Nineteen years before the birth of Christ the great Roman poet Virgil died, leaving amongst his papers an epic poem which had been the work of many years. Both in life and art this poet of the Augustan Age had a very high ideal; and because he was conscious of defects in his work: because his last illness came before he was able to put the finishing touches upon it, he begged that it should be burned. But the emperor Augustus interposed. Some parts of the poem were already known and loved in the circle of Virgil’s friends, of whom the emperor was one. They knew its fine theme—the founding of the Roman State by its legendary ancestor Æneas; and having already some foretaste of its beauty and charm and strong patriotic appeal, it seemed that the destruction of the poem would mean an immense and irreparable loss. So the Emperor decided that it should be preserved, and directed Virgil’s executors to edit it.

The poem is of course the Æneid, and Dido is its heroine. Like the Greek epics, it is an authentic voice of the ancient world; but of an Age, a Race and a Civilization vastly different from theirs. It is quite frankly fashioned in the Homeric form, and its hero is one of the Trojan chiefs who fled overseas to Italy, to re-establish his race there at the command of the gods. It actually brings Æneas at one point of his wanderings within three months’ time of an incident in the Odyssey: it shows us Andromache still mourning for Hector, and the gods still at enmity over the old feud between Greek and Trojan. But all these links with the earlier epics, and many others, subtler or more obvious, are merely formal. In spirit there is as wide a severance as we know to exist in actual time. The Æneid, with its humane, philosophic and cultured poet, belongs to a state of society many hundreds of years later than the Iliad and Odyssey. And although it is a mistake to regard the earlier poems as really ‘primitive,’ they represent an age which, because it was relatively simpler and less self-conscious, seems youthful and buoyant by comparison.

The outward similarity and the fundamental contrast between Homer and Virgil make a fascinating subject on which to linger; and one aspect at least we must just glance at, because of its bearing on Dido’s story. It is that added element of purpose in the Æneid which perhaps includes in itself or is the ultimate cause of all the other points of difference from the Greek poems. The Æneid was conceived with a deep and serious aim, and composed with infinite care. It did not originate, as perhaps the Iliad and Odyssey may have done, in the almost spontaneous lays of wandering minstrels, for the delight and honour of princely hosts. It was designed from the first to represent the divine birth of the Latin race, the gradual uprising of the Roman state, its long struggle with barbarism and its mission to civilize the Western world—all as the ordinance of the supreme deity.

From the very beginning of the poem its purpose is clear upon the face of it; and one of the most important results is the creation of a new type of hero. Æneas is not an ardent young soldier like Achilles, nor an acute and hardy sailor like Odysseus, with their zest and naÏvetÉ. He is a much more complex character, with a deeper estimate of life and some civic virtues which had not been evolved when the earlier heroes were created. He is a pioneer and adventurer who loves above all things home and a settled order; an invader who does not enjoy warfare in the least; a prince who rules by gentleness; a tender son and husband and father who is capable of the deepest cruelty to the woman who loves him; a man sadly conscious of human weakness, but conscious too of the divine within himself and of the high destiny to which he is called.

The character of Æneas is the primary element in the tragedy of Dido. Because he was such a man, their love for each other was bound to end as it did. Of course there was the external cause, too; also arising out of the design of the poem. For Dido was the founder and queen of Carthage, the hereditary foe of Rome. And the poet desired to dramatize, as it were, the first clash of the two races in their infancy; to show the origin of the long feud; and to prefigure by a sort of allegory the eventual triumph of Rome. We do not think of the allegory, however, as we read the story of Dido in the First and Fourth Books of the Æneid. We are caught in the onward sweep of the poet’s imagination, and moved by the intense human interest of the theme. It is only when the catastrophe comes, when Æneas, fleeing from Carthage in the cold dawn, sees the light of the queen’s funeral pyre reddening the sky, that we begin to reflect on the meaning of it. Even then, so complete is the victory of the poet’s art, our last thought is one of pity—for the indignant spirit of Dido that has fled to the House of Shadows; and for the miserable man no less, whom fate is driving to the coast of Italy.

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When Troy was sacked, Æneas sailed away with twenty ships, and all that remained dear to him of home. His wife Creusa was killed as they were escaping from the burning city; but his household gods were preserved, and these he carried with him in his flight, with his aged father and his little son Iulus.

