Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 61, No. 380, June, 1847

by Various

HORÆ CATULLIANÆ.

You now see us again in the library—time, after tea. Gratian enjoys his easy-chair; a small fire—for it is not cold—just musically whispers among the coals, comfort. Gratian says he has had a busy day of it, and, though not wearied, is in that happy state of repose to enjoy rest, and of excitement to enjoy social converse; and after a little, preliminary chat, asked if there was any thing lately from Catullus.

Aquilius.—Yes. He is returned from his unprofitable travel, and you seem to be in that state of sensitive quiescence, to feel with him the pleasures of home. He is now at his own villa, and thus welcomes, and acknowledges the welcome offered him by his beloved Sirmio.

AD SIRMIONEM PENINSULAM.

My Sirmio, thou the very gem and eye
Of islands and peninsulas, that lie
In that two-fold dominion Neptune takes
Of the salt sea and sweet translucent lakes!
Oh! with what joy I visit thee again,
Scarce yet believing, how, left far behind,
The tedious Thynian and Bithynian plain,
I see thee, Sirmio, with this peaceful mind.
Oh, what a blessed thing is the sweet quiet,
When the tired heart lays down its load of care,
And after foreign toil and sickening riot,
Weary and worn, to feel at last we are
At our own home—and our own floor to tread,
And lie in peace on the long-wish'd-for bed!
This, this alone, repays all labours past.
Hail to thee, lovely Sirmio! gladly take
Thine own, own master home to thee at last:
And all ye sportive waters of my lake,
Laugh out your welcome to my cheerful voice,
And all that laughs at home, with me rejoice.

Gratian.—I well remember this singularly sweet, kind, affectionate address. It is the best version of "Home is home, be it ever so homely," I know. You have needlessly repeated own. Why not say, loved master?

Curate.—Don't you think the acquiescimus lecto would be better rendered "sink to rest?" I fancy the Latin expresses the sinking down of the wearied limbs, or rather, whole person, into the soft and deep feather bed.

Aquilius.—I Set it down so, but altered it, thinking the "lie in peace" was in reality more quiescent than any thing expressing an act—as sinking is a process in transitu—the result, lying in peace. It has often been translated, among others, by Leigh Hunt, and that prince of translators, Elton—though I think I was not satisfied with his translation of the Sirmio—of the others I do not remember a word.

Curate.—Leigh Hunt overdid his work—there is more labour than ease in the line

"The loosened limbs o'er all the wished-for bed."

Not simple enough for Catullus; neither is this—a rather affected line—

"Laughs every dimple in the cheek of home."

Gratian.—No, that won't do—it is a conceit. One would imagine it borrowed or translated from some Italian poet.

Aquilius.—The "loosened limbs o'er all the wished-for bed," strikes me as rather of the ludicrous, and not unlike the description of himself by Berni in his fanciful palace, where he ordered a bed, adjoining that of the French cook's, which was to be large enough to swim in—"Come si fa nel mare."

Gratian.—Now then, Mr Curate, let us have your version.

Curate.

TO THE PENINSULA OF SIRMIO.

All hail to thee, delightful Sirmio!
Of all peninsulas and isles the gem,
Which lake or sea in its fair breast doth show
With either Neptune's arms encircling them.
What joy to find that Thynia, and that plain
Bithynian gone, and see thee safe again!
Charming it is to rest from care and cumber,
When the mind throws its burden, and we come
Wearied with pains of foreign travel home,
And in the bed so longed for sink to slumber.
This pays for all the toil, this quiet after—
Joy, my sweet Sirmio, for thy master's sake,
Make merry, frolic wavelets of my lake—
Laugh on me, all ye stores of home-bred laughter.

Gratian.—I don't like "the mind throws its burden:" lays it down is better—there is more weariness in it. You must alter that expression, or we see the mind like the "iniquæ mentis ascellus," dropping back its ears, and throwing its not agreeable and easy-sitting rider. Why not—

"When the mind lays its burden down, to come?"

But I see you have both of you translated away from the Latin the Lydiæ undæ. How comes it so?

