Volume 12 — CLEMENCY AND COMMON SENSE. A CURIOSITY OF LITERATURE; WITH A MORAL.

Article in the Atlantic Monthly, December, 1865.

Here are two famous verses, both often quoted, and one a commonplace of literature. That they have passed into proverbs attests their merit both in substance and in form. Something more than truth is needed for a proverb. And so, also, something more than form is needed. Both must concur. The truth must be expressed in such form as to satisfy the requirements of Art.

Most persons, who have not occasionally indulged in such diversions, if asked where these verses are to be found, would say at once that it was in some familiar poet of school-boy days. Both have a sound as of something heard in childhood. The latter is Virgilian in tone and movement. More than once I have heard it insisted that it was by Virgil. But nobody is able to find it there, although the opposite dangers are represented in the voyage of Æneas:—

Another poet shows the peril without the contrast:—

Thinking of the historical proverb, I am reminded of the eminent character who first showed it to me in the heroic poem where it appears. I refer to the late Dr. Maltby, Bishop of Durham, who had been a favorite pupil of Dr. Parr, and was unquestionably among the best scholars of England. His amenity was equal to his scholarship. I was his guest at Auckland Castle early in the autumn of 1838. Conversation turned much upon books and the curiosities of study. One morning, after breakfast, the learned Bishop came to me with a small volume in his hand, printed in the Italian character, and remarking, “You seem to be interested in such things,” he pointed to this much quoted verse. It was the Latin epic, “Alexandreïs, sive Gesta Alexandri Magni,” by Philippus Gualterus, a mediæval poet of France.

Of course the fable of Scylla and Charybdis is ancient; but this verse cannot be traced to antiquity. For the fable Homer is our highest authority, and he represents the Sirens as unfriendly accessories, playing their part to tempt the victim.

These fronting terrors belong to mythology and to geography. Mythologically, they were two voracious monsters, dwelling opposite to each other,—Charybdis on the coast of Sicily, and Scylla on the coast of Italy. Geographically, they were dangers to the navigator in the narrow strait between Sicily and Italy. Charybdis was a whirlpool, where ships were often sucked to destruction; Scylla was a rock, on which ships were often dashed to pieces.

Ulysses in his wanderings encountered these terrors, but by prudence and the counsels of Circe he was enabled to steer clear between them, although the Sirens strove to lure him on the rock. The story is too long; but there are passages like pictures, and they have been illustrated by the genius of Flaxman. The first danger on the Sicilian side is described in the Odyssey:—

Endeavoring to shun this peril, the navigator encounters the other:—

Not far off were the Sirens, who strove by their music to draw the navigator to certain doom:—

Forewarned, the wise Ulysses took all precautions against the fatal perils. Avoiding the Sicilian whirlpool, he did not run upon the Italian rock or yield to the voice of the charmer. And yet he could not renounce the opportunity of hearing the melody. Stuffing the ears of his companions with wax, so that they could not be entranced by the Sirens, or comprehend any countermanding order which his weakness might induce him to utter, he had himself tied to the mast,—like another Farragut,—and directed that the ship should be steered straight on. It was steered straight on, although he cried out to stop. His deafened companions heard nothing of the song or the countermand,—

The dangers of both coasts were at length passed, not without the loss of six men, “chiefs of renown,” who became the prey of Scylla. But the Sirens, humbled by defeat, dashed themselves upon the rocks and disappeared forever.

Few stories have been more popular. It was natural that it should enter into poetry and suggest a proverb. St. Augustine uses it, when he says, “Ne iterum, quasi fugiens Charybdim, in Scyllam incurras.”[262] Milton more than once alludes to it. Thus, in the exquisite “Comus,” he shows these opposite terrors subdued by another power:—

In the “Paradise Lost,” while portraying Sin, the terrible portress at the gates of Hell, the poet repairs to this story for illustration:—

And then again, when picturing Satan escaping from pursuit, he shows him

But, though frequently employing the story, Milton did not use the proverb, and here transforms at least one of the dangers.

Not only the story, but the proverb, was known to Shakespeare, who makes Launcelot use it in his plain talk with Jessica:—“Truly, then, I fear you are damned both by father and mother: thus, when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother: well, you are gone both ways.”[266] Malone, in his note, written in the last century, says: “Alluding to the well-known line of a modern Latin poet, Philippe Gualtier, in his poem entitled ‘Alexandreïs.’” To this testimony of Malone’s, another editor, George Steevens, whose early bibliographical tastes excited the praise of Dibdin, adds: “Several translations of this adage were obvious to Shakespeare. Among other places, it is found in an ancient poem entitled ‘A Dialogue between Custom and Veritie, concerning the use and abuse of Dauncing and Minstrelsie’:—

But this proverb had already passed into tradition and speech. That Shakespeare should seize and use it was natural. He was the universal absorbent.

It did not require a Shakespeare to appropriate it. Brantôme, who wrote rather from hearing than study, so that his style is a record of contemporary language, in describing a great lady who escaped from Turks to fall into the hands of domestic robbers, likens the case to falling from Scylla to Charybdis.[267] A similar illustration drops from La Fontaine:—

Thomson shows that it was a common illustration, when he describes Dunkirk as

Mr. Webster, in an argument before the Supreme Court of the United States, quotes and applies the words of Virgil describing these opposite perils, and warns against Charybdis.[270] The great orator of ancient Rome, in his second Philippic, where Mark Antony is assailed with all his splendid ability, after picturing the culprit as seizing and squandering an enormous property, exclaims: “What Charybdis was ever so voracious? Charybdis do I say?—who, if she existed at all, was a single animal.”[271] Antony is worse than Charybdis, but there is no allusion to the sister peril. The proverb had no existence at that time.