Misfortune followed him, however. Juno, still unrelenting in her anger against the race of Paris, buffeted him to and fro upon the seas for seven years, and cast him at length upon the shore of Libya. The greater part of his fleet was scattered, and perhaps lost for ever: his own crew was broken by the long struggle; and he himself, under the cheery manner which he assumed to encourage his men, was heart-sick with despair. What this strange land was he did not know. It seemed wild and desolate: it was most probably inhabited by barbarians, and at any moment a savage horde might fall upon them.

But the country was not hostile, as Æneas’ goddess-mother Venus took care to assure him, meeting him in the guise of a mountain nymph. It was the new land of Dido, the Tyrian princess who had fled from her native country and the evil rule of her brother Pygmalion. The late king of Tyre, her father, had given her in marriage to one she dearly loved, SichÆus, a priest of Heracles, and the wealthiest man of all the wealthy East. But a little later the king had died. Pygmalion succeeded to the throne, and in greed for SichÆus’ wealth he secretly slew him at his own altar.

For some time he hid his guilt and tried to win from Dido, in her grief, the immense treasures of SichÆus. But her intelligence, and her love for her murdered husband, could not be long deceived. She discovered her brother’s guilt, and realizing that to remain in Tyre would mean her death too, she instantly laid plans to leave the country. It was to be no timid surrender, however. She gathered about her all those who hated Pygmalion’s tyranny, and proposed that they should join her. Ships were seized and rapidly manned: SichÆus’ wealth was stored in them, and Dido sailed to found a new city on the coast of Africa.

At the moment when Æneas landed there, the building of the city was in eager progress; and Dido, the brain of the enterprise, was beginning to forget her sorrow in the joy of achievement. When Æneas climbed the hill above the bay, he saw the city stretched beneath, and the Tyrians busy upon it ‘like bees in summer fields.’ Walls were rising, trenches were being dug and foundations laid: houses and streets were already finished: great blocks were being hewn for the citadel and columns for the theatre; while in the centre of the town, complete in every detail of ornament, a magnificent temple stood. Here Æneas made his way, passing invisibly through the crowded street by the spells of Venus. As he stood gazing at the walls, marvelling to see that they were carved with the history of his Troy, a shout arose. The great queen was coming.

Dido took her seat upon a throne raised high beneath the central dome, surrounded by her guards. Before her thronged the captains of her great work, merchants, emissaries from distant states, and many of her own folk who had come to petition her for justice. She was the ruling spirit, and by no mere accident. Æneas stood in amazement at the scene, as she allotted to each his task, and adjudged every difficult question, and dispensed the law.

Suddenly there was a tumult outside the gate, and a noisy interruption, as a band of foreigners approached the temple and claimed audience of the queen. The strangers were brought in, and Æneas, in joyful astonishment, recognized in them the comrades who he had thought were lost. He longed to rush forward to greet them, but Venus’ spell was on him still; and he stood invisible while the Trojans threw themselves on the mercy of the queen and implored her help. She answered kindly, and with modest dignity. Long ago she had heard and pitied the fate of Troy, she said; and though she is bound to guard her infant state against invasion, she has no quarrel with a peaceful folk, and least of all with fugitives from Troy. She will, if they so desire, send them away in safety, with provision from her ample store.

Æneas could keep silence no longer. Breaking the spell of darkness that was shrouding him, he gained the throne and stood before the astonished queen.

It is a great moment, fraught with significance of which the two chief actors seem to have a perception. To Dido, this handsome prince whose fame has reached her, and whose melancholy history is so like her own, seems to have flashed upon her as the fulfilment of her wish. And to Æneas, who has just learned that she can be kind as well as brave, she seems peerless among women. While from each to each is passed the silent intuitive sense that here is a nature great and good. Æneas, touched by her generosity to his comrades, tries to thank her. But he feels that only the gods can reward her adequately.

In the warmth of his words there is a hint of coming passion; and thinking of the tragic end, there is something ominous in them too. Æneas will indeed remember Dido in far-off lands, but otherwise than he imagines. And she, as she invites the Trojans to banquet in her palace and hospitably begs them to make their home in Carthage, is serenely unconscious of the pitiful entreaties that she will one day make to Æneas.