Aquilius.—The reasons given for the word meaning Lydian seem to be insufficient; because it is said the Benacus resembles the Lydian rivers Hermus and Pactolus in having gold; or because the Benacus was in the district of the Thusci, who came from the Lydians. I adopted a conjecture once thrown out—and I think it was by the most accomplished scholar, W. S. Landor, that Lydiæ is the adjective of the word Ludius—ludiæ undæ, or Lydiæ undæ, the same thing, for that ludius is, as the dictionary tells us, "a Lydis, qui erant optimi saltatores." If so, Lydiæ would mean the sportive, or "dancing waters of the lake."

Curate.—I took this hint from Aquilius, though I do not remember from whom the suggestion came. I would venture from the last line—

"Ridete quidquid est domi cachinnorum—"

a remark upon a passage, the celebrated expression in the Prometheus of Æschylus, the ανηριθμον γελασμα. Some call it "countless dimples." Now is it not possible Catullus may have thought of this, and as it were translated it by quidquid est cachinnorum? The question then would be, is it meant to speak to the ear or the eye? Is it of sound or vision? I am inclined to think it is the sound, the communicative laughter of the many waves. "Dimple" is too little for the gigantic conception of Æschylus, but the laughter of the multitudinous ocean-waves is more after his genius. No one could translate cachinnus "a dimple." If, therefore, Catullus had in his mind the Greek passage, it shows his idea of the ανηριθμον γελασμα.

Gratian.—I have often admired how that can be very beautiful which is of uncertain meaning. Is it that either construction conveys distinct thought—clear idea? I confess, I prefer the sound. What comes next?

Curate.—Missing one or two, we take up his "Request to his friend Cæcilius to come to him to Verona"—who, it seems, was a native of that place, and fellow townsman, as well as most dear friend of Catullus.

Aquilius.—Both poets—both kind-hearted; in fact, "The two gentlemen of Verona."

Gratian.—Well, that is saying something for Latin poets. Let us have your version, Curate.

Curate.

INVITATION TO CÆCILIUS.

Papyrus, to Cæcilius tell
(A touching bard, my friend as well)
That to Verona he must come,
Where his Catullus is at home,
And new-built Comu's walls forsake,
And that sweet shore of Laris Lake.
A friend of mine and his has brought
To light some passages of thought,
Which he must hear. So if he will
Be thriving and improving still,
His speed will swallow up the distance,
Although with amorous resistance,
And both arms clinging round his neck,
That lovely maid his progress check,
With lips a thousand times that say
"Oh, do not, do not go away!"
I mean that maid who, Fame—not I—
Asserts for love of him would die;
For fire consumes her heart and head,
Since first the opening lines she read
Of Cybele the God's great queen.
Maid, learned as the Sapphic muse,
I cannot sympathy refuse;
For not amiss (the book I've seen)
Begins the tale, "The Mighty Queen."

Aquilius.—I protest against "so if he will be thriving and improving still." That is the Curate's interpolation. The fact is, he must have rhymed a passage from his last sermon; and it has somehow or other slipped into his Catullus.

Curate.—No authority! What, then, is meant by "Quare si sapiet?"

Aquilius.—Simply, if he would know the secret—the "cogitationes."

Gratian.—I am inclined to agree with you. Now, Aquilius, we will listen to your version.

Aquilius.

Hasten, papyrus! greet you well
That tender poet, my sweet friend
Cæcilius—speedily I send,
As speedily my message tell:
That he should for Verona make
All haste—and quit his Larian Lake,
And Novum Comum—for I would
Some certain thoughts he understood
And purposes, that now possess
A friend of mine; and his no less.
And if he takes me rightly, say
His coming will devour the way,
Though that fair girl should bid him stay,
And round his neck her arms should throw,
And cry, Oh, do not, do not go!—
That girl, who, if the truth be told,
E'en in her heart of hearts doth hold
And cherish such sweet love—since he
First read to her of Cybele,
"Great Queen of Dindymus" the tale
Begun. Oh, then she did inhale
The living breath of love, whose heat
Into her very life doth eat.
Thy passion I can well excuse,
Fair maid! more learn'd than the tenth muse,
The Lesbian maid—nor couldst thou fail
To find for love an ample plea,
In that so nobly open'd tale
Of the great Goddess Cybele.

Curate.—What's all this?—the "tenth muse!" where is she in the Latin?

