Strangers, the bark you see, doth say
Of ships the fleetest far was she.
AQUILIUS.--Stay for a moment: "the fleetest," then she was one of a
_fleet_, and sailed perhaps under convoy, and ought not to have
outsailed the _fleet_--say quickest.
GRATIAN.--No interruption, or by this baculus! Go on, Mr. Curate.
CURATE.--If you please, I'll heave anchor again.
Strangers, this bark you see doth say,
Of ships the fleetest far was she:
And that she passed and flew away
From every hull that ploughed the sea,
That fought against, or used the gale
With hand-like oar or wing-like sail.
She cites, as witness to her word,
The frowning Adriatic strand;
The Cyclades which rocks engird,
And noted Rhodus' distant land;
Propontis and unkindly Thrace,
And Savage Pontus' billowy race.
That which is now a shallop here,
Was once a tract of tressed wood,
Its foliage was Cytorus' gear,
Upon the topmost ridge it stood,
And when the morning breeze awoke
Its whistling leaves the silence broke.
Pontic Amastris, says the bark,
Box-overgrown Cytorus, you
Know me by each familiar mark,
And testify the tale is true.
She says you saw her earliest birth
Upon your nursing mountain-earth,
She dipped her blades, a maiden launch,
First in your waves, and bent her course
Thence, ever to her master staunch,
Through seas that plied their utmost force.
If right or left the breeze did strike,
Or gentle Jove did strain alike,
Each sheet before the wind. She came
From that remotest ocean-spot
To this clear inlet, still the same,
And yet audaciously forgot
The bribes which, under doubtful skies,
Are vowed to sea-side deities.
Her deeds are done, her tale is told,
For those were feats of bygone strength;
In secret peace she now grows old,
And dedicates herself at length,
Twin-brother Castor, at thy shrine,
And Castor's brother twin, at thine.
GRATIAN.--Hand me the book. I thought so--that "audaciously forgot" is
your audacious interpolation. She does not forget her vows, for she
never made any. You bring her back, good Master Curate, not a little in
the sulks, like a runaway wife, that had forgotten her vows, and
remembered all her audacity. We see her reluctantly taken in
tow--looking like a profligate, weary, and voyage worn, buffeted and
beaten by more storms than she likes to tell of. You must alter
audaciously.
AQUILIUS.--And I object to bribes; it is a satire upon the underwriters.
CURATE.--The underwriters?
AQUILIUS.--Yes, the "Littoralibus Diis;" what were they but an insurance
company, with their chief temple, some Roman "Lloyd's," and offices in
every sea-port?
CURATE.--Or perhaps the "Littoralibus Diis," referred to a
"coast-guard."
GRATIAN.--Worse and worse, for that would imply that they took bribes,
and that she was an old smuggler. Keep to the original, and if you will
modernize Catullus, you must merely say, she was so safe a boat that the
owner did not think it worth while to insure.
CURATE.--The learned themselves dispute as to the identity of the "Dii
Littorales." In the notes, I find they are said to be Glaucus, Nereus,
Melicerta, Neptune, Thetis, and others; but in the notes to Statius, you
will find Gevartius bids the aforesaid learned tell that to the marines.
He knows better. I remember his words,--"Sed male illi marinos et
littorales deos confundunt. Littorales enim potissimum Dii Caelestes
erant, Pallas, Apollo, Hercules, &c., unde illi potius apud Catullum
sunt intelligendi."
GRATIAN.--She might have been doubly insured; for besides Glaucus,
Neptune, Thetis, and Co., there was the company registered by Gevartius.
CURATE.--I have looked again at the passage, and think I have not quite
given the meaning of "novissimo." I doubt if it does mean remote--it
more likely means the last voyage--so let me substitute this:--
She came,
'Twas her last voyage, from far sea,
To this clear inlet-home, the same
Good bark and true, and proudly free
From vows which under doubtful skies,
Are made to sea-side Deities.
GRATIAN.--_Probatum est._--We have, however, run the vessel down. Let me
see what comes next. Oh, "To Lesbia." This is the old well-known
deliciously elegant little piece that I remember we were wont to try our
luck with in our youth; and many a translation of it may yet be found
among half-forgotten trifles. We are, some of us, it is true, a little
out of this cherry-season of kissing--there is a time for all things,
and so there was a time for that. It is pleasant still to trifle with
the subject: even the wise Socrates played with it in one of his
dialogues, and so may we, innocently enough. Though there be some
greybeards, (no, I am wrong, they are not greybeards, but grave-airs,
and they, more shame to them, with scarcely a beard at all,) that would
open the book here, and shut it again in haste, and look as if they had
just come out of the cave of Trophonius. That is not a healthy and
honest purity.