The ships were laid up, and generous provision made for the weary sailors, while their chief and his friends were feasted by the queen in Oriental splendour and luxury. Rich gifts from Troy were presented to Dido by Æneas, and received by her with great delight. There were the jewels of Ilione, King Priam’s eldest daughter: the sceptre that she had borne, her diadem of gold and gems, and the pearls that once hung about her neck. They were scarcely of happy omen, one would think; but more ill-fated still were the presents that Dido found most beautiful.

Yet no shadow from their history fell upon the queen. She was strangely happy as she listened to her guest and caressed his beautiful little son. She did not know that the mighty love-goddess was plotting against her; and when the feast was over, she rose to pour a libation to the gods with a prayer for peace and blessing.

When the Fourth Book opens Æneas is still the honoured guest of the queen, entertained by her at the banquet as each succeeding night falls, and accompanying her during the day as she rides to inspect the progress of her city. But Dido was no longer quite untroubled in her happiness. She could not hide from herself her growing love for the Trojan hero; and she was assailed by a sense of wrong to her dead husband.

At first she fought against her passion and called up every resource of pride and modesty to hide it from the prince. But the emotion of a richly dowered nature was not easily to be kept in check; and Dido had not learned to dissemble. The inner conflict grew daily stronger, absorbing every thought: on the one hand drawing her irresistibly toward Æneas, and on the other claiming fidelity to the memory of SichÆus. At last, craving relief and counsel, she confided in her sister Anna. But Anna was no idealist, and her advice to Dido was the plainest commonsense. Was she to waste all her life for the sake of faith to the dead? It was certain that SichÆus himself would not desire it; and why then should Dido renounce the joys of love and motherhood? Why pine alone all her days, her country menaced on every side by wild African tribes, because she had no warrior at her side to make them fear? So the argument ran, turning adroitly from questions of sentiment to the call of patriotism and ambition. Undoubtedly Dido was right in refusing marriage with the barbarian chiefs who had asked for her hand; but she must remember that she had thereby made enemies of them. Let her consider the danger to her little state from these jealous kings; and on the other hand let her think of the power and glory which Carthage might win, if only it were allied to the race of Troy. Lastly, added the astute pleader, with a word which she knew had power to move her sister, for her part she believed that the coming of Æncas was ordained by heaven, and by Juno herself, the great goddess of marriage.

No wonder that Dido’s resolution was weakened, when every instinct of her being was thus championed, and the only opponent was an idea, an abstraction, that even to herself began to look fantastic. Again she begged her guest to remain in Carthage, and the memory of SichÆus began rapidly to fade.

Then at night, when the guests are gone from the banquet: when—

Æneas himself was losing all thought of his mission in the society of the lovely queen. Italy was forgotten in the peace and luxury of his life; and he gave himself up to content, without one glance beyond the present. He had toiled so long and hard; surely he might take his ease for a while. Moreover, it would be mere churlishness to refuse Dido’s gracious bounty; and he could not be so ungentle. So both the lovers wrapped themselves in a golden dream, with reality shut far away.

All the happy toil of brain and muscle was suspended, and Carthage, silent in the sun all day, gave itself up, like its queen, to idleness and revelry. The weeks slipped quickly by, and one by one the restraints which her clear spirit had imposed were loosened or forgotten. And then the autumn came, and the fatal day of the hunt, when Dido gave herself without reserve or shame to her lover.

She who had been so proud and chaste, whose wisdom and fidelity had been the fame of all the countries round about, was now the prey of every evil tongue. Rumour flew from city to city, soiling her fair name; and soon it was known in all the jealous neighbouring lands that the queen of Carthage had joined herself in unlawful union with Æneas, Prince of Troy. The reputation that had been so painfully won was quickly lost; and not one of her many qualities were remembered. The courage and quick wit and resource, the generous hospitality, the impartial judgment, the kindness and tender sympathy—were all forgotten.

Dido knew of the malignance and scorn that were smouldering about her; but she was too honest to hide her sin, and secure in Æneas’ love, she paid no heed. Together they recommenced the work which had lain idle so long; and as winter came, the towers began to rise again.