Aquilius.—Sapphicâ musâ, Doctor. That is Sappho, is it not? and pray was Sappho one of the nine muses? No; then of course she was the tenth—and was not she "the Lesbian maid?"

Curate.—Well, I admit it—you have vindicated your muse fairly, and I will not pronounce against her, though tempted by an apt quotation from the mouth of Bacchus, in the Frogs of Aristophanes.

"Αυτη ποθ' η Μουσ' ουκ ελεσβιαζεν ου."

For your muse is certainly a Lesbian; but you have omitted "misellæ," which shows that the passion was not returned.

Gratian.—I don't see that; for she throws her arms about his neck. But neither of you have well spoken the "millies euntem revocet," the calling him back after departure, and that is very good too. I see the note upon Sapphicâ Musâ, speaks of various interpretations to the passage; but adopts this—that the maiden loving Cæcilius has more sense (is that doctior? I doubt) than Sappho, who loved a youth too stupid ever to write a line; but this maid did not love till she had read the commencement of his poem. I don't see the necessity for thinking the passion hopeless either, because of the comparison with Sappho. Few Roman maidens took the Leucadian leap.

Curate.—It is very odd, and might first appear a mark of their good manners—that the Romans never mention "old maids." I fear there was another cause. I suppose the omission may be accounted for by the state of society, which was not favourable to their existence at all; for then a man could put away his wife at any moment, and for any plea, most women must have managed to get a husband for a long or a short time.

Aquilius.—The only ancient old maids were the Fates and Furies—of the latter, the burden of the song was—

"Oh no, we never mention them,
Their names are never heard!"

Gratian.—Come back to your duty: we are wandering, and leaving Catullus behind. What are we to have now?

Aquilius.—An attack upon one Egnatius, who, having white teeth, took care to show them upon all occasions. He was not, however, celebrated for his tooth-powder. He is a fair mark for the wit of our author. The arrow of his satire was occasionally keen enough and free to fly.

IN EGNATIUM.

Egnatius's teeth are very white,
And therefore is he ever grinning:
Let pleaders in the court excite
All hearts to weep—from the beginning
E'en to the end he laughs. The while
The mother on the funeral bier,
Sheds o'er her only son the tear,
Alone Egnatius seems to smile,
Then opes his mouth from ear to ear:
Where'er he is, whatever doing,
He laughs and grins. The thing in fact is
A tasteless, foolish, silly practice,
Egnatius, and well worth eschewing.
Spare all this risible exertion,
And were you Roman or Tiburtian,
Sabine, Lanuvian, fat Etruscan,
Or porcine Umbrian with rare show
Of tusks—columnar—order Tuscan:
Or born the other side the Po,}
(And my compatriot, therefore know,)}
Where folk are civilised I trow,}
And wash their teeth with water cleanly—
Pure water such as folk might quaff—
I would entreat you still—don't laugh.
You look so sillily, so meanly,
As if you were but witted half.
Yet being but a Celtiberian,
Holding the custom of your nation,
Using that lotion called Hesperian;
The more you grin, folk say, forsooth,
What pity 'tis the whitest tooth
Should have the foulest application!

Curate.—I did not translate—and our host will think one translation quite enough.

Gratian.—Go on then to the next. What are we to have?

Curate.—His address to his farm. Authors were happy in those days to have their landed estate. Horace always speaks of his with delight; so does Catullus, as we have seen, of his Sirmio. This farm was, it should seem, like Horace's, among the Sabine hills.

TO MY FARM.

My farm! which those who wish to please
Thy master's heart, Tiburtian call;
But they who call thee Sabine, these
Respect his feelings not at all:
And wishing more to tease and fret,
Will wager thou art Sabine yet—
How well it pleased me to retreat
To thy suburban country-seat;
Where I sent summarily off
That plaguy pulmonary cough;
Which, half-deserved, my stomach gave
Just for a hint no more to crave
Luxurious living. I had hoped
With a good dinner to have coped
At Sextius' table; when he read
A poisonous speech might strike one dead,
All gall and venom, to refute
One Attius in a certain suit.
Since when, a cold cough and catarrh
Against my battered frame made war;
Until I came in thee to settle,
And cured it with repose and nettle.
So, now I'm well, I thank thee, farm!
And that I got so little harm,
From such great fault. I may be pardon'd
If to this pitch my heart is harden'd:
To pray, when Sextius reads again
Things so abhorr'd of gods and men,
That that my cough and cold catarrh
Not mine but Sextius' health might mar—
Who never sends me invitation
But for such wretched recitation.

