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Poems: The Works of Virgil in English,
1697 William Frost (Editor)
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T H E WORKS OF JOHN DRYDEN
General Editor
ALAN ROPER
Textual Editor
V I N T O N A . DEARING
VOLUME FIVE
EDITOR
William Frost
TEXTUAL EDITOR
Vinton A. Dearing
FRONTISPIECE OF The Works of Virgil in English (1697)
(MACDONALD 33A)
VOLUME V
The Works
of John Dry den
Poems
T H E W O R K S OF V I R G I L IN ENGLISH
1697
22 21 2 0 19 l 8
8 7 6 5 4 3 2
they illustrate, but the engravings were tipped into the folio
with blank versos, a method too costly, producing volumes too
bulky, for us to follow. We have accordingly printed the illus-
trations on the recto or verso of a page of our text and as a result
have sometimes had to make them precede or follow instead of
face the text illustrated. Including all the illustrations in afford-
able books has also meant that these volumes have been printed
from reproduction proof by offset lithography, although the text
was first composed in Linotype Baskerville on hot-metal, line-
casting equipment in order to preserve a uniformity of type-face
with other volumes in the edition.
Rather than make each volume a discrete unit with its own
text and apparatus, as is customary in this edition, we decided
the folio's quality was best preserved by treating our volumes as
a single unit with continuous pagination, starting the text in
Volume V, completing it in Volume VI, and assigning all of our
apparatus to the concluding pages of Volume VI. Had we fol-
lowed our customary format, we would necessarily have inter-
rupted a properly continuous text with part of our apparatus
and added the remaining apparatus after the text was completed.
To balance the volumes, we would also have been forced to di-
vide the text of Dry den's Aeneis between them, breaking it, prob-
ably, after Book II. The method we have adopted still necessi-
tates dividing the text of the Aeneis between the volumes, but
we are now able to divide it at the most natural break in the
A e n e i d j after Book VI. As a further compensation for dividing
the text in this way, we have been able to add one appropriate
illustration to the 103 found in the folio and have used as frontis-
piece for our Volume VI a facsimile of Dryden's draft advertise-
ment for second subscribers to his Virgil. By his contract with
Tonson, Dry den could not advertise for second subscriptions
until he had translated the Eclogues, Georgics, and first six books
of the Aeneid.
We already know from an informal canvas that not everyone
will endorse our departure from the format customary in this
edition, although many will. We hope, though, that those who
prefer uniformity will understand our reasons for wishing to
accommodate our edition to the folio and the folio to our edition.
X Preface
Volume V
Dedication of the Pastorals to Lord Clifford 3
Commendatory Poems:
To Mr. Dryden, on his Excellent Translation of Virgil.
Anonymous 57
To Mr. Dryden on his Translation of Virgil.
By Henry Grahme 59
To Mr. Dryden. By H. St. John 61
To Mr. Dryden on his Virgil. By Ja. Wright 62
To Mr. Dryden on his Translation. By George Granville 63
Virgil's Pastorals:
The First Pastoral or, Tityrus and Meliboeus 73
The Second Pastoral or, Alexas 79
The Third Pastoral or, Palcemon 85
The Fourth Pastoral or, Pollio 95
The Fifth Pastoral or, Daphnis 99
The Sixth Pastoral or, Silenus 107
The Seventh Pastoral or, Melibceus 113
The Eighth Pastoral or, Pharmaceutria 119
The Ninth Pastoral or, Lycidas and Moeris 127
The Tenth Pastoral or, Gallus 133
Virgil's Georgics:
The First Book of the Georgics 155
The Second Book of the Georgics 181
xiv Contents
Virgil's vEneis:
The First Book of the /Eneis 343
The Second Book of the /Eneis 379
The Third Book of the/Eneis 417
The Fourth Book of the /Eneis 451
The Fifth Book of the /.Eneis 487
The Sixth Book of the/Eneis 527
Volume VI
Virgil's jEneis:
The Seventh Book of the /Eneis 571
The Eighth Book of the ALneis 609
The Ninth Book of the /Eneis 641
The Tenth Book of the /Eneis 679
The Eleventh Book of the/Eneis 721
The Twelfth Book of the /Eneis 765
Commentary 837
WORKS
O F
VIRGIL
Containing His
S T O R A I S -
|J> M. V - / l . \ l i JL-v vJ>?
G E O R G I C S ,
A N D
/ £ N F. I S .