The history of this verse seemed for a while forgotten. Like the Wandering Jew, it was a vagrant, unknown in origin, but having perpetual life. Erasmus, with learning so vast, quotes it, with the variation Incidit, for Incidis, in his great work on Proverbs, and owns that he does not remember its author. Here is the confession: “Celebratur apud Latinos hic versiculus, quocunque natus auctore, nam in præsentia non occurrit”: “This little verse is a commonplace among Latin writers, whoever the author,—for he does not at present occur to me.”[272] But, though unable to recall its origin, it is clear that the idea it embodies found much favor with this representative of moderation. He dwells on it with particular sympathy, and reproduces it in various forms. This is the equivalent on which he hangs his commentary: “Evitata Charybdi, in Scyllam incidi.”[273] It is easy to see how inferior in form is this to the much quoted verse. It seems to be a rendering of some Greek iambics, also of uncertain origin, preserved by Apostolius,[274] one of the learned Greeks scattered over Europe by the fall of Constantinople. Erasmus quotes also another proverb with the same signification: “Fumum fugiens, in ignem incidi,”[275] which warns against running into the fire to avoid the smoke; and yet another, rendered from the Greek of Lucian: “Ignoraveram autem quod, juxta proverbium, ex fumo in ipsum ignem compellerer”: “But I didn’t know, that, according to the proverb, I should be driven from the smoke into the fire itself.”[276] Horace teaches that fools shunning vices run upon the opposite:—

and then he describes one man as smelling of pastils, and another of the goat:—

Erasmus quotes words of kindred sentiment from the “Phormio” of Terence: “Ita fugias, ne præter casam”: which he tells us means that we should not so fly from any vice as to be incautiously carried into a greater.[278] In his letters the ancient fable recurs more than once. On one occasion he warns against the dangers of youth, and says, “Instead of the ears with wax, as in the Homeric story, the mind must be carefully sealed by the precepts of Philosophy.”[279] Again he avows fear, lest, shunning Scylla, he fall on a much worse Charybdis: “Nunc vereor ne sic vitemus hanc Scyllam, ut incidamus in Charybdim multo perniciosiorem.”[280] And the same fear appears yet again, where he describes his straits: “In has angustias protrusus sum, ut mihi, si Scyllam fugero, in Charybdim sit incidendum.”[281] On another occasion he pictures himself as exposed in his expenses to the most voracious Charybdises: “Ex his conjecturam facias licebit, quemadmodum hic dilabantur nummi, ubi nihil non meo sumptu geritur, et est mihi res cum duabus Charybdibus voracissimis.”[282] The following is cited by Jortin from another letter of Erasmus: “Some say slanderously that I keep a medium. I confess it is a very impious thing to keep a medium between Christ and Belial; but I think it prudential to keep a medium between Scylla and Charybdis.”[283] Thus did his instinctive prudence find expression in this favorite illustration.

If Erasmus were less illustrious for learning, perhaps if his countenance were less interesting, as we look upon it in the immortal portraits by two great artists, Hans Holbein and Albert Dürer, I should not be tempted to dwell on this confession of ignorance. And yet it belongs to the history of this verse, which has had strange ups and downs. The poem from which it is taken, after enjoying early renown, was forgotten,—and then again, after a revival, was forgotten, again to enjoy another revival. The last time it was revived through this solitary verse, without which, I cannot doubt, it would have expired forever.

Even before the days of Erasmus, who died in 1536, this verse had been lost and found. It was circulated as a proverb of unknown origin, when Galeotto Marzio—an Italian of infinite wit and learning,[284] who flourished in the latter half of the fifteenth century, and was for some time instructor of the children of Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary—pointed out its author. In a work of Ana, amusing and instructive, entitled “De Doctrina Promiscua,” which first saw the light in Latin, and was afterwards translated into Italian, the learned author says: “Hoc carmen est Gualteri Galli de Gestis Alexandri, et non vagum proverbium, ut quidam non omnino indocti meminerunt.” It was not a vague proverb, as some persons not altogether unlearned have supposed, but a verse of the “Alexandreïs.” And yet shortly afterwards the great master of proverbs, whose learning seemed to know no bounds, could not fix its origin. At a later day, Pasquier, in his “Recherches de la France,” made substantially the same remark as Marzio. After alluding to the early fame of its author, he says: “C’est luy dans les œuvres duquel nous trouvons un vers souvent par nous allegué, sans que plusieurs sçachient qui en fut l’auteur.” In quoting the verse, the French author uses Decidit instead of Incidis.[285] The discovery by Marzio, and the repetition of this discovery by Pasquier, are chronicled at a later day in the Conversations of Ménage,[286] who found a French Boswell before that of Dr. Johnson was born. Jortin, in the elaborate notes to his Life of Erasmus, borrows from Ménage, and gives the same history.[287]

When Galeotto Marzio made his discovery, the poem was still in manuscript; but there were printed editions before the “Adagia” of Erasmus. An eminent authority—the “Histoire Littéraire de la France,” that great work, commenced by the Benedictines, and continued by the French Academy—says that it was printed for the first time at Strasbourg, in 1513.[288] This is a mistake which has been repeated by Warton.[289] Brunet, in his “Manuel du Libraire,” mentions an edition, without place or date, with the cipher of Guillaume Le Talleur, a printer at Rouen in 1487.[290] Panzer, in his “Annales Typographici,” describes another edition, with the monogram of Richard Pynson, the London printer at the close of the fifteenth century.[291] Beloe, in his “Anecdotes of Literature,” also speaks of an edition with the imprint of Pynson.[292] There also appears to have been an edition under date of 1496. Then came the Strasbourg edition of 1513, by J. Adelphus. All these are in black letter. Next was the Ingolstadt edition, in 1541, in Italic, or, as it is called by the French, “cursive characters,” with a brief life of the poet, by Sebastian Link. This was followed, in 1558, by an edition at Lyons, also in Italic, announced as now for the first time appearing in France, “nunc primum in Gallia,” which was a mistake. This edition seems to have enjoyed peculiar favor. It has been strangely confounded with imaginary editions which never existed: thus, the Italian Quadrio notes especially one at London, in 1558;[293] and the French Millin assures us that the best was at Leyden, in 1558.[294] No such editions appeared; and the only edition of that year was at Lyons. After the lapse of a century, in 1659, there was another edition, by Athanasius Gugger, a monk of the Monastery of St. Gall, published at the Monastery itself, from manuscripts there, and with its own types, “formis ejusdem.” The editor was ignorant of the previous editions, and in his preface announces the poem as a new work, although ancient,—never before printed, to his knowledge,—eagerly regarded and desired by many,—and not less venerable for antiquity than for erudition: “En tibi, candide Lector, opus novum, ut sit antiquum, nusquam, quod sciam, editum, a multis cupide inspectum et desideratum, non minus antiquitate quam eruditione venerabile.”[295] This edition seems to have been repeated at St. Gall in 1693; and these two, which were the last, appear to have been the best. From that time the poem rested undisturbed until our own day, when it found a place in that magnificent collection of patristic learning, the “Patrologiæ Cursus Completus” of Migne.[296] Such an edition ought to be useful in determining the text, for there must be numerous manuscripts in the Paris libraries. As long ago as 1795 there were no less than nineteen in the National Library, and also a manuscript at Tours, which had drawn forth a curious commentary by M. de Foncemagne.[297]