Gratian.—A charitable wish this of our good Catullus! But these heathens knew little of "do as you would be done by." One of the neatest wishes of this kind is in a Greek epigram. I can't remember word for word the Greek, so I give the translation:—"Castor and Pollux, who dwell in beauteous Lacedemon, by the sweet-flowing river Eurotas, if ever I wish evil to my friend, may it light upon me; but if ever he wishes evil to me, may he have twice as much."

Aquilius.—In a note on villæ, I see the derivation of that word given, quasi vehilla, because there the fruits of the farm were carried; so that the original idea of a villa was quite another thing from the modern suburban construction. Architects, when they call these suburban edifices villas, might as well remember how inappropriate is the term. But here you have my version of this address to his farm:—

AD FUNDUM.

My Farm, or Sabine or Tiburtian,
(What name I care not we confab in,
Though they who hold me in aversion,
Persist and wager you are Sabine,)

In your suburban sweet recesses
Of that vile cough I timely rid me,
Merited well, for those excesses
My stomach failed not to forbid me,

When I with Sextius was convivial,
Who feasting read me his invective,
Vilest, 'gainst Attius his rival,
All venom—and, alas! effective.

For surely 'twas that poison seized me,
A chill—a heat—a cough then shook me
E'en to my vitals—and so teazed me,
That to thy bosom I betook me.

Thanks, my good farm! my fault you pardon'd,
And not revenged. We've much to settle
On score of thanks: my chest you harden'd,
And healed with basil-root and nettle.

But from henceforth, if I such vicious
Invectives read, though Sextius pen 'em,
Who but invites me with malicious
Intent to kill me with their venom—

If e'er I yield to his endeavour,
Expose me to his scrip infectious—
I call down ague, cold, and fever,
Oh! fall ye not on me,—but Sextius.

Gratian.—I see the next is that one which has been not unfrequently translated and imitated. Is there not one by Cowley,—if I remember, much lengthened?

Aquilius.—It can scarcely be called a translation. The Latin measure is certainly here very sweet and tender.

DE ACME ET SEPTIMIO.

Septimius, to his bosom pressing
His Acme, said, "I love thee, Acme—
All my life-long will love thee, Acme!
Nor day shall come to love thee less in.
Or should it come, like common lover,
In such poor love I love thee only;
May Libyan lion dun discover,
Or torrid India's beast attack me,
Wandering forlorn from thee, and lonely
On desert shore."—
He said: Love, as before,
Upon the left hand aptly sneezed.
The omen showed that he was pleased
To give his blessing.

Then gentle Acme, softly turning
Upon the breast of her Septimius,
And unto his her face upraising,
And looking in his eyes so burning,
As if inebriate with gazing;
With that her rich red mouth she kissed them,
And said,—"My love, dear, dear Septimius!
Oh, let us serve our master duly—
Our master Love, as now caressing;
For never yet have Love so blessed them
As now my thoughts he blesseth truly,
Even to my heart of hearts, Septimius,
The inmost core."
She said: and, as before,
Love on the left hand aptly sneezed.
The omen showed that he was pleased
To give his blessing.

They loved—were loved: this sweet beginning
Omen'd their future bright condition.
Offer all Asia to Septimius—
Add Britain—put in competition
With Acme—wretchedly abstemious
They'd call him of your gifts, Ambition.
The only province worth his winning
Is Acme: Acme's faithful bosom
Knows nought on earth but her Septimius.
Ripe was the fruit, as fair the blossom
Of this their mutual love, and glowing;
And all admired its freshness growing.
Was never pair so fond and loving!
And Venus' self looked on approving.

Curate.—Are you correct in your translation "Love, as before?" Is it not that, as before he sneezed on the left, now he sneezes on the right hand,—was unfavourable—is now propitious?

