MASTER 
 NEGA TIVE 
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AUTHOR: 
 
 MACNAGHTEN 
 HUGH VIBART 
 
 > 
 
 TITLE: 
 
 THE STORY OF 
 CATTULLUS 
 
 PLACE: 
 
 LONDON 
 
 DA TE : 
 
 1899 
 
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THE LIBRARIES 
 
THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
THE 
 
 STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 BY 
 
 HUGH MACNAGHTEN 
 
 \ ^ 
 
 rORMERLY FELLOW OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE 
 
 ASSISTANT MASTER AT ETON COLLEGE 
 
 jlll rights reserved 
 
 LONDON 
 
 DUCKfFOIirH and CO. 
 
 3 HENRIETTA STREET, W.C. 
 
 1899 
 
n 
 
 c 
 
 ■^1 
 
 V 
 
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 Edinburgh : T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty 
 
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 CK 
 > 
 
 CD 
 
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 TO 
 
 HENRY ELFORD LUXMOORE 
 
 AND 
 
 JOHN FOSTER GRACE 
 
 I OFFER 
 
 WITH AFFECTION AND GRATITUDE 
 
 THESE VERSIONS OF 
 
 CATULLUS 
 
 362767 
 
 H 
 
 ii 
 
 1! 
 
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 .^ 
 
 /■ 
 
 ■^ 
 
 >4 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 Who will read this book ? A scholar here 
 and there, I dare to hope, who would not 
 willingly pass by anything that concerns 
 Catullus, a barrister, a business-man (who 
 knows ?), if, as I believe, there are still some 
 who find, after a long day's work, their best 
 refreshment in the classics. 
 
 Perhaps even an Eton boy who has read 
 Catullus at school, and is a little ashamed at 
 having cared so much for any part of his 
 work, or the sister of an Eton boy, if I may 
 speak out all my dreams, who has read in 
 Tennyson of the * tenderest of Roman poets,' 
 and would learn something which her brother 
 refuses to tell of that Catullus ' whose dead 
 songster never dies.' May it be so ! And 
 
 vu 
 
 hi! i 
 
 if f 
 
 
viii THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 if not, it is something only to have dreamed 
 it, and still more to know that the leisure 
 moments of the last five years which have 
 been given to Catullus have been their own 
 exceeding rich reward. But what will my 
 publishers say ? 
 
 There remains a deep debt of gratitude to 
 discharge. Every modern editor of the 
 classics enters upon a rich inheritance in the 
 labours of his predecessors : it is a pleasure 
 even to acknowledge what one cannot hope 
 to repay. My special thanks are due to the 
 Provost of Eton who first taught me to love 
 Catullus ; to Munro, the greatest of English 
 scholars; to Professor Ellis, whose edition of 
 the poet will always remain unrivalled; to 
 Professor Tyrrell for his delightful essay on 
 Catullus among the Latin poets, and for his 
 brilliant sketch of Marcus Caclius Rufus in 
 'The Correspondence of Cicero'; to Mackail's 
 Latin Literature ; to the German editions of 
 Schmidt and Riese; to Professors Merrill 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 IX 
 
 
 
 and Simpson ; above all, to the Vice-Provost 
 of Eton for his kindness in reading through 
 the proofs, and for many corrections and 
 suggestions, to my friend and colleague 
 Mr. A. B. Ramsay for invaluable help and 
 criticism, and to my sisters for the en- 
 couragement and the sympathy which only 
 sisters can give. 
 
t 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 INDEX OF POEMS TRANSLATED 
 
 ^— < 
 
 POEM 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 POEM 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 
 I. . . . i6 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 
 
 27 
 
 
 II. 
 
 
 
 H 
 
 LXI. 
 
 
 
 58 
 
 
 III. 
 
 
 
 15 
 
 LXV. 
 
 
 
 43 
 
 
 V. 
 
 
 
 13 
 
 CXX. 
 
 
 
 21 
 
 f*^ 
 
 VII. 
 
 
 
 II 
 
 Lxxn. 
 
 
 
 22 
 
 f 
 
 VIII. 
 
 IX. 
 