I ought not to forget here that in 1537 a passage from this poem was rendered into English blank verse, and is an early monument of our language. This was by Nicholas Grimoald, a native of Huntingdonshire, whose translation is entitled “The Death of Zoroas, an Egyptian Astronomer, in the First Fight that Alexander had with the Persians.”[298] This is not the only token of the attention it awakened in England. Alexander Ross, chaplain of Charles the First, and author, famous from a couplet of “Hudibras,” made preparations for an edition. His dedicatory letter was written, bearing date 1644, with two different sets of dedicatory verses, and verses from his friend David Echlin, the scholarly physician to the king,[299] who had given him this “great treasure.” But the work failed to appear. The identical copy presented by Echlin, with many marginal notes from Quintus Curtius and others, is mentioned as belonging to the Bishop of Ely at the beginning of the present century.[300] But the homage of the Scotchman still exists in his Dedicatory Epistle: “Si materiam consideres, elegantissimam utilissimamque historiam gestorum Alexandri magni continet; certe, sive stylum, sive subjectum inspicias, dignam invenies quæ omnium teratur manibus, quamque adolescentes

It will be observed that he borrows superlatives to praise this poem as “most elegant and most useful,” and by style and subject worthy of the daily and nightly study of youth. In his verses Ross declares Alexander not less fortunate in his poet than the Greek chieftain in Homer:—

There was also another edition planned in France, during the latter part of the last century, by M. Daire, the librarian of the Celestines in Paris, founded on the Latin text, according to the various manuscripts, with a French translation; but this never appeared.[303]

Until its late appearance in the collection of Migne, it was only in ancient editions that this poem could be found. Of course these are rare. The British Museum, in its immense treasure-house, has the most important, one of which belonged to the invaluable legacy of the late Mr. Grenville. The copy in the library of Lord Spencer is the Lyons edition of 1558. By a singular fortune, this volume was missing some time ago from its place on the shelves; but it has since been found; and I have now before me a tracing from its title-page. My own copy—and the only one which I know this side of the Atlantic—is the Ingolstadt edition. It once belonged to John Mitford, and has on the fly-leaves notes in the autograph of this honored lover of books.

Bibliography dwells with delight upon this poem, although latterly the interest centres in a single line. Brunet does full justice to it. So does his jealous rival, Graesse, except where he blunders. Watt, in his “Bibliotheca Britannica,” under the name “Galtherus, Philip,” mentions the Lyons edition of 1558, on which he remarks, “The typography is very singular”; and then, under the name “Gualterus, de Castelliona,” he mentions the edition of St. Gall in 1659. Curiously, the learned bibliographer seems to suppose these two editions to be different works, by different authors,—as they stand far apart, and without reference from one to the other. Clarke, in his “Repertorium Bibliographicum,” bearing date 1819, where he gives an account of the most celebrated British libraries, mentions a copy of the first edition in the library of Mr. Steevens,[304] who showed his knowledge of the poem in his notes to Shakespeare; also a copy of the Lyons edition of 1558 in the library of the Marquis of Blandford, afterwards Duke of Marlborough. This learned bibliographer has a note calling attention to the fact that “there are variations in the famous disputed line in different editions of this poem,”—that in the first edition the line begins “Corruis in Syllam” but in the Lyons edition “Incidis in Scyllam” while, as we have already seen, Pasquier says, “Decidit in Scyllam.”[305] Lowndes, in his “Bibliographer’s Manual,” says of the poem, “In it will be found that trite verse so often repeated, ‘Incidis,’” etc.,—words which seem borrowed from Beloe.[306] “Trite” is hardly respectful.

Very little is known of the author. He is called in Latin Philippus Gualterus or Galterus; in French it is sometimes Gaultier and sometimes Gautier. The French biographical dictionaries, whether of Michaud or Didot, attest the number of persons with this name, of all degrees and professions. There was the Norman knight sans Avoir, a chief of the first Crusade. There also was another Gautier, known as the Sire d’Yvetot, stabbed to death by his sovereign, Clotaire, who is said afterwards in penitence to have erected the lordship of Yvetot into that kingdom which Béranger has immortalized. And there have been others in every walk of life. Fabricius, in his “Bibliotheca Latina Mediæ et Infimæ Ætatis,”[307] mentions no less than seventy-two Latin authors of this name. A single verse has saved one of these from the oblivion that has overtaken the multitude.

He was born at Lille, but at what precise date is uncertain. Speaking generally, it may be said that he lived and wrote during the second half of the twelfth century, while Louis the Seventh and Philip Augustus were kings of France, and Henry the Second and Richard Cœur-de-Lion ruled England, one century after Abélard, and one century before Dante. After studying at Paris, he went to establish himself at Châtillon,—but it is not known at which of the numerous towns of this name in France. Here he was charged with the direction of the schools, and became known by the name of the town, as appears in the epitaph, ambitiously suggestive of Virgil, which he wrote for himself:—

But he is known sometimes by his birthplace, and sometimes by his early residence. The highest French authority calls him “Gaultier of Lille, or of Châtillon.”[308] He has been sometimes confounded with Gaultier of Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen, who was born in the island of Jersey,[309]—and sometimes with the Bishop of Maguelonne of the same name, reputed author of an Exposition of the Psalter, whose see was on an island in the Mediterranean, near the coast of France.[310]

Not content with residence at Châtillon, he repaired to Bologna, in Italy, where he studied the Civil and Canon Law. Returning to France, he became secretary of two successive Archbishops of Rheims, the latter of whom, by the name of William,—a descendant by his grandmother from William the Conqueror,—occupied this place of power from 1176 to 1201. The secretary enjoyed the favor of the Archbishop, who seems to have been fond of letters. It was during this period that he composed, or at least finished, his poem. Its date is sometimes placed at 1180; and there is an allusion in its text which makes it near this time. Thomas à Becket was assassinated before the altar of Canterbury in 1170; and this event, so important in the history of the age, is mentioned as recent: “Nuper … cæsum dolet Anglia Thomam.”[311] The poem was dedicated to the Archbishop, who was to live immortal in companionship with his secretary:—