LONDON,
My Lord,
I
have found it not more difficult to Translate Virgil, than to
find such Patrons as I desire for my Translation. For though
England is not wanting in a Learned Nobility, yet such are
my unhappy Circumstances, that they have confin'd me to a
narrow choice. T o the greater part, I have not the Honour to be
known; and to some of them I cannot shew at present, by any
publick Act, that grateful Respect which I shall ever bear them
in my heart. Yet I have no reason to complain of Fortune, since
in the midst of that abundance I could not possibly have chosen
better, than the Worthy Son of so Illustrious a Father. He was
the Patron of my Manhood, when I Flourish'd in the opinion
of the World; though with small advantage to my Fortune, 'till
he awaken'd the remembrance of my Royal Master. He was that
Pollio, or that Varus, who introduc'd me to Augustus: And tho'
he soon dismiss'd himself from State-Affairs, yet in the short time
of his Administration he shone so powerfully upon me, that like
the heat of a i?ujJi'an-Summer, he ripen'd the Fruits of Poetry
in a cold Clymate; and gave me wherewithal to subsist at least,
in the long Winter which succeeded. What I now offer to your
Lordship, is the wretched remainder of a sickly Age, worn out
with Study, and oppress'd by Fortune: without other support
than the Constancy and Patience of a Christian. You, my Lord,
are yet in the flower of your Youth, and may live to enjoy the
benefits of the Peace which is promis'd Europe: I can only hear
of that Blessing: for Years, and, above all things, want of health,
have shut me out from sharing in the happiness. T h e Poets, who
condemn their Tantalus to Hell, had added to his Torments, if
they had plac'd him in Elysium, which is the proper Emblem of
my Condition. T h e Fruit and the Water may reach my Lips,
but cannot enter: And if they cou'd, yet I want a Palate as well
4 The Works of Virgil in English
32 Persons:] F1-2.
6 The Works of Virgil in English
Si Pergama dextra
Defendi possent, etiam hac defensa fuissent.
My Lord,
JOHN DRYDEN.
V
IRGIL was born at Mantua, which City was built no less
than T h r e e Hundred Years before Rome; and was the
Capital of the New Hetruria, as himself, no less Anti-
quary, than Poet, assures us. His Birth is said to have happen'd
in the first Consulship of Pompey the Great, and Lie. Crassus;
but since the Relater of this presently after contradicts himself;
and Virgil's manner of Addressing to Octavius, implies a greater
difference of Age than that of Seven Years, as appears by his First
Pastoral, and other places; it is reasonable to set the Date of it
something backward: A n d the Writer of his Life having no cer-
tain Memorials to work upon, seems to have pitched upon the
two most Illustrious Consuls he could find about that time, to
signalize the Birth of so Eminent a Man. But it is beyond all
Question, that he was Born on, or near the Fifteenth of October:
W h i c h Day was kept Festival in honour of his Memory, by the
Latin, as the Birth-Day of Homer was by the Greek Poets. A n d
so near a resemblance there is, betwixt the Lives of these two
famous Epic Writers, that Virgil seems to have follow'd the For-
tune of the other, as well as the Subject and manner of his
Writing. For Homer is said to have been of very mean Parents,
such as got their Bread by Day-labour; so is Virgil. Homer is
said to be Base Born; so is Virgil: T h e former to have been born
in the open Air, in a Ditch, or by the Bank of a River; so is the
latter. T h e r e was a Poplar Planted near the place of Virgil's
Birth, which suddenly grew u p to an unusual heighth and bulk,
and to which the Superstitious Neighbourhood attributed mar-
vellous Vertue. Homer had his Poplar too, as Herodotus relates,
which was visited with great Veneration. Homer is describ'd by
one of the Ancients, to have been of a slovenly and neglected
Meen and Habit, so was Virgil. Both were of a very delicate and
sickly Constitution: Both addicted to Travel, and the study of
by methods they had never heard of: It fell out, at the same time,
that a very fine Colt, which promised great Strength and Speed,
was presented to Octavius: Virgil assur'd them, that he came o£
a faulty Mare, and would prove a Jade; upon trial it was found
as he had said; his Judgment prov'd right in several other in-
stances, which was the more surprizing, because the Romans
knew least of Natural Causes of any civiliz'd Nation in the World:
And those Meteors, and Prodigies which cost them incredible
Sums to expiate, might easily have been accounted for, by no
very profound Naturalist. It is no wonder, therefore, that Virgil
was in so great Reputation, as to be at last Introduced to Octa-
vius himself. That Prince was then at variance with Marc. An-
tony, who vex'd him with a great many Libelling Letters, in
which he reproaches him with the baseness of his Parentage,
