MY DEAR EUSEBIUS,--I have lately spent a few weeks with our old friend
Gratian, at his delightful retreat in Devonshire, which he has planted,
fenced, and cultivated, and made as much a part of himself in its every
fit and aspect as his own easy coat. You see him in every thing, in the
house and out of it. Cheerful, happy, kind, and best of men! Not an
animal in his stall, or his homestead, but partakes of his temper. His
horses neigh to you, his cows walk up to you, his pigs run to you,
rather disappointed, for you have not his stick to rub their backs with.
Rise in the early morning, when the dew is sparkling on the lawn, and
his spaniel greets you, runs round and round you with a bark of joyous
welcome; and even his cat will, as no other cat will, show you round the
gravel walks. And thrice happy are all when their expected master
appears, somewhat limping in his gait, (and how few, under his continual
pain, would preserve his cheerfulness as he does!) Every creature looks
up into his face as better than sunshine, and he forgets none. He has a
good word for all, and often more than that in his pockets. The alms
beggar, the Robin, is remembered and housed. There is his little
freehold of wood raised some feet from the ground opposite the breakfast
room window--an entrance both ways--there is he free to come and go, and
always find a meal laid for him. Happy bird, he pays neither window-tax
nor servant's tax, and yet who enjoys more daylight, or is better
served?
Our good old friend still goes on improving this and improving that--has
his little farm and his garden all in the highest perfection. Nor is the
_least_ care bestowed on the greenhouse, and the little aviary
adjoining; for here are objects of feminine pleasure, and he loves not
himself so well as he does the mistress of all, the mother and the
partner. O the terrestrial paradise, in which to wait old age, and still
enjoy, and breathe to the last the sunshiny breath of heaven, and feel
that all is blessed and blessing; for there is peace, and that is the
true name for goodness within! You shall have, my dear Eusebius, no
farther description. A drop-scene, however, is not amiss to any little
conversational drama. You may shift it, if you like, occasionally to the
small snug library--just such a one as you would have for such a
retreat. Our excellent friend took less part in our talk than we could
have wished; for it began generally at night, and his infirmity sent
him to bed early. But in spite of a little remnant of influenza, I and
the Curate often kept it up to a late hour, which you, Eusibius, will
construe into an _early_ one. Never mind; though, perhaps, it was
whispered to his discredit that the Curate kept bad hours. Those,
however, who _knew_ the fact did not keep better, and so he thought all
safe. How sweet and consoling is sometimes ignorance!
Now, the Curate--let me introduce you,--"My dear Eusebius, the Curate, a
class man some year or two from Oxford--a true man, in a word, worthy of
this introduction to you, Eusebius." "Mr. Curate, my friend Eusebius;
see, don't trust to his gravity of years; it is quite deceptive, and the
only deceit he has about him. He is Truth in sunshine and a fresh
healthy breeze. So now you know each other." I wish, Eusebius, this were
not a passage out of an imaginary conversation. Wait but for the
swallow, and you shall shake hands; and you, I know, will laugh merrily
within ten minutes after; and a laugh from you is as good as a ticket
upon your breast, "All is natural here;" and for the rest, let come what
will, that is uppermost. There will be no restraint. I cannot forbear,
Eusebius, writing to you now, early in this new year, paying you this
compliment, that your real conversations resemble in much "Landor's
Imaginary," which you tell me you so greatly admire. Full, indeed, are
they, these last two volumes, his works, of beautiful thoughts set off
with exquisitely appropriate eloquence. You are in a garden, and if you
do not always recognise the fruit as legitimate, you are quite as well
pleased to find it like Aladdin's, and would willingly store all, as he
did, in the bosom of your memory. Precious stones, bigger than plums and
peaches, are good for sore eyes, and something more, though they have
not the flavour of apricots.
We--that is, the Trio--had been reading one evening; or rather, our
friend Gratian read to me and the Curate, the "Conversation with the
Abbe Delille and W. L." We loitered, too, in the reading, as we do when
the country is of a pleasant aspect, to look about us and admire--and we
interspersed our own little talk by the way. Our friend could not
consent that Catullus should walk with, and even, as it should seem,
take the lead of his favourite Horace. "Catullus and Horace," says
Landor, "will be read as long as Homer and Virgil, and more often, and
by more readers."
"If," said the Curate, "Catullus were not nearly banished from our
public schools and our universities."
"As he deserves," replied Gratian; "for although there is in him great
elegance, yet is there much that should not be read; and his most
beautiful and most powerful little poem, his 'Atys,' is in its very
subject unfit for schoolboys."
CURATE.--Yes, if in the presence of a master; that makes the only
difficulty. The poem itself is essentially chaste, and of a grand tragic
action, and grave character--is in fact a serious poem, and as such any
youth may read it _to himself_, scarcely to another. The very subject
touches on that mystical, though natural sanctity that every uncorrupted
man is conscious of in the temple of his own person. To _impart_ a
thought of it is a deterioration. But a master must not hear it; and
even for a very inferior reason. He cannot be a critical instructor.