 XI. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 
 
 34 
 17 
 75 
 47 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 
 
 25 
 23 
 
 39 
 25 
 
 ' 
 
 XXXiV. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 
 
 ig 
 . 42 
 
 . 71 
 
 • 45 
 . 12 
 
 . 66 
 
 Lxxxn. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 
 
 ■ 24 
 
 • 38 
 . 36 
 
 • 79 
 . 69 
 
 • 55 
 
 <r- 
 
 L. 
 
 LI. 
 
 LI^. 
 
 
 
 • 51 
 
 • 9 
 II 
 
 CI. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 CIX. 
 
 
 
 • 50 
 
 • 33 
 . 20 
 
 
 LII. 
 
 
 
 . 53 
 
 
 ^ri 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ; t 
 
 xi 
 
i 
 
 !i 
 
 -■♦ 
 
 ^ 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 Verona has always been a famous city. It 
 is well known in modern Italian history as a 
 fortress of the great Austrian Quadrilateral, 
 and in the struggle between Guelphs and 
 Ghibellines it played no unimportant part. 
 Nor has it lacked distinction in the arts of 
 peace. The church of San Zenone, the 
 tomb of Can Grande and his successors, the 
 market-place unequalled in all Italy, and the 
 innumerable Renaissance palaces, all combine 
 to give to the birthplace of Romeo and 
 Juliet a charm which few other cities possess. 
 And even in Roman days it had a clear title 
 to fame. For here in the year 84 b.c, when 
 the Republic was already tottering to its 
 fall, was born Gaius Valerius Catullus, the 
 tenderest and fiercest of all Italian poets. 
 
 
2 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 Verona was a flourishing city at that time, 
 and the father of Catullus was not only a 
 man of wealth and importance In his native 
 town, but also a friend, perhaps an intimate 
 friend, of Gaius Julius Caesar himself. Little 
 though the Romans cared for scenery, the 
 boy Catullus can hardly have failed to love 
 the beautiful city with the mountains beyond 
 and the noble river sweeping with a great 
 curve through the heart of it ; but the 
 hopes of all men of genius and ambition 
 were centred in Rome, and Catullus fixed 
 on the capital as his residence as soon as 
 he was of an age to choose for himself. 
 Possibly his brother may already have left 
 his father's house, and this may have influ- 
 enced the young poet in his decision. Of 
 the early years at Verona no record remains ; 
 but we may infer from the later poems that 
 the two brothers loved each other from 
 childhood, and shared the same hopes and 
 ambitions. Of his father and his mother, 
 
 I 
 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 3 
 
 strangely enough, Catullus has nothing to 
 say ; but it is possible that the poet's fierce 
 attacks on Julius Caesar, his father's friend, 
 imply some lack of sympathy between father 
 and son. In any case, whatever the reason, 
 Catullus left Verona and came to Rome. 
 If, as seems probable, this was in the year 
 62 B.C., Cicero, who had saved Rome from 
 Catilinfe only a few months before, was at 
 the height, of his fame ; Caesar, plunged 
 apparently beyond redemption in debt, was at 
 the same time the most popular man in Rome, 
 soon to be appointed Pontifex Maximus in 
 spite of his avowed scepticism ; Lucretius 
 the poet was as yet unknown, though ten 
 years older than Catullus ; Virgil was a child 
 of eight, Horace a baby of three. Two other 
 men, less famous, but more intimately con- 
 nected with Catullus, deserve mention here : 
 Calvus, orator and poet, who was two years 
 ' younger than his friend Catullus, and Marcus 
 Caellus Rufus, who, curiously enough, was 
 
THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 born the same day of the same year as 
 Calvus, and, like him, was the dear friend of 
 our poet until the treachery of Rufus turned 
 friendship into hate. 
 
 Women at this time had begun to play an 
 important part at Rome, and to exercise a 
 wider influence on politics and society, but 
 the great Roman ladies did not for the most 
 part use their influence for good ; indeed, 
 women and men seem to have vied with 
 each other in shamelessness in that strangely 
 profligate age. It was to a city seething with 
 intrigue and discontent, where unbridled 
 passions and adulteries were commonplace, 
 that the young poet came, who, though he 
 had written many love poems, had probably 
 never seriously fallen in love. How long 
 he lived in Rome before the tragedy of his 
 life began it is impossible to say ; much that 
 is ignoble and shameful in his writings 
 should, I believe, be referred to the first year 
 of liberty, when, freed from the restraints 
 