The grateful Archbishop bestowed upon the poet a stall in the cathedral of Amiens, where he died of the plague at the commencement of the thirteenth century.[313]

This does not appear to have been his only work. Others are attributed to him. There are dialogues adversus Judæos, which Oudin publishes in his collection entitled “Veterum aliquot Galliæ et Belgii Scriptorum Opuscula Sacra nunquam edita.” This same Oudin, in another publication, speaks of “Opuscula Varia,” preserved among the manuscripts in the Imperial Library[314] of France, as by Gaultier, although the larger part of these Opuscula have been ascribed to a very different person, Gaultier Mapes, chaplain to Henry the Second, King of England, and Archdeacon of Oxford.[315] But more recent researches would restore them to Philip Gaultier. An edition appeared at Hanover, in Germany, in 1859, by W. Müldener, after the Paris manuscripts, with the following title: “Die zehn Gedichte des Walther von Lille genannt von Châtillon, zum ersten Male vollständig herausgegeben.” Among these are satirical songs in Latin on the World, and also on Prelates, which, it is said, were sung in England as well as throughout France.[316] Indeed, the second verse of the epitaph already quoted may point to these satires:—

Here, as in the “Alexandreïs,” we encounter the indignant sentiments inspired by the assassination of Becket. The victim is called “the flower of priests,” and the king “Neronior est ipso Nerone” which may be translated by Shakespeare’s “out-Herods Herod.” But these poems, whether by Walter Mapes or Philip Gaultier, are forgotten. The “Alexandreïs” has a different fortune.

The poem became at once famous. It had the success of Victor Hugo or Byron. Its author took rank, not only at the head of his contemporaries, but even among classics of antiquity. Leyser chronicles no less than ninety-nine Latin poets in the twelfth century,[317] but we are assured that not one of them is comparable to Gaultier.[318] M. Édélestand du Méril, who has given especial attention to this period, speaks of the “Alexandreïs” as a “great poem,” and remarks that its “Latinity is very elegant for the time.”[319] Another authority calls him “the first of the modern Latin poets who appears to have had a spark of true poetic genius.”[320] And still another says, that, “notwithstanding all its defects, we must regard this poem, and the ‘Philippis’ of William of Brittany, which appeared about sixty years later, as two brilliant phenomena in the midst of the thick darkness which covered Europe, from the decline of the Roman Empire to the revival of letters in Italy.”[321] Pasquier, to whom I have already referred, goes so far, in his chapter on the University of Paris, as to illustrate its founder, Peter Lombard, as having for a contemporary “one Galterus, an eminent poet, who wrote in Latin verses the life of Alexander, under the title of the ‘Alexandreïs,’ a great imitator of Lucan”; and the learned writer then adds, that it is in his work that we find a verse often quoted without knowing the author.[322] These testimonies show his position among contemporaries; but there is something more.

An anonymous Latin poet of the next century, who has left a poem on the life and miracles of Saint Oswald, calls Homer, Gaultier, and Lucan the three capital heroic poets. Homer, he says, has celebrated Hercules,—Gaultier, the son of Philip,—and Lucan, so he declares, swells the praises of Cæsar; but these heroes deserve to be immortalized in verse much less than the holy confessor Oswald.[323] In England, the Abbot of Peterborough transcribed Seneca, Terence, Martial, Claudian, and the “Gesta Alexandri.”[324] Even in Iceland there was an early version, edited at a later day by Arnas Magnæus (the Latin for Arne Magnussen), Secretary and Antiquary to the King of Denmark, and Professor in the University of Copenhagen, who, styling the poem the “Gualterian Alexandreïs,” characterizes the Icelandic version as “the incomparable monument of Northern antiquity.”[325] The new poem was studied, even to the exclusion of ancient masters and of Virgil himself. Henry of Ghent, who wrote about 1280, says that it “was of such dignity in the schools of the grammarians that the reading of the ancient poets was comparatively neglected.”[326] This testimony is curiously confirmed by the condition of the manuscripts that have come down to us, most of which are loaded with glosses and interlinear explanations, doubtless for public use in the schools.[327] It is sometimes supposed that Dante repaired to Paris. It is certain that his excellent master, Brunetto Latini, passed much time there. This must have been at the very period when the new poem was taught in the schools. Perhaps it may be traced in the “Divina Commedia.”

Next after the tale of Troy, the career of Alexander was at this period the most popular subject for poetry, romance, or chronicle. The Grecian conqueror filled a vast space in the imagination. He was the centre of marvel and of history. Every modern literature, according to its development, testifies to this predominance. Even dialects testify, and so does art. Wood engraving is supposed to have been invented in Italy, somewhere about 1285, by the two Cunio, and their earliest work was a representation, in eight parts, of the actions of Alexander, with explanatory verses in Latin beneath the prints.[328] In France, the professors of grammar at Toulouse were directed by statutes of the University, dated 1328, to read to their pupils “De Historiis Alexandri.”[329] In England, during the reign of Henry the Third, the sheriff was ordered to procure the Queen’s chamber at Nottingham to be painted with the history of Alexander,—“Depingi facias historiam, Alexandri circumquaque.”[330] Chaucer, in his “House of Fame,” places Alexander with Hercules,[331] and then again shows the universality of his renown:—