AQUILIUS.--But these do not object to a little professional kissing.
GRATIAN.--More shame to them--that is the worst of all, but pass on;
here is nothing but a little harmless play. Yet I don't see why the
young poet, (you know he died at thirty,) should mock his elders in
"rumoresque senum severiorum," these "sayings of severe old men." Why
should old men be severe? O' my conscience, I believe they are far less
severe than the young. Had I been present when the poet indited this to
his Lesbia, I might just have ventured to hint to him thus:--"My dear
friend, you have had enough, perhaps too much of kissing; my advice is,
that you keep it to yourself, and tell it to no one; and don't despise
the words of us old men, and mine are words of advice, that if not
married already, after all this kissing, you take her, your Lesbia, to
wife, as soon as you conveniently can."
This was pronounced with an amusingly affected gravity. I and the Curate
assumed the submissive. We were, as I told you, Eusebius, sitting under
the verandah, and very near the breakfast room; the window of which
(down to the ground) was open. While our good old friend and host was
thus Socratically lecturing, I saw a ribbon catch the air, and float out
towards us a little from the window--then appeared half a bonnet,
inclined on one side, and downwards, as of one endeavouring to catch
sounds more clearly. Seeing that it continued in this position, as soon
as my friend had uttered the last words, I walked hastily towards the
room, and saw the no very prepossessing countenance of a lady, whose
privilege it is to be called young. She blushed, or rather reddened, and
boldly came forward, and addressed our friend,--that she had come to see
some of the family on a little business for the "visiting and other
societies," and seeing us so enjoying ourselves out of doors, she could
not but come forward to pay her respects, adding, with a look at the
Curate, whom she evidently thought to be under reproof, that she hoped
she had not arrived mal-apropos. Our friend introduced her thus,--Ah, my
dear Miss Lydia Prate-apace, is that you?--glad to see you. But
(retaining his assumed gravity,) you are not safe here: there has been
too much kissing, and too much talk about it, for one of your known
rectitude to hear. Dear me, said she, you don't say so: then I shall bid
good-day; and with an inquisitive look at me, and an awful one at the
Curate, she very nimbly tripped off. You will be sure to hear of that
again, said I to the Curate. He laughed incredulous, in his innocency.
Not unlikely, upon my word, said Gratian; for I see them there trotting
down the church-path, Lydia Prate-apace, and her friend Clarissa
Gadabout; so look to yourself, Mr. Curate. But we have had enough for
the present. I must just take a look at my mangel, and my orchard, which
you must know is my piggery. Good-bye for the present. In the evening we
meet again in the library, and let Catullus be of our company. It was
time to change our quarters; for the little spaniel, knowing the hour
his master would visit his stock, and intending as usual to accompany
him, just then ran in to us, and jumping about and barking, gave us no
rest for further discussion.
You must now, my dear Eusebius, behold us in the library as before--G.
reads,--
"Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
Rumoresque senum severiorum."
Ah, that's where we were; I remember we did not like the senum
severiorum.
CURATE.--We!!
G.--Yes, we; for the veriest youth that shoots an arrow at old age, is
but shooting at himself some ten or a dozen paces off. I remember, when
a boy, being pleased with a translation of this by Langhorne; but I only
remember two stanzas, and cannot but think he left out the "soles
occidere et redire possunt;" if so, he did wrong; and I opine that he
vulgarised and removed all grace from it by the word "pleasure." Life
and love, Catullus means to say, are commensurate; but "pleasure" is a
wilful and wanton intrusion. If I remember, his lines are,--
"Lesbia, live to love and _pleasure_,
Careless what the grave may say;
When each moment is a treasure,
Why should lovers lose a day?
Give me then a thousand kisses--
Twice ten thousand more bestow;
Till the sum of endless blisses,
Neither we nor envy know."
Catullus himself might as well have omitted the "malus invidere." Why
should he trouble his head about the matter--envied or not? but now, Mr.
Curate, let us hear your version.