Gratian.—I see in the note that the passage bears either construction. There is also authority given; for what to us is the left hand, to the gods is the right. Now, Curate, for your Acme and Septimius.

Curate.—

OF SEPTIMIUS AND ACME.

Acme to Septimius' breast,
Darling of his heart, was prest—
"Acme mine!" then said the youth,
"If I love thee not in truth,
If I shall not love thee ever
As a lover doated never,
May I in some lonely place,
Scorch'd by Ind's or Libya's sun,
Meet a lion's tawny face;
All defenceless, one to one."—
Love, who heard it in his flight,
To the truth his witness bore,
Sneezing quickly to the right—
(To the left he sneezed before.)

Acme then her head reflecting,
Kiss'd her sweet youth's ebriate eyes,
With her rosy lips connecting
Looks that glistened with replies.
"Thus, my life, my Septimillus!
Serve we Love, our only master:
One warm love-flood seems to thrill us,
Throbs it not in me the faster?"—
Love, who heard it in his flight,
To the truth his witness bore,
Sneezing quickly to the right—
(To the left he sneezed before.)

Thus with omens all-approving,
Each and both are loved and loving.
Poor Septimius with his Acme,
Cares not to whose lot may fall
Syria's glory—wealthy province!—
Or both Britains great and small.
Acme, faithful and unfeigning,
Gives, creates, enjoys all pleasure,
With her dear Septimius reigning.—
Oh! was ever earthly treasure
Greater to man's lot pertaining?
Blessed pair!—thus, without measure,
Venus' choicest gifts attaining.

Gratian.—You have a little run riot, good Master Curate; and run out of your rhyming course too, I see—for you don't mean "province" to rhyme to "Acme."—I see the next is, On Approach of Spring—with that beautiful line, "Jam ver egelidos refert tepores." I wish to see how you would have translated that refreshing and cool warmth of expression—almost a contradiction in terms—the season when we inhale the heavenly air with the chill off—like hot tea thrown into a glass of spring-cold water, and drank off immediately.

Aquilius.—I gave it up in despair, and the Curate too has omitted it. There are two other perhaps untranslatable lines in this short piece:—

"Jam mens prætrepidans avet vagari;
Jam læti studio pedes vigescunt."

After two other little pieces, we come to a few lines to no less a personage than Marcus Tullius Cicero, who had probably in some cause gratuitously assisted the poet with his eloquence; for to sue in formâ poetæ, was, perhaps, pretty much the same as in formâ pauperis. It seems that "omnium patronus" was a flattering title on other occasions, and by other persons bestowed upon Cicero, as well as by our poet here. One would almost think the orator had served the poet an ill turn, and that this superlative praise was but irony; for he not only calls Tullius the most eloquent of men, but as much the best of patrons, as he, Catullus, is the worst of poets. This surely must be a mock humility. Is it a satire in disguise, and meaning the reverse? After this, follows a little piece to his friend Cornellus Licinius Calvus, with whom he had passed a pleasant and too exciting day—but let him tell his own story. Shall I repeat?

AD LICINIUM.

My dear Licinius, yesterday
We sported in our pleasant way;
Tablets in hand—and at our leisure,
In verse as various as the measure,
Scribbling between our wine and laughter.
But when we parted, mark the after
Vexation;—conquered, and hard hit
By your all-overpowering wit,
I could not eat—nor yet would Sleep
His softly-soothing fingers keep
Upon my weary lids: all night}
I toss'd, I turned from left to right}
Impatient for the morning light,}
That I might talk with you, and be
Again in your society.
But when my limbs, as 'twere half dead,
Were lying on my restless bed,
I made these lines—which, my good friend,
That you may know my pains, I send.
Now, though so free, so bold to dare,
So apt to scoff—good sir, beware
Lest with the eye of your disdain
You view these lines, my vow, my pain.
Beware of Nemesis, beware!—
For Vengeance, should I cry aloud—
She hears—and punishes the proud.

Gratian.—Those last lines are very grave: are they not too much so for the intended play of this mock anger? Let us have your version, Master Curate.

Curate.—I am sure you think one version quite enough. I did not translate it; and believe we must now turn over many pages, and then I have little more to offer.

Gratian.—(Turning over the leaves of Catullus.) Here I see is that beautiful passage in his "Carmen Nuptiale."