But now the gods grew envious of the little barbarian state, and Jupiter turned an angry glance upon Æneas. Was this the end for which he had been saved from Troy—to make his home among a savage people, heedless of the divine command? Has he so poor a soul that he is content to spend his days in dalliance while the fair land of Italy cries out for a hand to govern it? Let Mercury carry to the prince this warning from the ruler of Olympus:

The message fell upon Æneas with a shock of fear and remorse. His dream was shattered: his sleeping conscience suddenly sprang to life, and in a flash he saw the long months spent in Carthage as treachery to the gods, to his countrymen, and to the son who was to inherit the great Roman state. In a rush of penitence, his first thought was to flee instantly: to leave at once and for ever the land that had seen his folly. But the moment after he remembered Dido, and realized in horror all the suffering that he would bring to her. He knew the intensity of her love; and recalling all her kindness to him and his, he could not summon courage to face her and tell her that he must go. Weakly he resolved to prepare in secret for departure; and orders were sent down to the ships to fit out with all speed. But the unworthy act was bound to bring disaster. Word was soon brought to the queen that the Trojan fleet was being furtively prepared for sea, and she leapt to the obvious conclusion. Æneas intended to forsake her—and to go by stealth. All her frank nature revolted at the deception. That he should wish to go at all, lightly flinging away her love and honour, was a thing that her own fidelity had never suspected; but to steal away thus was baseness that drove her to fury. Her ungoverned Oriental rage was loosed upon him.

But the first gust of anger past, she dropped to a softer mood and besought him by every tender plea that her tongue could frame, not to leave her—by their great love: by her trust in him, and the pledge that he had given her; by the constant service that she had paid him, and all that she had forfeited for his sake.

It would seem that her anguish must melt a heart of stone, but Æneas remained apparently immovable. Before him still shone the vision of the god, and in his ears Jove’s message rang insistently. Controlling every tender impulse, he answered in words that were made harsh by restraint. To Dido their coldness was as cruel as death and far more bitter. She did not know the gentle Æneas in the grip of the force that was driving him, transforming him into a monster of ingratitude.

She was borne away fainting, and Æneas, racked by pity that he dare not show, made his way down to the harbour to hasten the sailing of the fleet. Day by day his men toiled with a will, for they were sick of inaction and eager to get away, although winter was already upon them. And watching from her tower, Dido saw each day’s work completed with deeper misery, and a growing sense of despair. Very soon now all would be ready; the day was rapidly approaching when Æneas would trust himself to that stormy winter sea, with small chance, as she knew, of ever reaching Latium. At the thought of that final parting and of her lover’s danger, Dido’s anger melted, and every vestige of her pride was swept away. She could not and would not let him go like this. At the risk of worse humiliation still, she would make another effort to keep him in Carthage, at least until the stormy season should be passed. In feverish haste she called Anna and sent a poignant message.

But Æneas is inexorable, and when Anna returns to the queen with his refusal, it adds the last intolerable touch to her pain and shame. Nightlong she roams the palace, like one distraught; and finding her way to the tomb of SichÆus, she prays to die. Strange omens answer her; and to her maddened brain it seems that the voice of her husband is calling her to come to him. The water of her libation turns black as she pours it upon the altar, and the wine congeals to blood. The high gods have answered her: they approve her purpose.

As soon as day comes, she begins with deliberate care to make all ready for her death. Under her directions, a great pyre is built within the courtyard, on which the queen announces that she intends to offer a solemn sacrifice. Every relic of Æneas is gathered and laid upon it; his armour, his cloak and his sword; while all about it Dido herself hangs garlands and funeral chaplets. Her sister and her women wonder, but have no hint of her intention. When night falls and all the palace is sunk in sleep, Dido stands again before the altar and consecrates herself for the sacrifice. But she cannot yet take the fatal step. She longs for one more look from her watch-tower, down upon the ships that are so soon to carry her lover away. So she strains her eyes through the darkness, only to find, with the first gleam of light, that the harbour is bare. The fleet has sailed: Æneas, warned by a vision from Jove, has fled in the night. A bitter cry escapes her:

She calls upon the great powers of Earth and Sky and the dreadful Underworld to avenge her wrongs; and looking forward to the years that are to come, she invokes upon Æneas and his descendants the curse that followed the Roman race through many generations:

Then, rushing to the courtyard, she climbs the great pyre, and grasps Æneas’ sword. For one moment, ere she falls upon it, the frenzy lifts from her brain and shows her all the course of her troubled life.

So the founder of Carthage died; and the father of great Rome, looking back with remorseful eyes from his fleeing ship, saw the flames of her pyre reddening the dawn.

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