Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 61, No. 378, April, 1847

"Here we go up, up, up,And here we go down, down, down."

Law and opinion, and the circumstances of the country, are alike opposed to the accumulation of property, so that it is rare for two successive generations of the same family to occupy the same social position. The ease with which fortunes are made, or repaired, is only equalled by the recklessness with which they are lost. Prosperity, at some time or other, appears to be the birth-right of every citizen; and, where all are parvenus alike, there are none to assume the airs of exclusiveness, or to crush the last comer beneath the weight of traditional and time-honoured grandeur.

It is not easy to dismiss the peculiarities of our British society in a paragraph. Bull, however, to be appreciated, must be seen in the midst of his own household gods, with his family and bosom friends about him. This is what may be called the normal state of that fine fellow—and here Jonathan can't hold a candle to him. American interiors want relief and variety of colouring. Their children are not like the children of the Old World: they don't romp, or prattle, or get into mischief, or believe in Bogie. They seem to take brevet rank, from the first, as men and women, and are quite inaccessible to nursery humbug of any kind. They are never whipped, and eat as much pastry as they think proper; whereby they grow up dyspeptic and rational beyond their years. Parents don't appear to exercise any particular functions, masters (we again beg Demus's pardon for the poverty of the vernacular) have nothing magisterial about them, and servants won't stomach even the name, at least if they wear white skins, and know it. After the first burst of admiration at the philosophy of the thing, it grows tiresome to live amongst people who are all so much alike. Now in England the distinctions of age, and rank, and sex, are much more strongly marked; while in those countries of Europe which are still less under the influence of the equalising spirit of the age, the social landscape is still more variegated and picturesque. With us, two adverse principles are at work; and this is the reason why our British society is so anomalous to ourselves, and so entirely beyond the comprehension of foreigners. Whenever our brave Bull is thrown into a mixed company abroad, or even at home, where the social position of those with whom he is brought into contact is unknown to him, there is no end to the blundering and nonsense of the worthy fellow. Go where he will, he is haunted by the traditions of his eccentric island, and desperately afraid of placing himself in what he calls a false position. At home, he has one manner for his nobleman, another for his tradesman, another for his valet; and he would rather die than fail in the orthodox intonation appropriate to each. Who has not observed the strange mixture of petulance and mauvaise honte which distinguishes so many of our English travellers on the Continent? Decidedly, we appear to less advantage in public than any people in the world. Place a Briton and an American, of average parts and breeding, on board a Rhine steam-boat, and it is almost certain that the Yankee will mix up, so to speak, the better of the two. The gregarious habits of our continental neighbours are more familiar to him than to his insular kinsman, and he is not tormented like the latter by the perpetual fear of failing, either in what is due to himself or to others. His manners will probably want polish and dignity; he will be easy rather than graceful, communicative rather than affable; but he will at least preserve his Republican composure, alike in his intercourse with common humanity, or in the atmosphere of more courtly and exclusive circles.

The art of pleasing is nowhere well understood in the United States: but the beauty of the women, though transient, is unrivalled while it lasts, and perhaps in no country is the standard of female virtue so high. The formal and exaggerated attention which the sex receives from all classes in public, is at least a proof of the high estimation in which it is held, and must, we think, be put down as an amiable trait in the American character.

We are quite sure, for instance, that females may travel unattended in the United States with far more ease and security than in any country of the Old World: and the deference paid to them is quite irrespective of the rank of the fair objects—it is a tribute paid to the woman and not to the lady. Some travellers we believe have denied this. We can only say, that during a pretty extensive tour we do not recollect a single instance in which even the unreasonable wishes of women were not complied with as of course. We did remark with less satisfaction the ungracious manner in which civilities were received by these spoilt children of the Republic—the absence of apologetic phrases, and those courtesies of voice and expression, with which women usually acknowledge the deference paid to their weakness and their charms. But this is a national failing. The Americans are too independent to confess a sense of obligation, even in the little conventional matters of daily intercourse. They have almost banished from the language such phrases as, "Thank you," "If you please," "I beg your pardon," and the like. The French, who are not half so attentive to women as the Americans, pass for the politest nation in Europe, because they know how to veil their selfishness beneath a profusion of bows and pretty speeches. Now, when your Yankee is invited to surrender his snug seat in a stage or a railroad carriage in favour of a fair voyager, he does not hesitate for a moment. He expectorates, and retires at once. But no civilities are interchanged; no smiles or bows pass betwixt the parties. The gentleman expresses no satisfaction—the lady murmurs no apologies.