"Ut flos in septis secretus nascitur hortis."

Aquilius.—Which did not escape the tasteful, though bold Ariosto. I have made a weak attempt to translate the passage; and as it stands in the middle of a long piece, I have taken it out as a sonnet. I will read it:—

UT FLOS IN SEPTIS, &C.

As in enclosure of chaste garden ground,
The floweret grows—where nor unseemly tread
Of flocks or ploughshares bruise its tender head—
There soft airs soothe it with their gentle sound;
Suns give it strength, and nurturing showers abound,
And raise its tall stem from its sheltered bed;
And many a youth and maiden, passion-led,
With longing eyes admiring walk around:
Pluck'd from the stem that its pure grace supplied,
Nor youths nor maidens love it as before.
So the sweet maiden, in the queenly pride
Of her chaste beauty, many hearts adore;
But that her virgin charter laid aside,
Who lov'd, who cherish'd, cherish, love no more.

Curate.—I remember Ariosto's translation—for translation it is; and though you know it, I will repeat it, and, by Gratian's favour, let it pass for my version. For once, borrowed plumes,—and I shall not be the worse bird—though birds of richer plumage have no song.

"La verginella è simile alla rosa,
Chi'n bel giardin su la nativa spina,
Mentre sola, e sicura si riposa,
Ne gregge, ne pastor sele avvicina;
L'aura soave, e l'alba rugidosa
L'acqua, la terra al suo favor s'inch a:
Giovani vaghi, e donne innamorate,
Amano averne e seni, e tempre ornate.
Ma non si tosto dal materno stelo,
Remossa viene, e dal suo ceppo verde,
Che, quanto avea dagli uomini, e dal cielo,
Favor, grazia, ebellezza, tutto perde."

Gratian.—Let us examine the alterations made by one genius, in transferring to his own language the ideas of another genius of another country. Catullus says "the floweret,"—flosculus: Ariosto particularises the rose,—the bel giardin, "the beautiful garden," stands for septis in hortis, the enclosed. Then he has given the idea of secretus, which is certainly "separated," "set apart," by the words sola e sicura, "alone and safe"—is it so good? but he gives that a grace, a beauty, the original perhaps has not, riposa—the floweret enjoys its secret repose. The cutting down the flower by the plough was unnecessary, after telling us of the enclosure; we scarcely like to be brought suddenly into the ploughed field. Here Ariosto is better—"nor shepherd nor flock come near it." That enough confirms the idea of its being fenced off, and they wander in their idleness, or, but for the fence, might have reached it; the plough and the team are a heavy apparatus, and would be a most unexpected intrusion,—so I like the Italian here better. Then, su la nativa spina is good: you see the beautiful creature on its native stem or thorn. Then for the enumeration of the airs, the sun, and the shower, the Italian, in his beautiful language, softens the very air, and gives it a sweetness, l'aura soave, and ushers in "the dewy morn:" then, expanding to the glory of the full reverence of nature to this emblem of purity, he makes all bend and bow before it, as before the very queen of the earth. Here he surpasses his original. Then he gives you the object of the wishes of the youths and maidens, the multi pueri multæ optaveræ puellæ. They desire to place it in their bosoms or round their temples: and is not the lovingness of the youths and maidens a good addition? The giovani vaghi e donne innamorate. Both are admirable—but I incline to Ariosto.

Aquilius.—And do you think the Latin poet the original? You forget how little originality the Latin authors can claim. This of Catullus is a translation—a free one, it is true—of perhaps a still more beautiful passage in Euripides. Reach the book: you will find it in that very singular play the Hippolytus. Ay, here it is. He offers the garland to the virgin goddess Artemis—(line 73)

"Σοι τονδε πλεκτον στεφανον εξ ακηρατου
Λειμωνος ω δεσποινα, κοσμησας φερω,
Ενθ'ουτε τοιμην αξιοι φερβειν βοτα
Ουτ' ηλθε ρω σιδηρος αλλ' ακηρατον
Μελισσα λειμων' ηρινον διερχεται
Αιδως δε ποταμιαισι κηπευει δροσοις.
Ὁσοις διδακτον μηδεν, αλλ' εν τη φυσει
Το σωφρονειν ειληχεν ες τα πανθ' ὁμως,
Τουτος δρεπεσθαι τοις κακοισι, δ' ου θεμις."