that he came of a Scrivener, a Ropemaker, and a Baker, as Sue-
tonius tells us: Octavius finding that Virgil had passed so exact
a judgment upon the Breed of Dogs, and Horses, thought that
he possibly might be able to give him some Light concerning his
own. He took him into his Closet, where they continu'd in pri-
vate a considerable time. Virgil was a great Mathematician,
which, in the Sense of those times, took in Astrology: And if
there be any thing in that Art, which I can hardly believe; if
that be true which the Ingenious De le Chambre asserts con-
fidently, that from the Marks on the Body, the Configuration
of the Planets at a Nativity may be gathered, and the Marks
might be told by knowing the Nativity; never had one of those
Artists a fairer Opportunity to shew his skill, than Virgil now
had; for Octavius had Moles upon his Body, exactly resembling
the Constellation call'd Ursa Major. But Virgil had other helps:
The Predictions of Cicero, and Catulus, and that Vote of the
Senate had gone abroad, that no Child Born at Rome, in the
Year of his Nativity, should be bred up; because the Seers assur'd
them that an Emperour was Born that Year. Besides this, Virgil
had heard of the Assyrian, and Egyptian Prophecies, (which in
truth, were no other but the Jewish,) that about that time a
great King was to come into the World. Himself takes notice of
Every one knows whence this was taken: It was rather a mis-
take, than impiety in Virgil, to apply these Prophesies which
belonged to the Saviour of the World to the Person of Octavius,
it being a usual piece of flattery for near a Hundred Years to-
gether, to attribute them to their Emperours, and other great
Men. Upon the whole matter, it is very probable, that Virgil
Predicted to him the Empire at this time. And it will appear yet
the more, if we consider that he assures him of his being receiv'd
into the Number of the Gods, in his First Pastoral, long before
the thing came to pass; which Prediction seems grounded upon
his former Mistake. T h i s was a secret, not to be divulg'd at that
time, and therefore it is no wonder that the slight Story in Dona-
tus was given abroad to palliate the matter. But certain it is,
that Octavius dismissed him with great Marks of esteem, and
earnestly recommended the Protection of Virgil's Affairs to Pol-
lio, then Lieutenant of the Cis-Alpine Gaule, where Virgil's Pat-
rimony lay. T h i s Pollio from a mean Original, became one of
the most Considerable Persons of his time: A good General,
Orator, States-man, Historian, Poet, and Favourer of Learned
Men; above all, he was a Man of Honour in those critical times:
He had join'd with Octavius, and Antony, in revenging the Bar-
barous Assassination of Julius Ccesar: When they two were at
variance, he would neither follow Antony, whose courses he
detested, nor join with Octavius against him, out of a grateful
Sense of some former Obligations. Augustus, who thought it his
interest to oblige Men of Principles, notwithstanding this, re-
ceiv'd him afterwards into Favour, and promoted him to the
highest Honours. And thus much I thought fit to say of Pollio,
besides the novelty of the Subject, and the Moral of the Fable,
which contains an exhortation to gratitude, to recommend it;
had it been as correct as his other pieces, nothing more proper
and pertinent cou'd have at that time bin addressed to the Young
Octavius, for the Year in which he Presented it, probably at the
Baice, seems to be the very same, in which that Prince consented
(tho' with seeming reluctance) to the Death of Cicero, under
whose Consulship he was Born, the preserver of his Life, and
chief instrument of his advancement. There is no reason to ques-
tion its being genuine, as the late French Editor does; its mean-
ness, in comparison of Virgil's other Works, (which is that Writ-
ers only Objection) confutes himself: For Martial, who certainly
saw the true Copy, speaks of it with contempt; and yet that Pas-
toral equals, at least, the address to the Dauphin which is pre-
fix'd to the late Edition. Octavius, to unbend his mind from ap-
plication to publick business, took frequent turns to Baits, and
Sicily; where he compos'd his Poem call'd Sicelides, which Vir-
gil seems to allude to, in the Pastoral beginning Sicelides Musce;
this gave him opportunity of refreshing that Princes Memory
of him, and about that time he wrote his /Etna. Soon after he
seems to have made a Voyage to Athens, and at his return pre-
sented his Ceiris, a more elaborate Piece, to the Noble and Elo-
quent Messala. T h e forementioned Author groundlessly taxes
this as supposititious: For besides other Critical marks, there are
no less than Fifty, or Sixty Verses, alter'd indeed and polish'd,
which he inserted in the Pastorals, according to his fashion: and
from thence they were called Eclogues, or Select Bucolics: W e