Even now we see in our mind's eye the pert, pretty little faces, and the loves of bonnets which flirt and flutter along Broadway in the bright sunshine—Longum Vale! In the flesh we shall see them no more. No more oysters at Downing's, no more terrapins at Florence's, no more fugacious banquets at the Astor House. We have traduced the State, and for us there is no return. The commercial house which we represent, has offered to renew its confidence, but it has failed to restore ours. No amount of commission whatever, will tempt us to affront the awful majesty of Lynch, or to expose ourselves to the tar-and-feathery tortures which he prepares for those who blaspheme the Republic. We have ordered our buggy for the Home Circuit, and propose, by a course of deliberate mastication, and unlimited freedom of speech, to repair the damage which our digestion, and we fear our temper, has sustained during our travels in "the area of freedom."

HORÆ CATULLIANÆ

LETTER TO EUSEBIUS

You are far more anxious, my dear Eusebius, to know somewhat of the progress or the result of the Curate's misfortune, than to read his or my translations from Catullus. I have a great mind to punish that love of mischief in you, by burying the whole affair in profound secresy. It is fortunate for him that you are not here, or you would surely indulge your propensity, and with malicious invention put the whole parish, with the Curate, into inextricable confusion. It is bad enough as it is. There!—it cannot be helped—I must tell you at once the condition we are in, if I would have you read the rest of my letter with any patience.

A committee has been sitting these two days, to sift, as they pronounce them, "the late disgraceful proceedings;" so that you see, they are of the school of Rhadamanthus,—condemn first, and hear afterwards. We have, in this little township, two "general shopkeepers," dealers in groceries, mops, calicoes, candles, and the usual "omnium-gatherum" of household requirements.

These are great rivals—envious rivals—back-biting rivals; both, in the way of tale-bearing, what Autolicus calls himself, "pickers-up of unconsidered trifles." And truly, in the trade of this commodity, if in no other, this may be called a "manufacturing district." Now the Curate, unhappily, can buy his tea and sugar, and trifling matters, but of one—for to patronise both, would be to make enemies of both; the poor Curate, then, in preferring the adulterated goods of Nicolas Sandwell, to the adulterated goods of Matthew Miffins, has made an implacable enemy. Really, Eusebius, here is machinery enough for a heroic poem: for Virgil's old Lady Fame on the top of the roof we have three, active and lusty—and you may make them the Fates or the Furies, or what you please, except the Graces. Prateapace, Gadabout, and Brazenstare—there are characters enough for episodes; and a hero—but what, you will say, are we to do for a heroine? Here is one, beat out of the brain of Mathew Miffins, a ready-armed Minerva. You will smile, but it is so. The three above-named ladies first made their way to the shop of Mr Miffins, narrated what had passed and what had not. Having probably just completed "sanding the sugar and watering the tobacco," he raised both his hands and his eyes, and, to lose no time in business, dropped them as soon as he decently could, and, pressing both palms strongly on the counter, he asked, if they entertained any suspicion of a particular person as being the object of the Curate's most unbecoming passion? Lydia Prateapace remembered, certainly, a name being mentioned—it was Lesby or Lisby, or something like that. "Indeed!" said Miffins, arching his brows, and significantly touching the tip of his nose with his forefinger—"ah! indeed! a foreigner, depend upon it—a Lisbon lady; that, Miss, is the capital of Portugal, where them figs comes from. Only think, a foreign lady—a lady from Lisbon—that is too bad!" to which the three readily assented. "I doubt not, ladies," he continued, "it's one of them foreigners as lives near Ashford, about five miles off—where I knows the Curate goes two or three times in a week."

Thus, Eusebius, is Catullus's Lesbia, who herself stood for another, converted into a Portuguese lady, whom the Curate visits some five miles off—or, as the three ladies say, protects.

If you ask how I came by this accurate information, learn that our Gratian's Jahn was at the further counter, making a purchase of mole-traps, and saw and heard, and reported. The first meeting was held in Miffins' back-parlour; but fame had beat up for recruits, and that was found far too small; so they have adjourned to the Blue Boar, where, the tap being good, and the landlord a busybody, they are likely to remain a little longer than Muzzle-brains can see to draw up a report. The Curate's door is chalked, and adjacent walls—"No Kissing," "The Clerical Judas," "Who Kissed the School-mistress?" and many such-like morsels. But if fame has thus been playing with the kaleidoscope of lies, multiplying and giving every one its match, she has likewise shown them about through her magnifying glass, and brought the most distantly circulated home to the poor Curate. In a little town a few miles off, it has been reported that Miss Lydia Prateapace has been obliged to "swear the peace against him," which "swearing the peace" is, in most cases, a declaration of war.

