet's exclamation to the Ghost:

"but tell

Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death,
Have burst their cerements."

Or this, from Richard II.:

"Ere my tongue

Shall sound my honour with such feeble using
Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear
The slavish motive of recanting fear," &c.

In these the strength of feeling finds expression in the very strangeness of the language.

These instances will illustrate one form of the contrast between the two styles; and there are many other forms. Shakespeare will supply many illustrations of both: being a dramatist and a genius, he speaks in many voices. So do many if not most poets of the first rank. Wordsworth however is a notable instance of the simplest style: Pindar perhaps the best of the elaborate style. The poets of this century in