thought fit to use a Title more intelligible, the reason of the
other being ceas'd; and we are supported by Virgil's own au-
thority, who expresly calls them Carmina Pastorum. The French
Editor is again mistaken, in asserting, that the Ceiris is bor-
row'd from the Ninth of Ovid's Metamorphosis; he might have
more reasonably conjectur'd it, to be taken from Parthenius,
the Greek Poet, from whom Ovid borrow'd a great part of his
Work. But it is indeed taken from neither, but from that Learn'd,
unfortunate Poet Apollonius Rhodius, to whom Virgil is more
Piety and Merit were the two great Virtues which Virgil every
where attributes to Augustus, and in which that Prince, at least
Politickly, if not so truly, fix'd his Character, as appears by the
Marmor Ancyr. and several of his Medals. Franshemius, the
Learn'd Supplementor of Livy, has inserted this Relation into
his History; nor is there any Reason, why Ruceus should account
it fabulous. T h e T i t l e of a Poet in those days did not abate, but
heighten the Character of the gravest Senator. Virgil was one of
the best and wisest Men of his time, and in so popular esteem,
that one hundred Thousand Romans rose when he came into
the Theatre, and paid him the same Respect they us'd to Ccesar
himself, as Tacitus assures us. And if Augustus invited Horace
to assist him in Writing his Letters, and every body knows that
the rescripta Imperatorum were the Laws of the Empire; Virgil
might well deserve a place in the Cabinet-Council.
And now he prosecutes his /Eneis, which had Anciently the
T i t l e of the Imperial Poem, or Roman History, and deservedly;
23 viam. ] /~. A F 1 - 2 .
25 lib.] lib. F 1 - 2 .
29 s i n k i n g them,] comma prints as period in some copies of Fi.
The Lije of Virgil 25
Livy relates that presently after the death of the two Scipio's in
Spain, when Martins took upon him the Command, a Blazing
Meteor shone around his Head, to the astonishment of his Soul-
diers: Virgil transfers this to /Eneas.
pen'd a little before this Recital: Virgil therefore with his usual
dexterity, inserted his Funeral Panegyrick in those admirable
Lines, beginning,
His Mother, the Excellent Octavia, the best Wife of the worst
Husband that ever was, to divert her Grief, would be of the
Auditory. T h e Poet artificially deferr'd the naming Marcellus,
'till their Passions were rais'd to the highest; but the mention of
it put both Her and A ugustus into such a Passion of weeping,
that they commanded him to proceed no further; Virgil answer'd,
that he had already ended that Passage. Some relate, that Oc-
tavia fainted away; but afterwards she presented the Poet with
two Thousand one Hundred Pounds, odd Money; a round Sum
for Twenty Seven Verses. But they were Virgil's. Another Writer
says, that with a Royal Magnificence, she order'd him Massy
Plate, unweigh'd, to a great value.
A n d now he took up a Resolution of Travelling into Greece,
there to set the last Hand to this Work; purposing to devote the
rest of his Life to Philosophy, which had been always his prin-
cipal Passion. He justly thought it a foolish Figure for a grave
Man to be over-taken by Death, whilst he was weighing the Ca-
dence of Words, and measuring Verses; unless Necessity should
constrain it, from which he was well secur'd by the liberality of
that Learned Age. But he was not aware, that whilst he allotted
three Years for the Revising of his Poem, he drew Bills upon a
failing Bank: For unhappily meeting Augustus at Athens, he
thought himself oblig'd to wait upon him into Italy, but being
desirous to see all he could of the Greek Antiquities, he fell into
a languishing Distemper at Megara; this, neglected at first,
prov'd Mortal. T h e agitation of the Vessel, for it was now Au-
tumn, near the time of his Birth, brought him so low, that he
could hardly reach Brindisi. In his Sickness he frequently, and
with great importunity, call'd for his Scrutore, that he might
Burn his ALneis, but Augustus interposing by his Royal Au-
Language: English
By
Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, M.A.
Fellow of Jesus College
King Edward VII Professor of English Literature
in the University of Cambridge
The
Knickerbocke
r
Press
New York
I
IF anything on this planet be great, great things have happened in
Westminster Hall: which is open for anyone, turning aside from
London’s traffic, to wander in and admire. Some property in the oak
of its roof forbids the spider to spin there, and now that architects
have defeated the worm in beam and rafter it stands gaunt and clean
as when William Rufus built it: and I dare to say that no four walls
and a roof have ever enclosed such a succession of historical
memories as do these, as no pavement—not even that lost one of
the Roman Forum—has been comparably trodden by the feet of
grave men moving towards grave decisions, grand events.