Meanwhile the Curate has taken his cue, to do nothing and say nothing upon the subject; and, as in all his misadventures, that was the part taken by Yorick, if his friends do not rescue him, he may have Yorick's penalty. Thus much at present, my dear Eusebius; I will occasionally report progress, but it is now time that we resume our translations, hoping you will find amusement in our

HORÆ CATULLIANÆ

I told you Gratian, worthy veracious Gratian, had hastened away to an Agricultural meeting, to vindicate the character of his Belgian carrots. This vindication inundated us for some days with agricultural visitors. And Gratian was proud, and, like Virgil, "tossed about the dung with dignity." We saw little of him, and when he did appear, "his talk was of bullocks;" so how could he "have understanding," at least for Catullus? Had not a neighbouring fair taken off the agriculturists after a few days, his ideas, like his stick, would have become porcine. He rode his hobby, and at a brisk pace; and, when a little tired of him, stabled him and littered him, and seemed glad of a little quiet and leg-tapping in his easy-chair. He had worked off the lessened excitement by an evening's nap, and awoke recruited; and, with a pleasant smile, asked the Curate if he had had recently any communication with his friend Catullus.

Curate.—We left him, I believe, in the very glory of kissing—his insatiable glory. He now comes to a check—Lesbia is weary, if he is not.

Aquilius.—It is a mere lovers' quarrel, and is only the prelude to more folly, like the blank green baize curtain, between the play and the farce. He affects anger—a thin disguise: he would give worlds to "kiss and be friends again." His vexation is evident.

Gratian.—Ah! it is an old story—and not the worse for that—come, Mr Curate, show up Catullus in his true motley. He was privileged at his age to play the fool—so are we all at one time or another, if we do it not too wisely. A wise fool is the only Asinine.—Now for Catullus's folly.

Curate.—Thus, then, to himself:—

AD CATULLUMSad Catullus, cease your moan,Or your folly you'll deplore;What you see no more your own,Think of as your own no more.Once the suns shone on you clearly,When it was your wont to goSeeking her you loved so dearly,—Will you e'er love woman so?Then those coquetries amusingWere consented to by both—Done at least of your free choosing,Nor was she so very loth.Then, indeed, the suns shone clearly,Now their light is half gone out;She is loth—and you can merelyLearn the way to do without.Cease, then, your untimely wooing,Steel your purpose, and be strong;If she flies you, why, pursuing,Make your sorrow vain and long?Farewell, Fair!—Catullus hardens;Where he is, will he remain;He is not a man who pardonsOne that must be asked again.She'll be sad in turn, the charmer,When the shades of eventideBring no gallants to alarm her,No Catullus to her side.Lost to every sense of duty,Say, what can you, will you do?Who'll find out that you have beauty?Who'll be loved in turn by you?Whose will you be called of right?Whom will you in future kiss?Whose lips will you have to bite?—O Catullus, keep to this!

Gratian.—Well, now, I think your choice of metre a little too much of the measured elegiac, for the bursts of alternate passion, love, and anger—those sudden breaks of vexation, which I see, or fancy I see, in the original Latin. Now, Aquilius, let us hear you personate the "vexed lover."

Aquilius.

AD SEIPSUMFoolish Catullus—trifling ever—Dismiss so fruitless an endeavour;Let by-gone days be days by-gone,Though fine enough some days have shone,—When if she but held up her fingerWhom you so loved—and still you linger,Nor dare to part with—you observant,Were at her beck her humble servant;Follow'd her here and there: and didSuch things! which she would not forbid—Love's follies, without stint or doubt:Oh! then your days shone finely out.But now 'tis quite another thing,—She likes not your philandering:And you yourself! But be it over—Act not again the silly lover—But let her go—be hard as stone;So let her go—and go alone.Adieu, sweet lady! 'Tis in vain!Catullus is himself again—Will neither love, want, nor require,But gives you up as you desire.Wretch! you will grieve for this full sore,When lovers come to you no more.For think you, false one, to what pass,Your wretched days will come? Alas!No beauty yours—not one to sayHow beautiful she looks to-day!Whom will you have to love—to hearYourself called by his name, his dear?Whom will you have to kiss,—be kiss'dAnd bind your names, in true-love twist?Whose lips to bite so?—yes—to bite.}—Catullus, spare thy love or spite:}Be firm as rock—or conquered quite.}

Curate.—I protest against this as a translation. He has indeed, as he professed, brought his puppet Catullus upon the stage, and, like Shakspeare's bad actor, has put more words in his mouth than the author bargained for. The very last words are quite contradicted by the text. Catullus does not hint at the possibility of being conquered, of giving in.

