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
‘Nocturna versentque manu, versentque diurna.’”[301]
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:—
“Si felix præcone fuit dux Græcus Homero,
Felix nonne tuo est carmine dux Macedo?”[302]
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:—