The somewhat cold interior lays its chill on the imagination. A
romantic mind can, like the spider, spin its cobwebs far more easily
in the neighbouring Abbey, over the actual dust to which great men
come—
But in the Abbey is finis rerum, and our contemplation there the
common contemplation of mortality which, smoothing out place
along with titles, degrees and even deeds, levels the pyramids with
the low mounds of a country churchyard and writes the same moral
over Socrates as over our Unknown Soldier—Vale, vale, nos te in
ordine quo natura permittet sequamur. In Westminster Hall (I am
stressing this with a purpose) we walk heirs of events in actual play,
shaping our destiny as citizens of no mean country: in this covered
rood of ground have been compacted from time to time in set conflict
the high passions by which men are exalted to make history. Here a
king has been brought to trial, heard and condemned to die; under
these rafters have pleaded in turn Bacon, Algernon Sidney, Burke,
Sheridan. Here the destinies of India were, after conflict, decided for
two centuries. Through that great door broke the shout, taken up,
reverberated by gun after gun down the river, announcing the
acquittal of the Seven Bishops.
II
So, if this tragic comedy we call life be worth anything more than
a bitter smile: if patriotism mean anything to you, and strong opposite
wills out of whose conflict come great issues in victory or defeat, the
arrest, the temporary emptiness of Westminster Hall—a sense of
what it has seen and yet in process of time may see—will lay a
deeper solemnity on you than all the honoured dust in the Abbey.
But, as men’s minds are freakish, let me tell you of a solitary
figure I see in Westminster Hall more vividly even than the ghosts of
Charles I and Warren Hastings bayed around by their accusers: the
face and figure of a youth, not yet twenty-two, who has just bought a
copy of the Magazine containing his first appearance in print as an
author. “I walked down to Westminster Hall,” he has recorded, “and
turned into it for half an hour, because my eyes were so dimmed with
joy and pride that they could not bear the street and were not fit to be
seen there.”
Now the paper which opened the fount of these boyish tears
(here, if you will, is bathos) was entitled A Dinner at Poplar Walk.
You may find it to-day under another title, “Mr. Minns and his Cousin”
among Sketches by Boz: reading it, you may pronounce it no great
shakes; and anyhow you may ask why anyone’s imagination should
select this slight figure, to single it out among the crowd of ghosts.
Well, to this I might make simple and sufficient answer, saying that
the figure of unbefriended youth, with its promise, a new-comer
alone in the market-place, has ever been one of the most poignant in
life, and, because in life, therefore in literature. Dickens himself, who
had been this figure and remembered all too well the emotion that
choked its heart, has left us a wonderful portrait-gallery of these lads.
But indeed our literature—every literature, all legend, for that matter
—teems with them: with these youngest brothers of the fairy-tales,
these Oedipus’s, Jasons, these Dick Whittingtons, Sindbads,
Aladdins, Japhets in search of their Fathers; this Shakespeare
holding horses for a groat, that David comely from the sheepfold with
the basket of loaves and cheeses. You remember De Quincey and
the stony waste of Oxford Street? or the forlorn and invalid boy in
Charles Lamb’s paper on The Old Margate Hoy who “when we
asked him whether he had any friends where he was going,” replied,
“he had no friends.” Solitariness is ever the appeal of such a figure;
an unbefriendedness that “makes friends,” searching straight to our
common charity: this and the attraction of youth, knocking—so to
speak—on the house-door of our own lost or locked-away ambitions.