We have the excellent authority of the poet Gray for the remark, that the Alexandrine verse, which “like a wounded snake drags its slow length along,” took its name from an early poem in this measure, called “La Vie d’Alexandre.” There was also the “Roman d’Alexandre,” contemporary with the “Alexandreïs,” which Gray thinks was borrowed from the latter, apparently because the authors say that they took it from the Latin.[333] There was also “The Life and Actions of Alexander the Macedonian,” originally written in Greek, by Simeon Seth, magister, and protovestiary or wardrobe-keeper of the palace at Constantinople, in 1070, and translated from Greek into Latin, and thence into French, Italian, and German.[334] Other forms have been perpetuated by the bibliographical care of the Roxburghe Club and the Bannatyne Club. Arabia contributed her stories, and the Grecian conqueror became a hero of romance. Like Charlemagne, he had his twelve peers; and he also had a horn to proclaim his word of command, which took sixty men to blow, and was heard sixty miles,—being the same which Orlando sounded afterwards at Roncesvalles. That great career, which was one of the epochs of mankind, which carried in its victorious march the Greek language and Greek civilization, which at the time enlarged the geography of the world, opening the way to India, and which Plutarch in his “Morals” makes so Christian, was overlaid by an incongruous mass of fable and anachronism, so that the real story disappeared. Times, titles, and places were confounded. Monks and convents, churches and confessors, were mixed with achievements of the hero; and in an early Spanish History of Alexander, by Juan Lorenzo Segura, we meet such characters as Don Phœbus, the Emperor Jupiter, and the Count Don Demosthenes, and others with the constant prefix of Don; and the mother of Achilles is represented as placing him, when a child, in a convent of Benedictine nuns,—thus subjecting the early hero as the later to the same jumble of Heathen and Christian mythology.[335]

Philip Gaultier, with all his genius, has incongruities and anachronisms; but his poem is founded substantially upon the History of Quintus Curtius, which he has done into Latin hexameters, with the addition of long speeches and some few inventions. Aristotle is represented with a hideous exterior, face and body lean, hair neglected, and the air of a pedant exhausted by study. The soldiers of Alexander are called Quirites, as if they were Romans. The month of June in Greece is described as if it were in Rome:—

Events connected with the passion of Jesus Christ are treated as having already passed in the time of Alexander.

The poem is divided into ten books, corresponding to the number in the original of Curtius,[337] and the ten initial letters of the books, when put together like an acrostic, spell the name of the Archbishop, Guillermus, the equivalent for William at that time, the patron of the poet. Besides this conceit, there is a dedication both at the beginning and the end. Quantity, especially in Greek or Asiatic words, is disregarded; and there are affectations in style, of which the very beginning is an instance:—

In the same vein is the verse,—

and another verse, describing the violence of the soldiers after victory:—

A rapid analysis will at least exhibit the order of events in the poem, and its topics, with something of its character.

Alexander appears, in the first book, a youth panting for combat with the Persians, enemies of his country and of his father. There also is his teacher, Aristotle. Philip dies, and the son repairs to Corinth for coronation. Under the counsels of Demosthenes, the Athenians declare against him. The young king arrives under the walls of Athens. Demosthenes speaks for war; Æschines for peace. The party of peace prevails; and the Macedonian turns to Thebes, which he besieges and captures by assault. The poet Cloades, approaching the conqueror, chants in lyric verses an appeal for pardon, and reminds him that without clemency a kingdom is unstable:—

And the words of this chant are still resounding. But Alexander, angry and inexorable, will not relent. He levels the towers, which had first risen to the music of Amphion, and delivers the city to the flames,—thus adding a new act to that tragic history which made Dante select Thebes as the synonym of misfortune.[342] Turning from these smoking ruins, he gathers men and ships against Persia. Traversing the sea, he lands in Asia; and here the poet describes geographically the different states of that continent,—Assyria, Media, Persia, Arabia, with its Sabæan frankincense and its single phœnix,—ending with Palestine, where a God was born of a Virgin, at whose death the world shook with fear. Commencing his march through Cilicia and Phrygia, the ambitious youth stops at Troy, and visits the tomb of Achilles, where he makes a long speech.

The second book opens with the impression on the mind of Darius, menaced by his Macedonian enemy. He writes an insolent letter, which Alexander answers by moving forward. At Sardes he cuts the Gordian knot, and then advances rapidly. Darius quits the Euphrates with his vast army, which is described. Alexander bathes in the cold waters of the Cydnus, is seized with illness, and shows his generous trust in the physician that attended him,—drinking the handed cup, although said to be poisoned. Restored to health, he shows himself to his troops, who are transported with joy. Meanwhile the Persians advance. Darius harangues. Alexander also. The two armies prepare for battle.

The third book is of battle and victory at Issus, described with minuteness and warmth. Here dies Zoroas, the Egyptian astronomer, than whom nobody was more skilled in the stars, the origin of winter’s cold or summer’s heat, or in the mystery of squaring the circle,—“circulus an possit quadrari.”[343] The Persians are overcome. Darius seeks shelter in Babylon. His treasures are the prey of the conqueror. Horses are laden with spoils, and the sacks are so full that they cannot be tied. Rich ornaments are torn from the women, who are surrendered to the brutality of the soldiers. Only the royal family is spared. Conducted to the presence of Alexander, they are received with the regard due to their sex and misfortune. The siege and destruction of Tyre follow; then the expedition to Egypt and the temple of Jupiter Ammon. Here is a description of the Desert, which is said, like the sea, to have its perils, with its Scylla and its Charybdis of sand:—

Meanwhile Darius assembles new forces. Alexander leaves Egypt and rushes to meet him. An eclipse of the moon causes sedition among his soldiers, who dare to accuse their king. The phenomenon is explained by soothsayers, and the sedition is appeased.

The fourth book opens with a funeral. It is of the Persian queen. Alexander laments her with tears. Darius learns at the same time her death and the generosity of his enemy. He addresses prayers to the gods for the latter, and offers propositions of peace. Alexander refuses these, and proceeds to bestow funeral honors upon the spouse of him he was about to meet in battle. Then comes an invention of the poet, which may have suggested afterwards to Dante that most beautiful passage of the “Purgatorio,” where great scenes are sculptured on the walls.[345] At the summit of a mountain a tomb is constructed by the skilful Hebrew Apelles, to receive the remains of the Persian queen; and on this tomb are carved, not only kings and names of Greek renown, but histories from the beginning of the world:—

Here in breathing gold is the creation in six days; the fall of man, seduced by the serpent; Cain a wanderer; the increase of the human race; vice prevailing over virtue; the deluge; the intoxication of Noah; the story of Esau, of Jacob, of Joseph; the plagues of Egypt,—

the flight of the Israelites,—

the manna in the Desert; the giving of the Law; the gushing of water from the rock; and then the succession of Hebrew history, stretching to the time of Esdras,—

At once, after these great obsequies, Alexander marches against Darius. And here the poet dwells on the scene of the Persian army watching by its camp-fires. Helmets rival the stars; the firmament is surprised to see fires like its own reflected from bucklers, and fears lest the earth be changed into sky and the night become day. Instead of the sun, there is the helmet of Darius, which shines like Phœbus himself, and at its top a gem of flame, obscuring the stars and yielding only to the rays of the sun; for, as much as it yields to the latter, so much does it prevail over the former. The youthful chieftain, under protection of a benignant divinity, passes the night in profound repose. His army is all marshalled for the day, and he still sleeps. He is waked, harangues his men, and gives the order for battle. The victory of Arbela is at hand.