"I bring thee, O mistress, this woven crown, beautifully made up of flowers of the pure untouched meadow—where never shepherd thinks it fitting to feed his flock, nor the sickle comes; but the bee ever passes over the pure meadow breathing of spring, and modesty waters it as a garden with the river-dews. To them who have, untaught, in their nature the gift of chastity, to these only it is at all times an allowed sanctity to cut these flowers, but not to the evil-minded."

You cannot doubt that the passage in Catullus is taken from the Greek—which is of a higher sentiment in the conclusion, and is enriched beyond the Latin by the bee, and above all by the personification of Modesty tending and watering the garden, or rather these especial flowers, with the river-dews.

Curate.—How far more pure is the sentiment, and more quiet the imagery, in the Greek! The Greeks were the great originators of glorious thought and beautiful diction.

Gratian.—Let us now to Catullus. What have we next?

Aquilius.—Here is a tender little piece, to his friend Ortalus. I see it has an omission: this edition does not supply it; I only take what I see. It seems Ortalus had requested him to send him his translation from Callimachus, the "Coma Berenices," which for some time, through grief for the death of his brother, he had failed to do. He now sends the poem.

AD ORTALUM.

Though care, that unto me sore grief hath brought,
Calls me from converse with the sacred Nine,
Nor can my heart incline
To bring to any end inspired thought;—

(For now the wave of the Lethæan lake,
How recent hath it bathed in Death's dark vale
A brother's feet so pale;
And I can only sorrow for his sake.

The Trojan land on the Rhœtean shore
Hath hidden him for ever from these eyes,—
And I with glad surprise,
And brother's love, shall welcome thee no more.

Loved more than life, dear brother! what can I
But love thee still, and mourn for thee full long
In a funereal song,
In secret to assuage my grief thereby?

As amid many boughs all leaf-array'd
The Danlian bird, the nightingale, out-poured,
When Itys she deplored,
Her mellow sorrows in the thickest shade:)

Yet, Ortalus, 'mid tears that flow so fast,
The work of your Battiades I send,
Lest you should deem, dear friend,
Your wishes to the winds are idly cast,

And from my mind escaped, all unaware,
As falls the fruit, love's furtive gift, unbid,
In virgin bosom hid,
When she, forgetful of its lying there,

Would suddenly arise, and run to greet
The coming of her mother, from her vest
And her now loosen'd breast,
The shameless apple rolls before her feet.

And she, poor maid! abashed, and in the hush
Of shame, before her mother cannot speak,
While all her virgin cheek
Betrays her secret in the conscious blush.

Curate.—It is very tender—the last image is delicately beautiful. I did not translate it.

Gratian.—Pretty as the passage of the maiden's disaster in dropping the lover's gift—and that, too, be it observed, in the hurry of her tenderness, which increases the beauty, or rather accomplishes it—yet is it not abrupt in a piece where there is the expression of so much grief? Catullus was an affectionate man, more especially affectionate brother; on other occasions, if I remember rightly, he deplores this brother's loss. Now, Master Curate, what do you offer us?

Curate.—Not now a verse translation, but an observation on a little piece of raillery, in which Catullus quizzes one Arrius for his aspirating; and, I mean it not as a pun, exasperating, though it should seem that his friends were not a little exasperated at his bad pronunciation. Do we inherit from the Romans this, our (Cockneyism, I was going to say, but it is too general to allow of such a limit,) vulgarity of speech? "Where," says Catullus, "Arrius meant to say commoda, he uttered it as chommoda, and hinsidias for insidias, and never thought he spoke remarkably well unless he laid great stress upon the aspirate, calling it with emphasis hinsidias. I believe his mother, his uncle, his maternal grandfather and grandmother all spoke in the same way. When the man went into Syria, all ears had a little rest, and heard those words pronounced without this emphatic aspirate, and began to entertain no fears respecting the use of the words; when on a sudden they hear—that after Arrius had gone thither, the Ionian seas were no longer Ionian, but Hionian." This is curious. As the Romans had possession here more than four hundred years, did they leave us this legacy?