Gratian.—Oh! that, is always implied in these cases. Besides Catullus evidently doubts, or he would not have so enforced the caution; "At tu, Catulle"—the translation may be a little free, but still admissible.

Aquilius.—My friend the Curate has committed the fault himself, if it be one: his "O Catullus, keep to this!" so evidently means, If you do not, it is all over with you.

Gratian.—Give me the book.—Oh!—I see we have next that very elegant and very affectionate welcome home to his friend Verannius, on his return from Spain, whither he had gone with Caius Piso. There is much heart in it, and true joy and gratulation. This is the sort of welcome that throws a sunshine upon the path of the days of human life. There is no trouble when friend greets friend. Have you translated this?

Aquilius.—I fear your commendation will resemble too rich a frame to a poor picture, and make all more dingy by the glow of the genuine gold.

But here I venture to offer, my translation:—the warmth of the original—the tenderness, is not perhaps in it:

AD VERANNIUMSweet friend, Verannius, welcome home at last!Had I a thousand friends, all were surpass'dBy my Verannius! Art thou home return'd,To thine own household gods, and hearts that yearn'dTo greet thee—brothers happy in one mind,And thy dear mother, too,—all fond, all kind?O happy, happy news! and now againTo see thee safe! and hear thee talk of Spain—Its history, places, people, and array,Telling of all in thy old pleasant way!And shall I hold thee in a friend's embrace,Gaze on thy mouth, and in thine eyes, and traceThe features of the well-remember'd face!Oh, if one happiest man on earth there be,Amongst the happy, I, dear friend, am he!

Curate.—This Verannius, and his friend Fabullus, seem to have been upon the most intimate and familiar terms with our poet. Little presents, pledges of their mutual friendship, had doubtless been given and received. Catullus elsewhere complains against Marrucinus Asinius, that he had stolen a handkerchief, sent him out of Spain by Verannius and Fabullus.

Aquilius.—Have you not translated it?

Curate.—No.

Aquilius.—I have, and will read it, after yours to Verannius: and it is curious as showing that the Romans had the practice of using handkerchiefs, or napkins, of value,—perhaps such a fashion as is now revived by the other sex,—and embroidered with lace.

Gratian.—Now, Mr Curate.—If you let our friend digress thus, we shall never have your version.

Curate.—

AD VERANNIUMMy friend, the dearest and the best,E'en though ten thousand I possess'd!—My own Verannius! art thou comeTo greet again thy gods of home,And brethren that so well agreeTogether, and in loving thee—And come to thy sweet mother, too?O blessed news! and it is true,That I shall see thee safe at last;And hear thee tell thy travel pass'd—Of Spanish places, things, and tribes,(While every word my heart imbibes,)In thine old way: shall I embraceThy neck—and kiss thy pleasant face?Find me the happy where you can,I still shall be the happiest man.

Gratian.—What are we to have next?

Aquilius.—An invitation to dinner, or, as the Romans made it, supper—and a curious invitation it is. Fabullus, to whom it was addressed, was companion to his friend Verannius—and both were with the pestilent Piso, in Spain.

Curate.—And brought little out of it; but returned poorer than they went—as did, it should seem, Catullus himself from Bithynia. So that I should imagine the invitation to Fabullus was a mere jest upon their mutual poverty. For it does not appear that Fabullus was in a condition to indulge in luxuries.

Aquilius.—Perhaps, when the invitation was sent, Catullus was not aware that his friend had been as unsuccessful, under Piso, as he had himself been, under Memmius. Thus stands the invitation:—

AD FABULLUMA few days hence, my dear Fabullus,If the gods grant you that high favour,You shall sup well with your Catullus;For, to ensure the dishes' savour,Yourself shall cater, and shall cull usBest fruits—and wines of choicest flavour.And with you bring your lass—fun—laughter—All plenty: nor confine your wishesTo supernumerary dishes;—Bring all—and pay the piper after.Rich be your fare—and all fruition,Taste, elegance, and sweet discoursesFamiliar, on that one condition.For, truth to tell, my wretched purse isIn its last stage of inanition,And not a single coin disburses:A cobweb's over it, and in it—That Spider Want there loves to spin it.Setting aside this lack of coffer,Which you can supply, Fabullus,Accept good welcome—and I offer,For company, your friend Catullus.Yet, though so hard my purse's case is,With such rare unguents I'll present you,Compounded by the Loves and GracesFor my dear girl, that you shall scent youWith perfume more divine than roses;And after, pray the gods, within you,To change sense, nerve, bone, muscle, sinew,And make you all compact of noses.