The fifth book is occupied with a description of this battle. Here are episodes in imitation of the ancients, with repetitions or parodies of Virgil. The poet apostrophizes the unhappy, defeated Darius, as he is about to flee, saying,—“Whither do you go, O King, about to perish in useless flight? You do not know, alas! lost one, you do not know whom you flee. While you flee from one enemy, you run upon other enemies. Desiring to escape Charybdis, you fall upon Scylla.”

The Persian monarch finds safety at last in Media, and Alexander enters Babylon in triumph, surpassing all other triumphs, even those of ancient Rome: and this is merited,—so sings the poet,—for his exploits are above those of the most celebrated warriors, whether sung by Lucan in magnificent style, or by Claudian in pompous verse. The poet closes the book by referring to the condition of Christianity in his own age, exclaiming, that, if God, touched by the groans and the longings of his people, would accord to the French such a king, the true faith would soon shine throughout the universe. Had he witnessed either Bonaparte on the throne of France, it is doubtful if he would not have regretted his supplicatory prophecy, or rejected them as unworthy of Alexander.

The sixth book glows with the luxury of Alexander at Babylon, the capture of Susa, the pillage of Persepolis. Here the poet forgets the recorded excesses of his hero, with Thaïs by his side, and the final orgy, when the celebrated city was handed to the flames at the bidding of a courtesan; but he dwells on an incident of his own invention, calculated to excite emotions of honor rather than of condemnation. Alexander meets three thousand Greek prisoners, wretchedly mutilated by the Persians, and delivers them. He leaves to them the choice of returning to Greece, or of fixing themselves in the country there on lands he promises to distribute. Some propose to go back. Others insist, that, in their hideous condition, they cannot return to the eyes of their families and friends, when an orator declares that it is always pleasant to see again one’s country, that there is nothing shameful in the condition caused by a barbarous enemy, and that it is unjust to those who love them to think that they will not be glad to see them. A few follow the orator; but the larger part remain behind, and receive from their liberator the land he had promised, also money, flocks, and whatever was necessary for farmers.

In the seventh book we meet the treason of Bessus substantially as in Quintus Curtius. Darius, with chains of gold on his feet, is carried in a closed vehicle to be delivered up. Alexander, who was still in pursuit of his enemy, is horror-struck. With more rapidity he moves to deliver or to avenge the Persian monarch than he ever moved to his defeat. He is aroused against the criminals, like Jupiter pursuing the Giants with his thunder. Darius is found in his carriage covered with wounds and bathed in his blood. With the little breath that remains, and yet struggling on the last confines of life, he makes a long speech, which the poet follows with bitter exclamations against his own age, beginning with venal Simon and his followers, and ending with the assassins of Thomas à Becket:—

Thus here again the poet precedes Dante, whose terrible condemnation of Simon has a kindred bitterness:—

These ejaculations are closed by an address to the manes of Darius, and a promise to immortalize him in the verse of the poet. The grief of Alexander for the Persian queen is renewed for the sovereign. The Hebrew Apelles is charged to erect in his honor a lofty pyramid in white marble, with sculptures in gold. Four columns of silver, with base and capital of gold, support with admirable art a concave vault, where are represented the three continents of the terrestrial globe, with their rivers, forests, mountains, cities, and people. In the characteristic description of each nation, France has soldiers and Italy wine:—

From funeral the poet passes to festival, and portrays the banquets and indulgence to which Alexander now invites his army. Sedition ensues. The soldiers ask return to their country. Alexander harangues and awakens the love of glory. They swear to confront all dangers, following him to the end of the world.

The eighth book chronicles the march into Hyrcania; the visit of Talestris, queen of the Amazons, and her Amazonian life, with one breast burnt so as to accommodate the bent bow; then the voluntary sacrifice of all the immense booty of the conqueror, as an example for the troops; then the conspiracy against Alexander in his own camp, with the examination and torture of the son of Parmenio, suspected of complicity; and then the doom of Bessus, the murderer of Darius, who is delivered by Alexander to the brother of his victim. Then comes the expedition to Scythia. The Macedonian, on the banks of the Tanaïs, receives an embassy. The ambassador fails to delay him; he crosses the river, and reduces the deserts and mountains of Scythia. And here the poet likens this people, which, after resisting so many powerful nations, now falls under the yoke, to a lofty, star-seeking Alpine fir, “astra petens abies,”[354] which, after resisting for ages all the winds of the East, of the West, and of the South, falls under the blows of Boreas. The name of the conqueror becomes a terror, and other nations in this distant region submit voluntarily, without a blow.

The ninth book commences with a mild allusion to the murder of Clitus, and other incidents, teaching that the friendships of kings are not perennial:—

Here comes the march upon India. Kings successively submit. Porus alone dares to resist. With a numerous army he awaits the Macedonian on the Hydaspes. The two armies stand face to face on the opposite banks. Then occurs the episode of two youthful Greeks, Nicanor and Symmachus, born the same day, and attached like Nisus and Euryalus. Their perilous expedition fails, under pressure of numbers, and the two friends, cut off and wounded, after prodigies of valor, at last embrace, and die in each other’s arms. Then comes the great battle. Porus, vanquished, wounded, and a prisoner, is brought before Alexander. His noble spirit touches the generous heart of the conqueror, who restores his dominions, increases them, and places him in the number of friends:—

The gates of the East are now open. His movement has the terror of thunder breaking in the middle of the night,—

A single city arrests the triumphant march. Alexander besieges it, and himself mounts the first to the assault. His men are driven back. Then from the top of the ladder, instead of leaping back, he throws himself into the city, and alone encounters the foe. Surrounded, belabored, wounded, he is about to perish, when his men, learning his peril, redouble their efforts, burst open the gates, inundate the place, and massacre the inhabitants. After a painful operation, Alexander is restored to his army and to his great plans of conquest. The joy of the soldiers, succeeding sorrow, is likened to that of sailors, who, after seeing the pilot overboard, and ready to be ingulfed by the raging floods, as Boreas plays the Bacchanal, “Borea bacchante,”[358] at last behold him rescued from the abyss and again at the helm. But the army is disturbed by preparation for distant maritime expeditions. Alexander avows that the world is too small for him; that, when it is all conquered, he will push on to subjugate another universe; that he will lead them to the Antipodes, and to another Nature; and that, if they refuse to accompany him, he will go forth alone, and offer himself as chief to other people. The army is on fire with this answer, and vow again never to abandon their king.