Aquilius—I will, then, give you versions of the two which immediately follow.

DE AMORE SUO.

I love and hate. You ask me how 'tis so.
Small is the reason which I have to show:
I feel it to my cost—'tis all I know.

Then follows a compliment, by comparison, to his Lesbia.

DE QUINTIA ET LESBIA.

Many think Quintia beautiful: she's tall,
And fair, and straight. I know, I grant it all,
When each particular beauty I recall;

But I deny—when these are uncombined
To form a whole of beauty—and I find
So large a person with so small a mind.

But Lesbia's perfect person is all soul,
Compact in beauty—as if grace she stole
From all the rest, and made herself one perfect whole.

Curate.—This is compliment enough as far as comparison goes—but he pays her a much greater shortly after: for he loves her in their greatest quarrels.

OF LESBIA.

"Lesbia mi dicit semper male."

Lesbia's always speaking ill
Of me—her tongue is never still:
Yet may I die, but 'gainst her will,
She loves me, spite of her detraction.

Why think I so? Because I blame
Her ways, abuse her just the same:
Yet howsoe'er I name her name,
I still love Lesbia to distraction.

Gratian.—Perhaps the constancy was more to the credit of Lesbia than Catullus. Now then, Aquilius.

Aquilius.—

DE LESBIA.

Lesbia speaketh ill of me
Ever—nought it moves me:
Say she what she will of me,
Yet I know she loves me.

Why? Because in words of hate,
I am far before her;
Yet no jot of love abate,
Rather I adore her.

Curate.—I don't like "I am far before her." We say, "I am not behind" in hate or love—I doubt "before."

Aquilius.—Easily mended—thus then,—

Why? Because in words of hate
I go far beyond her,
Yet no jot of love abate—
But still grow the fonder.

Gratian.—Probatum est.

Aquilius.—The Curate is too quick upon me. We must go back: he has left out "De Inconstantia Feminei Amoris."

Curate.—True. Here is my version. Not being a happy subject, I passed over it.

OF WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.

My pretty she will none but me
For husband, though were Jove, her wooer.
So tells she me: but what a she
Says to her lover and pursuer,
Might well be written on the wind,
Or stream that leaves no track behind.

Aquilius.—I object to "pretty she," for mulier. I think, however, that mulier here is a word of contempt. I make it out thus:

DE INCONSTANTIA FEMINEI AMORIS.

She says—the woman says—she none would wed
But me, though Jove came suitor to her bed;
She says—but, oh! what woman says—so fair,
And smooth to doting man, is writ on air,
And on the running stream that changeth every where.

Aquilius.—We have seen much of our friend Catullus as a loving poet, let us end by showing him to have been a good hater. The following is no bad specimen of his powers in this line:—

IN COMINIUM.

If you, Cominius, old, defiled
With every vice, contemn'd, and hoary,
From your vile life were once exiled,
Your carcass beasts would mar—grim, wild.
Vultures that tongue, defamatory
Of all the gentle, good, and mild;
And with those eyes, that all detest,
Pluck'd from their hateful sockets gory,
Crows cram their maws, or feed their nest,
And hungry wolves devour the rest!

It was now time, Eusebius, to conclude for the night, and, indeed, to put our Catullus upon his shelf again. Before separating, we reminded Gratian that he was the arbiter, and must make his award. "I remember well," said he; "and you, Aquilius, made, I think, this my baculus the staff of office. A good umpire might, not very improperly, give the stick to you both, breaking it equally, "secundum artem baculinam." But it is a good, useful staff to me; we have had some rubs together, and I won't part with it. True, it has not unfrequently rubbed my pigs' backs, and shall again. But the pig Aquilius has made his acquaintance with, has grunted out all his happy days; and, to do him all honour, I have sacrificed him upon this occasion, to appease the manes of the Latin poet in his anger at your bad translations. But for yourselves, I have still something to award. My pig has two cheeks—there is one for each, and you shall have them put before you at breakfast to-morrow morning; and thus, I think, you will agree with me that I have duly countenanced you both. And I hope my pig will have both sharpened your appetites and your wit, 'sus Minervam.' Good-night!

'To-morrow to fresh fields and turnips new.'"