We little expect the following spiritless conclusion:—
"Septemque una sibi muro circumdedit arces."
SEWARD.
Oh! why does Mr Alison call that line spiritless?
NORTH.
He gives no reason—assured by his own dissatisfaction, that he has but to quote it, and leave it in its own naked impotence.
SEWARD.
I hope you do not think it spiritless, sir.
NORTH.
I think it contains the concentrated essence of spirit and of power. Let any one think of Rome, piled up in greatness, and grandeur, and glory—and a Wall round about—and in a moment his imagination is filled. What sort of a Wall? A garden wall to keep out orchard thieves—or a modern wall of a French or Italian town to keep out wine and meat, that they may come in at the gate and pay toll? I trow not. But a Wall against the World armed and assailing! Remember that Virgil saw Rome—and that his hearers did—and that in his eyes and theirs she was Empress of the inhabited Earth. She held and called herself such—it was written in her face and on her forehead. The visible, tangible splendour and magnificence meant this, or they meant nothing. The stone and lime said this—and Virgil's line says it, sedately and in plain, simple phrase, which yet is a Climax.