 of home, he took his share in the pleasures 
 of the great city. The discussion of a poet's 
 vices is always unprofitable, yet it is due to 
 Catullus to protest against the view which 
 assigns the vilest of his poems to the last years 
 of his life. Possibly it was early in 6i b.c. 
 that Catullus was first introduced to Clodia, 
 then in the full beauty of her womanhood. 
 As the wife of Q^ Metellus Celer, consul- 
 elect in 6 1, she was probably the most 
 influential woman in Rome ; and Catullus, 
 intoxicated by her rank and beauty, yielded 
 without a struggle to the fascination of her 
 resistless eyes. The poet has given us no 
 details of her face or form : it is enough to 
 know what he felt in her presence. She was 
 a goddess for him, and he worshipped. It 
 is hard for us to put ourselves in Catullus' 
 place, to realise that he looked upon his 
 ^ love as white and innocent, so that he could 
 compare his mistress to Laodamia, the type 
 of pure womanhood, though Clodia came to 
 
THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 him from the arms of her rightful husband. 
 But Catullus himself glories in this very fact, 
 unconscious of his shame ; and if we are to 
 understand his life we must accept the 
 startling truth that he regarded himself as 
 Clodia's true husband, and believed that his 
 conduct to her had been free from all 
 reproach and stain. The wrong done to the 
 * dolt ' husband he appears never to have 
 considered at all. That Catullus sinned, 
 judged even by the lax standard of his own 
 day, needs no proof; it is not so obvious, 
 but it is not less true, that he lived and died 
 unconscious of his guilt. And this, at least, 
 may be urged in his excuse : if Catullus had 
 loved Clodia lightly, and as lightly left her 
 to marry some one else, Roman society 
 would have approved. When Marcus Caelius 
 Rufus fell in love with Clodia, and then 
 wearied of her, Cicero enlarged on the 
 inevitable wild oats theory, and every one 
 (except Clodia) seems to have been satisfied ; 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 7 
 
 but the sorrow of Catullus was not less 
 violent than his passion, and may have 
 helped to hasten his untimely death. No 
 one has ever accused him of being a hypo- 
 crite; yet in his passionate appeal to the 
 gods, when he reviews his past life, an appeal 
 which must carry conviction to every un- 
 prejudiced heart, he speaks of loyal service 
 and unsullied faith, and because of these he 
 claims heavenly pity as his right. Our pity, 
 too, he can surely claim : the young, im- 
 pressionable poet in his twenty-third year 
 was ill-matched against the most brilliant and 
 beautiful woman in Rome, whose infinite wit 
 and variety age could not wither nor custom 
 stale. Surely never were more hopeless 
 odds. It would need a strong character to 
 resist temptation such as this, and Catullus 
 was very human, very ready to love or hate, 
 but little able to resist or endure. 
 
 We do not know under what circum- 
 stances he was introduced to Clodia, but we 
 
8 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 have the first poem which he wrote to her in 
 the rapture of his early love, a translation 
 from Sappho. There is, one cannot help 
 feeling, a bathos in this : was the young 
 lover so incapable of finding words of his 
 own to give expression to his passion that 
 he was driven to take refuge in a version 
 of a poem written by a Greek poetess to 
 a girl? It may indeed be urged that the 
 language of great poets is eternally true. If 
 we turn to Shakespeare, Troilus expecting 
 Cressida says : 
 
 ' My heart beats quicker than a feverous pulse : 
 And all my powers do their bestowing lose. 
 Like vassalage at unawares encountering 
 The eye of majesty.' 
 
 When Cressida comes to him he can only 
 say : 
 
 * You have bereft me of all words, lady,' 
 
 and Catullus, or rather Sappho before him. 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 9 
 
 says much the same. But this explanation 
 may be only part of the truth. What if 
 Catullus had seen Clodia, had fallen in love 
 with her at first sight, and wished to convey 
 his secret to her in a way which she could 
 hardly misunderstand, if she cared for him, 
 and yet could not resent if, after all, his hopes 
 were vain ? In the eyes of the world a trans- 
 lation would be sufficient disguise, and this 
 poem breathes too rapturous a devotion to be 
 mistaken by Clodia, if she shared at all the 
 feelings of him who wished to be her poet. 
 The poem, as we have it, is a mere frag- 
 ment : only three stanzas remain, and of the 
 second stanza some words are lost. This is the 
 first message which some friend of Catullus 
 and Clodia carried from him to her : 
 
 LI. 
 