GRATIAN.--You are right: that was a deep observation of Juvenal; it gave
the caution,
"Maxima debetur pueris _reverentia_."
I have often thought that good masters have ever shown very great tact
in reading the Classics, where there is so much, even in the purest,
that it is best not to understand.
AQUILIUS. (I choose to give myself that name)--Or rather to pass lightly
over, for you cannot help seeing it; put your foot across it, and not
lengthways; as you would over a rut in a bad bit of road, which may
nevertheless lead to a most delightful place at the end. I cannot but
think the "Atys" to be a borrowed poem. It is quite Greek--unlike any
thing Roman. What Roman ever expressed downright mad violent action? How
much there is in it that reminds you of the story of Pentheus of
Euripides. Both deny a deity, and both are punished by their own hands.
But the resemblance is less in the characters than in the vivid pictures
and rapidity of action; and the landscape glows like one fresh from
Titian's pencil. Our friend Landor, here, I see, calls the author
"graceful." He says of Virgil that he is not so "graceful as Catullus."
CURATE.--Grace, as separate from beauty, I suppose, means something
lighter. It admits a feeling not quite in earnest, not so serious but it
may be sported with.
GRATIAN.--It is a play, however, at which only genius is expert. It is
many years since I read Catullus,--I confess I thought him rather a
careless fellow, and that his Lesbia was but a doll to dress out in the
tawdry ribbons of his verse.
AQUILIUS.--Whatever his Lesbia was, his verses are chaste; and if I find
a Lesbia that is not as his verse, I think it a duty of charity to
conclude there were two of the name; and we know that one Lesbia was a
feigned name for Clodia.
GRATIAN.--That is not very complimentary to the constancy of Catullus.
CURATE.--I am afraid we are speaking of a virtue that was not Roman. I
have been reading Catullus very recently, and was so much pleased with
his gracefulness, that I thought it no bad practice to translate one or
two of his small pieces: as I translated I became more and more aware of
the clear elegance of his diction.
AQUILIUS.--I have always been an admirer of Catullus; and as I think a
little employment will dissipate the remaining imaginary symptoms of
influenza, when our friend and host is indulging his pigs by rubbing
their backs with the end of his stick, and extending his walk to admire
his mangel-worzel, or talking to his horses, his dogs, or his cat, and
learning their opinions upon things in general, (for he is persuaded
they have opinions, and says he knows many of them, and intends one day
to catalogue them;) or while he is beyond his own gates, (and whoever
catches a sight of his limp and supporting stick, is sure to hasten pace
or to slacken it, loving his familiar talk,) looking out for an object
of human sociality, I will steal into his library--take down his
Catullus, and try my hand, good master Curate, against you. We will be,
or at least believe ourselves to be,
"Et cantare pares et decantare parati."
GRATIAN.--Ay, do; and as the shepherds were rewarded by their umpires of
old, will I reward one or both with this stick. Shall I describe its
worth and dignity after the manner of Homer, that it may be worthy of
you, if you are "baculo digni;" but whatever Aquilius may say in its
disparagement, it is not a bit the worse for its familiarity with my
pig's back. It is a good pig, and shall make bacon for the winner, which
is the best lard he will get for his poetry. But I feel a warning hint,
and must to bed--it is no longer with me the
"Cynthius aurem
Vellit et admonuit."
The warning comes rather stronger upon bone and muscle. Heaven preserve
you both from the pains of rheumatism in your old age. I suppose a
troubled conscience, which they say never rests, is but the one turn
more of the screw: so good night.
Our friend gone, we took down Catullus, and read with great pleasure
many of his short pieces, agreeing with Landor as to the gracefulness of
the poet, and resolved, if it be trifling, to trifle away some portion
of our time in translating him, and with this resolve we parted for the
night.
We did not, Eusebius, meet again for some days, the Curate being fully
employed in his rounds of parochial visiting by day, and in preparation
by night for his weekly duty. You must imagine you now see us after tea
retired to the snug library. Gratian, some years the elder, resting, (if
that word may be allowed to his pain,--if not to his pain, however, it
shall be due to his patience) resting, I say, his whole person in his
easy chair, and tapping pretty smartly with his stick the thigh from his
hip to his leg, and then settling himself into the importance of a
judge; but do not imagine you see us like two culprits about to be
condemned for feloniously breaking into the house of one Catullus, and
stealing therefrom sundry articles of plate, which we had melted down in
our own crucibles, and which were no longer, therefore, to be recognised
as his, but by evidence against us. All translators show a bold front;
for if they come short of the meed of originality, they shift off from
them the modesty of responsibility, and unblushingly ascribe all faults
to their author. We were therefore easy enough, and ready to make as
free with our Rhadamanthus as with our Catullus. Not to be too
long--thus commenced our talk.
AQUILIUS.--The first piece Catullus offers is his dedication--it is to
an author to whom I owe a grudge, and perhaps we all of us do. He has
caused us some tears, and more visible marks, and I confess something
like an aversion to his concise style. It is to Cornelius Nepos. How
much more like a modern dedication, than one of Dryden's day, both as to
length and matter.