Curate.—There you are again bolting out of the course. Sending poor Fabullus to market, without money in his purse,—not a word in the original of fruit-culling and "paying the piper."

Aquilius.—If Gratian had not the book in his hand, I would boldly assert that it is all there. He will admit it is the entire meaning.

Curate.—With the elegant diction, "paying the piper," indeed! "Hæc si, inquam, attuleris, venuste noster."

Gratian.—Well, I almost think "venuste noster," "my good fellow," or "my pleasant fellow," will allow the freedom of the translation, for it is a free and easy appellative. Come, then, Curate, let us have your accurate version.

Curate.—Perhaps you may think, when you hear it, that I am in the same predicament of blame with Aquilius, and that my criticism was a ruse, to divide the censure pretty equally.

AD FABULLUMFabullus, if the gods will let you,Before a table I will set you,A few days hence, with welcome hearty,To my domestic dinner-party.That is to say—you bring the food,(Which must be plentiful and good,)With wine—remembering, I presume,For one fair girl I've always room.On these conditions you shall dineLuxurious, boon-companion mine.Seeing that your Catullus' purseHas nought but cobwebs left to nurse,I can but give you in returnThe loves that undiluted burn;And, something sweeter, neater still—A scented unguent I'll impart,Which Venus and her Loves distilTo please the girl that owns my heart:Which when you smell, this boon—this solelyYou'll ask the gods to recompose;And metamorphose you, and wholly,To one extensive Roman nose.

Aquilius.—What nose would a Roman wish to have? I object to Roman, though it is not a bad one for the purpose. The metamorphosed would certainly have a ballad written on him and sung about the streets. Write it, and call him "The Man-mountain, or real and undoubted Promontory of Noses."

Gratian.—It should seem they were like enough to feast—like their gods they so irreverently prayed to—on the smell and the smoke only; so they needed good noses and bad appetites. There is something a little abrupt in the latter part, which I doubt if I like: the Loves and Graces should not be made parties to the making of such a monster; and as monster is now-a-days all adopted adjective, follow the fashion of speech, and call it "One extensive Monster-Nose."—Well, what next?

Aquilius.—A little piece of extravagant badinage. It seems Calvus Licinius had sent Catullus a collection of miserable poems, and that, too, on commencement of the Saturnalia, dedicated to joy, and freedom from care and annoyance. Our author writes to complain of the malicious present. There is some force, and a fair fling of contempt at the bad poets of the day in it.

AD CALVUM LICINIUM, ORATOREMNow if I loved you less, my friend,Facetious Calvus, than these eyes,You merit hatred in such wiseAs men Vatinius hate. To sendSuch stuff to me! Have I been rashIn word or deed? The gods forfend!That you should kill me with such trash,Of vile and deleterious verse—Volumes on volumes without end,Of ignominious poets, worseThan their own works. May gods be pliant,And grant me this: that poison—pestLight on 'em all, and on that clientWho sent 'em you; and you in jestTransfer them, odious, and mephitic,And execrable. I suspect 'emSent you by that grammarian critic,Sulla. If so, and you have lostNo precious labour to collect 'em,'Tis well indeed; and little costTo you, with malice aforethought,To send (and with intent to kill him,And on this blessed day, when noughtBut Saturnalian joys should fill him)Your friend Catullus such a setOf murderous authors; but the debtI'll pay, be even with you yet—For no perfidious friend I spare.At early dawn, ere the sun shine, IWill rise, and ransack shop and stall,Collect your Cæsii and Aquini,And that Suffenus: and with careAnd diligence, will have all sentTo you, for a like punishment.Hence, poets! with your jingling chimes:Hence, miserables! halt and lame;Be off, ye troublers of our times!I send you packing whence ye came.

Gratian.—Kicking about the volumes, doubtless, as the "Friend of Humanity" did the "Needy Knife-grinder."