 He is the peer of gods for me, 
 Victor of gods, if that may be. 
 Who face to face at whiles on thee 
 May gaze and hear 
 
10 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS ii 
 
 Hi 
 
 Hi 
 
 Thy laughter sweet : ah ! Lesbia thence 
 (Unhappy me !) fails every sense, 
 Fails voice and art, for evidence 
 That thou art near. 
 
 My tongue is numb : the fever flies 
 From limb to limb : sounds tinkling rise 
 Within my brain : on both my eyes 
 The night falls sheer. 
 
 Catullus speaks of Lesbia in the second 
 stanza, though the word does not occur in 
 Sappho's poem ; but the original was written 
 to a Lesbian girl, and the name is thus sug- 
 gested to Catullus, who adopts it once and 
 for all. Clodia henceforth is Lesbia to 
 him. 
 
 In the original a fourth stanza follows the 
 other three, but it is evidently out of place, 
 for it makes havoc of the context, and gives 
 a simple and convincing sense if taken by 
 itself : 
 
 LI. 
 
 ! 
 
 In idleness, Catullus, hurt you cherished, 
 Long idleness to wanton riot grown : 
 Through idleness aforetime kings have 
 
 perished 
 With all the pomp of cities overthrown. 
 
 In the original this stanza is in the same 
 metre as the other three, hence the waif has 
 been attached to them. 
 
 For the first two years the course of love 
 ran smooth, and lyric after lyric bore witness 
 to the poet's happiness. 
 
 'As many kisses as be stars in heaven' 
 
 is his answer to Lesbia, who has asked what 
 number will content him. 
 
 VII. 
 
 You ask how many kisses can fulfil 
 Your kisses, Lesbia, or exceed my will. 
 As many grains as are of Libyan sand 
 By rich Cyrene in the silphium land 
 
12 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 Between Jove's sultry oracle and where 
 Stands ancient Battus' sacred sepulchre : 
 Or many as the stars whose light discovers, 
 When night is hushed, the stealthy tryst of 
 
 lovers : 
 So many of your kisses can fulfil 
 Love-rapt Catullus or exceed his will, 
 Beyond the count of jealous tongues to tell 
 Or prying eyes to blight with envious spell. 
 
 The next is an earlier poem, not addressed 
 to Lesbia, but a place may be found for it 
 here : 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 If ever one should grant me this 
 
 Still still your honeyed eyes to kiss, 
 
 I 'd kiss a million times, and still 
 
 Still ask, nor hope to have my fill. 
 
 Though kisses one for every ear 
 
 Of sunny corn were garnered here. ^ 
 
 Or again, when he would prove to Lesbia 
 that life is worth living for lovers alone : 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 13 
 
 V. 
 
 Lj ve we to love , my Lesbia ; then 
 
 All talk of elder, sourer men 
 
 We '11 value at a single mite. 
 
 Suns set to rise : when sets the day 
 
 For us but once with hasty ray. 
 
 We sleep, and all is endless night. 
 
 A thousand kisses, then five score. 
 
 Another thousand, a hundred more. 
 
 Then one for each you gave before; 
 
 Then, as the many thousands grow. 
 
 We'll wreck the counting lest we know. 
 
 Or lest an evil eye prevail 
 
 Through knowledge of the kisses' talc. 
 
 But the two poems on Lesbia's sparrow are 
 perhaps the best known of all. It is inter- 
 esting to compare the first of these with a 
 passage in %omeo and Juliet : 
 
 Jul. ''Tis almost morning : I would have thee 
 gone : 
 
 And yet no further than a wanton's bird; 
 
14 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 Who lets it hop a little from her hand, 
 Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, 
 And with a silk thread plucks it back 
 
 again. 
 So loving-jealous of his liberty. 
 
 Rom, I would I were thy bird ! 
 
 Jul. Sweet, so would L' 
 
 Whereas Catullus does not wish that he were 
 Lesbia's sparrow, but that he might play with 
 it as Lesbia loves to play. 
 