The tenth book is the last. Nature, indignant that a mortal should venture to penetrate her hidden places, suspends unfinished works, and descends to the lower world for succor against the conqueror. Before the gates of Erebus, under the walls of the Stygian city,—

are sisters, monsters of the earth, representing every vice,—thirst of gold, drunkenness, gluttony, treachery, detraction, envy, hypocrisy, adulation. In a distant recess is a perpetual furnace, where crimes are punished, but not with equal flames, as some are tormented more lightly and others more severely. Leviathan is in the midst of his furnace; but he drops his serpent form, and assumes the divine aspect he had worn when wishing to share the high Olympus,—

To him the stranger appeals against the projects of Alexander, which extend on one side to the unknown sources of the Nile and the Garden of Paradise, and on the other to the Antipodes and ancient Chaos. The infernal monarch convenes his assembly on the plains where agonize the souls of the wicked in undying torments,—

and where, as in the Inferno of Dante, ice and snow, as well as fire, are punishments. The satraps of Styx are collected, and the ancient Serpent addresses sibilations from his hoarse throat:—

He commands the death of the Macedonian king before his plans can be executed. Treason rises and proposes poison. All Hell applauds; and Treason, in disguise, fares forth to instruct the agent. The whole scene suggests sometimes Dante and sometimes Milton. Each was doubtless familiar with it. Meanwhile Alexander returns to Babylon. The universe is in suspense, not knowing to which side he will direct his arms. From all quarters ambassadors come to his feet. In the pride of power he is universal lord. At a feast, surrounded by friends, he drinks the fatal cup. His end approaches, showing to the last grandeur and courage. The poet closes, as he began, with salutation to his patron.

Such is the sketch of a curiosity of literature. It is interesting to look upon this little book, which for a time played so considerable a part; to imagine the youthful students once nurtured by it; to recognize its relations to an age when darkness was slowly yielding to light; to note its possible suggestions to great poets who followed, especially to Dante; and to behold it lost from human knowledge, and absolutely forgotten, until saved by a single verse, which, from its completeness of form and its proverbial character, must live as long as the Latin language. The verse does not occupy much room; but it is a sure fee-simple for the poet. And are we not told by an ancient, that it is something, in whatsoever place or corner, to have made one’s self master of a spot big enough for a single lizard?

A poem of ten books shrinks to a very petty space. There is a balm of a thousand flowers, and here a single hexameter is the express essence of many times a thousand verses. It was the jest of Hamlet, conversing with Horatio in the churchyard, that the noble Alexander, returning to dust and loam, had stopped a bung-hole. But the memorable poem celebrating him, while reduced as much, may be put to far higher and more enduring use.

MORAL.

At the conclusion of a fable there is a moral, or, as sometimes called, the application. There is a moral now, or, if you please, the application. And, believe me, in these serious days, I should have little heart for literary diversion, if I did not hope to make it help those just principles which are essential to the well-being, if not the safety, of the Republic. To this end I have written. This article is only a long whip with a snapper.

Two verses rescued from the wreck of a once popular poem have become proverbs, and one of these is very famous. They inculcate clemency, and the common sense found in not running upon one danger to avoid another. Never was the lesson more needed than now, when, in the name of clemency to belligerent traitors, the National Government is preparing to abandon the freedman, to whom it is bound by the most sacred ties,—is preparing to abandon the national creditor also, with whose security the national welfare is indissolubly associated,—and is even preparing, without probation or trial, to invest belligerent traitors, who for four bloody years have murdered our fellow-citizens, with those Equal Rights in the Republic which are denied to friends and allies, so that the former shall rule over the latter. Verily, here is a case for common sense.

The lesson of clemency is of perpetual obligation. Thanks to the mediæval poet for teaching it! Harshness is bad. Cruelty is detestable. Even justice may relent at the prompting of mercy. Fail not, then, to cultivate the grace of clemency. Perhaps no scene in history is more charming than that of Cæsar, who, after vows against an enemy, listened calmly to the appeal for pardon, and, listening, let the guilty papers fall from his hand. Early in life he had pleaded in the Senate for the lives of conspirators; and afterwards, when supreme ruler of the Roman world, practised the clemency he had once defended, except where enemies were incorrigible, and then he knew how to be rigorous and firm. By example we are instructed; and from the great master of clemency we may well learn that the general welfare must not be sacrificed to this indulgence. And also from the Divine Teacher we may learn, that, even while forgiving enemies, there are Scribes and Pharisees to be exposed, and money-changers who must be scourged from the temple. But with us are Scribes and Pharisees, and there are also criminals, worse than any money-changers, now trying to establish themselves in the very temple of our Government.

Cultivate clemency. But consider well what is embraced in this charity. It is not required that you surrender the Republic into the hands of pardoned criminals. It is not required that you surrender friends and allies to the tender mercies of these same pardoned criminals. Clearly not. Clemency has limitations; and when it transcends these, it ceases to be a virtue, and is only a mischievous indulgence. Of course, one of these limitations, never to be disregarded, is the general security, which is the first duty of Government. No pardon can be allowed to imperil the nation; nor can any pardon be allowed to imperil those rightfully looking to us for protection. There must be no vengeance upon enemies; but there must be no sacrifice of friends. And here is the distinction never to be forgotten. Nothing for vengeance; everything for justice. Follow this rule, and the Republic will be safe and glorious. Words attributed to Marcus Aurelius in a letter to his colleague in empire, Lucius Verus, are worthy to be repeated now by the chief of the Republic:—

It is easy for the individual to forgive. It is easy, also, for the Republic to be generous. But forgiveness of offences must not be a letter of license to crime; it must not be recognition of an ancient tyranny, and it must not be stupendous ingratitude. There is a familiar saying, with the salt of ages, that is addressed to us now: “Be just before you are generous.” Be just to all before you are generous to the few. Be just to the millions only half rescued from oppression, before you are generous to their cruel taskmasters. Do not imitate that precious character in the gallery of old Tallemant des Réaux, “who built churches without paying his debts.” Our foremost duties now are to pay our debts, and these are twofold,—first, to the national freedman, and, secondly, to the national creditor.

