little acquainted with them, and they cannot therefore but seem somewhat unmeaning: in ancient times, however, such mythological subjects were as much household words among the people as the Sacred History is with us. Generally known events in modern history would now be perfectly well suited to be dealt with by the artist. So long as in a nation there be legends which every body is sure to sing and know by heart, there will always be something which one may choose as one thinks good, and pick out as the subject for an epic poem. Thus the epos makes choice of a single part, whilst the cyclic poem, on the other hand, takes in a whole series of tales. Such is the wretched Pharsalia of Lucan. Virgil took a Latin story, and dove-tailed it into Greek legends; whereas had he wanted to have anything out of the Roman legends, he ought to have treated it in the Italian style: this might indeed have been very difficult, as that kind of knowledge was no longer general; but it would have been the only means of making a poem with much life in it. Virgil is one of the remarkable instances of the way in which a man can miss his true calling. His was lyric poetry. The little poem on the _Villa Syronis_ and the _Si mihi susceptum fuerit decurrere munus_, show that he would have been a poet like Catullus, had he not made the mistake of wishing to write nothing but Grecian-Latin poems. It is a pity that posterity so much overrated the very work which was but a failure; yet we may well account for it, as people were not able to compare it with Homer, whom they did not know at all, and its extraordinary beauties had their full effect. Nor was the superiority of Catullus acknowledged until the end of the eighteenth century. The first who spoke without prejudice about Virgil, was Jeremy Markland: amidst a terrible outcry, as if he had committed high treason, he openly said what he thought. It was certainly no affectation that Virgil wished to burn the Æneid; that poem was the task of his life, and he had in his last moments a feeling that it was a failure. I am glad that he did not do so; but still we must in all things learn to keep our judgment free, and even then we cannot but love and honour him. It may be that the tomb on Posilipo, which during the whole of the middle ages was already shown as that of Virgil,—yet I know not why,—is not his, and that the laurel on it may have been replanted many a time; but notwithstanding, I have gone to see it as a pilgrim, and the laurel branches which I also plucked off at his grave, are dear to me as relics.