“Is there anybody there?” says this Traveller, and he, unlike the older
one (who is oneself), gets an answer. The mid-Victorian Dr. Smiles
saw him as an embryonic Lord Mayor dazed amid the traffic on
London Bridge but clutching at his one half-crown for fear of pick-
pockets. I myself met him once in a crowded third-class railway
carriage. He was fifteen and bound for the sea: and when we came
in sight of it he pushed past our knees to the carriage window and
broke into a high tuneless chant, all oblivious of us. Challenge was in
it and a sob of desire at sight of his predestined mistress and
adversary. For the sea is great, but the heart in any given boy may
be greater: and
You see, hinted in this extract from a journal, how our ancestors, in
1848 and the years roundabout, and in remote parts of England,
welcomed these great men as gods: albeit critically, being
themselves stout fellows. But above all these, from the publication of
Pickwick—or, to be precise, of its fifth number, in which (as Beatrice
would say) “there was a star danced” and under it Sam Weller was
born—down to June 14, 1870, and the funeral in Westminster
Abbey, Dickens stood exalted, in a rank apart. Nay, when he had
been laid in the grave upon which, left and right, face the
monuments of Chaucer, Shakespeare and Dryden, and for days
after the grave was closed, the stream of unbidden mourners went
by. “All day long,” wrote Dean Stanley on the 17th, “there was a
constant pressure on the spot, and many flowers were strewn on it
by unknown hands, many tears shed from unknown eyes.”
Without commenting on it for the moment, I want you to realise
this exaltation of Dickens in the popular mind, his countrymen’s and
countrywomen’s intimate, passionate pride in him; in the first place
because it is an historical fact, and a fact (I think) singular in our
literary history; but also because, as a phenomenon itself unique—
unique, at any rate, in its magnitude—it reacted singularly upon the
man and his work, and you must allow for this if you would
thoroughly understand either.
IV
To begin with, you must get it out of your minds that it resembled
any popularity known to us, in our day: the deserved popularity of Mr.
Kipling, for example. You must also (of this generation I may be
asking a hard thing, but it is necessary) get it out of your minds that
Dickens was, in any sense at all, a cheap artist playing to the gallery.
He was a writer of imperfect, or hazardous, literary education: but he
was also a man of iron will and an artist of the fiercest literary
conscience. Let me enforce this by quoting two critics whom you will
respect. “The faults of Dickens,” says William Ernest Henley,
V
I shall endeavour to appraise with you, by and by, the true worth
of this amazing popularity. For the moment I merely ask you to
consider the fact and the further fact that Dickens took it with the
seriousness it deserved and endeavoured more and more to make
himself adequate to it. He had—as how could he help having?—an
enormous consciousness of the power he wielded: a consciousness
which in action too often displayed itself as an irritable
conscientiousness. For instance, Pickwick is a landmark in our
literature: its originality can no more be disputed than the originality
(say) of the Divina Commedia. “I thought of Pickwick”—is his
classical phrase. He thought of Pickwick—and Pickwick was. But just
because the ill-fated illustrator, Seymour—who shot himself before
the great novel had found its stride—was acclaimed by some as its
inventor, Dickens must needs charge into the lists with the hottest,
angriest, most superfluous, denials. Even so, later on, when he finds
it intolerable to go on living with his wife, the world is, somehow or
other, made acquainted with this distressing domestic affair as
though by a papal encyclical. Or, even so, when he chooses (in
Bleak House) to destroy an alcoholised old man by “spontaneous
combustion”—quite unnecessarily—a solemn preface has to be
written to explain that such an end is scientifically possible. This
same conscientiousness made him (and here our young novelist of
to-day will start to blaspheme) extremely scrupulous about
scandalising his public—I use the term in its literal sense of laying a
stumbling-block, a cause of offence. For example, while engaged
upon Dombey and Son, he has an idea (and a very good idea too,
though he abandoned it) that instead of keeping young Walter the
unspoilt boyish lover that he is, he will portray the lad as gradually
yielding to moral declension, through hope deferred—a theme which,
as you will remember, he afterwards handled in Bleak House: and he
seriously writes thus about it to his friend Forster:
About the boy, who appears in the last chapter of the first
number—I think it would be a good thing to disappoint all the
expectations that chapter seems to raise of his happy
connection with the story and the heroine, and to show him
gradually and naturally trailing away, from that love of adventure
and boyish light-heartedness, into negligence, idleness,
dissipation, dishonesty and ruin. To show, in short, that common,
every day, miserable declension of which we know so much in
our ordinary life: to exhibit something of the philosophy of it, in
great temptations and an easy nature; and to show how the
good turns into the bad, by degrees. If I kept some notion of
Florence always at the bottom of it, I think it might be made very
powerful and very useful. What do you think? Do you think it
may be done without making people angry?
What! a great writer, with a great idea, to stay his hand until
he has made grave enquiry whether Messrs. Mudie’s
subscribers will approve it or not! The mere suggestion is
infuriating.... Look at Flaubert, for example. Can you imagine him
in such a sorry plight? Why, nothing would have pleased him
better than to know he was outraging public sentiment! In fact, it
is only when one does so that one’s work has a chance of being
good.