Apply these obvious principles practically. A child can do it. No duty of clemency can justify injustice. Therefore, in exercising the beautiful power of pardon at this moment, several conditions must be observed.

1. As a general rule, belligerent traitors, who have battled against the country, must not be permitted at once, without probation or trial, to resume old places of trust and power. Such a concession would be clearly against every suggestion of common sense, and President Johnson doubtless saw it so, when, addressing his fellow-citizens of Tennessee, June 9, 1864, he said: “I say that traitors should take a back seat in the work of restoration. If there be but five thousand men in Tennessee loyal to the Constitution, loyal to freedom, loyal to justice, these true and faithful men should control the work of reorganization and reformation absolutely.”[365] Let belligerent traitors be received slowly and cautiously back into the sovereignty of citizenship. Better that they should wait than the general security be imperilled, or our solemn obligations, whether to the national freedman or the national creditor, impaired.

2. Especially are we bound, by every obligation of justice and by every sentiment of honor, to see that belligerent traitors, who have battled against their country, are not allowed to rule the constant loyalists, whether white or black, embracing the recent freedmen, our friends and allies.

3. Let pardons issue only on satisfactory assurance that the applicant, who has been engaged for four years in murdering our fellow-citizens, shall sustain the Equal Rights, civil and political, of all men, according to the principles of the Declaration of Independence; that he shall pledge himself to the support of the national debt; and, if he be among the large holders of land, that he shall set apart homesteads for all his freedmen.

Following these simple rules, clemency will be a Christian virtue, and not a perilous folly.

The other proverb has its voice also, saying plainly, Follow common sense, and do not, while escaping one danger, rush upon another. You are now escaping from the whirlpool of war, which threatened to absorb and ingulf the Republic. Rush not upon the opposite terror, where another shipwreck of a different kind awaits you, while Sirens tempt with “song of death.” Take warning: Seeking to escape Charybdis, do not drive upon Scylla.

Alas! the Scylla on which the Republic now drives is that old rock of concession and compromise which from the beginning has been a constant peril. It appeared in the Convention that framed the National Constitution, and ever afterwards, from year to year, showed itself in Congress, until at last the Oligarchy, nursed by our indulgence, rebelled. And now that the war is over, it is proposed to invest the same Rebel Oligarchy with a new lease of immense power, involving control over loyal citizens, whose fidelity to the Republic has been beyond question. Here, too, are Sirens, in the shape of belligerent traitors, suing softly that the Republic may be lured to the old concession and compromise. Alas, that, escaping Charybdis, we drive upon Scylla!

The Oligarchy conducted all its operations in the name of State Rights, and in this name it rebelled. And when the Republic sought to suppress the Rebellion, it was replied, that a State could not be coerced. Now that the Rebellion is overthrown, and a just effort is made to obtain that “security for the future” without which the war will have been in vain, the same cry of State Rights is raised, and we are told again that a State cannot be coerced,—as if the same mighty power which directed armies upon the Rebellion could be impotent to exact all needful safeguards. To overcome these pretensions, and stamp E Pluribus Unum ineffaceably upon the Republic, we contended in war; and now we surrender again to these tyrannical pretensions. Escaping from war, we drive upon the opposite peril,—as from Charybdis to Scylla.

Again, we are told gravely, that the national power which decreed Emancipation cannot maintain it by assuring universal enfranchisement, because an imperial government must be discountenanced,—as if the whole suggestion of “imperialism” or “centralism” were not out of place until the national security is established, and our debts, whether to the national freedman or the national creditor, are placed where they cannot be repudiated. A phantom is created, and, to avoid this phantom, we drive towards concession and compromise,—as from Charybdis to Scylla.

Again, we are reminded that military power must yield to the civil power and to the rights of self-government. Therefore the Rebel States must be left to themselves, each with full control over all, whether white or black, within its borders, and empowered to keep alive a Black Code abhorrent to civilization and dangerous to liberty. Here, again, we drive from one peril upon another. Every exercise of military power is to be regretted, and yet there are occasions when it cannot be avoided. War itself is the transcendent example of this power. But transition from war to peace must be assured by all possible safeguards. Civil power and self-government cannot be conceded to belligerent enemies until after the establishment of “security for the future.” Such security is an indispensable safeguard, without which there will be new disaster. Therefore, in escaping from military power, care must be taken not to run upon the opposite danger,—as from Charybdis to Scylla.

Again, it is said solemnly, that “we must trust each other”; which, being interpreted, means that the Republic must proceed at once to trust belligerent enemies who have for long years murdered our fellow-citizens. Of course, this is only another form of surrender. In trusting them, we concede political power, including license to oppress loyal persons, whether white or black, and especially the freedmen. For four years we have met them in battle; and now we run to trust them, and commit into their keeping the happiness and well-being of others. There is peril in trusting such an enemy, more even than in meeting him on the field. God forbid that we drive now upon this rock,—as from Charybdis to Scylla!

The true way is easy. Follow common sense. Seeking to avoid one peril, steer clear of another. Consider how everything of worth or honor is bound up with the national security and the national faith,—and that, until these are fixed beyond change, agriculture, commerce, and industry of all kinds must suffer. Capital cannot stay where justice is denied. Emigration must avoid a land blasted by the spirit of caste. Cotton itself will refuse to grow until labor is assured its just reward. By natural consequence, the same Barbarism which has drenched the land in blood will continue to prevail, with wrong, outrage, and the insurrections of an oppressed race; the national name will be dishonored, and the national power weakened. But the way is plain to avoid these calamities. Follow common sense; and obtain guaranties commensurate with the danger. Do this without delay, so that security and reconciliation may not be postponed. Every day’s delay is a loss to the national wealth and an injury to the national treasury. But if adequate guaranties cannot be obtained at once, then at least postpone all present surrender to the Oligarchy, trusting meanwhile to Providence for protection, and to time for that awakened sense of justice and humanity which must in the end prevail. And, finally, be careful not to drive, under any pretence, from Charybdis to Scylla.