 11. 
 
 Sparrow, the plaything of my fair, 
 Whom in her lap she loves to bear, 
 Or with raised finger-tip excites 
 Till wickedly he pecks and bites ; 
 When the bright lady of my yearning 
 To some dear dainty play is turning. 
 Sweet solace for love's pain, I trow, 
 Or in the lull of passion's glow, 
 Oh ! might I play with you as she. 
 And my heart's burden lighter be. 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 15 
 
 The second lyric, that mourns the sparrow's 
 death, is still more beautiful : 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh ! Loves and Cupids make lament ; 
 Men of the lovelier lives consent. 
 Mourn for my lady's sparrow fled. 
 My lady's playmate sparrow dead. 
 Her joy beyond the light of eyes, 
 So honey -sweet was he and wise 
 To know her as a girl her mother. 
 He would not leave her for another. 
 Would on her lap be still astir 
 And still be chirping but for her. 
 Now fares he thither whence they say 
 None e'er retraced the darkling way. 
 Cursed shades, I curse you ravening 
 From Orcus for each dainty thing : 
 The dainty pet ye ravished here ! 
 Ah, cruel deed ! ah, birdie dear ! 
 For thee to-day with flushing eyes 
 And heavy lids my darling cries. 
 
i6 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 Probably one volume of poems was pub- 
 lished by Catullus under the title of The 
 Sparrow : Lesbia must have inspired all or 
 most of these. Another volume was dedi- 
 cated to a friend, Cornelius Nepos, an ami- 
 able man, but the most unsympathetic and 
 unimaginative of historians. If the dedication 
 seems a little commonplace now, it is only 
 because it has been so often imitated. 
 
 I. 
 
 So new, so smooth, my dainty book, 
 A gift for whom } Cornelius, look, 
 'Tis yours ; for you in early days 
 Were ever wont my rhymes to praise. 
 While setting forth in volumes three, 
 First of our race, all history. 
 O heavens ! the lore, the labour there ! 
 Therefore the book, how slight soe'er 
 It be, be yours : nor, guardian Muse, 
 Do thou unaging age refuse. 
 
 There is some doubt as to the reading of the 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 17 
 
 last two lines ; by a very slight change we 
 get the meaning : 
 
 Your name shall give 
 The right unagingly to live. 
 This has more point, but the sudden invoca- 
 tion of the Muse is not unnatural, and no 
 change is really necessary. 
 
 Catullus, as we shall see, was not only a 
 true lover : he was also a true friend. And 
 he looks forward to the home-coming of 
 Veranius with something of the rapture 
 which the thought of Lesbia inspires. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Is it you, my friend of friends, who come 
 Dearer to me than a million others, 
 Veranius, home to your hearth and home, 
 The aged mother, the loving brothers ? 
 You have come ! ah, joy, it is well, it is well ! 
 I shall see you safe, I shall hear you tell 
 (You best know how) of Hiberian races 
 And the deeds they do, and the storied places, 
 
 B 
 
1 8 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 And drawing your neck to my own the while, 
 I shall kiss the face and the eyes that smile. 
 Oh ! hearts that are happy above the rest, 
 Is any so happy as I, so blest ? 
 
 In striking contrast to these light themes 
 and dainty songs follows the noble ode to 
 Diana, written by Catullus to be sung by girls 
 and boys. It has the charm, which no poem 
 of Catullus lacks, of simplicity and direct- 
 ness, but it has also a dignity and religious 
 feeling which enshrine it apart from all the 
 rest. The first and last stanzas are sung 
 by the boys and girls together, the second 
 and third probably by the boys alone, and 
 the fourth and fifth by the girls. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 In Dian's hand are we 
 Girls and boys fancy-free : 
 Fancy-free raise acclaim. 
 Boys and girls, to Dian's name. 
 
 )\ 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS S 19 
 
 Daughter of Lato*s love. 
 High child of highest Jove, 
 Whom she that bore thee laid 
 Under Delos' olive shade. 
 
 To hold in thy demesne 
 Mountain and forest green, 
 Where nestle glades unseen. 
 Where the rivers thunder, Queen. 
 
 Hailed thou in travail-hour 
 Juno, light-giving power. 
 Throned at the meeting ways, 
 Hailed the Moon with borrowed rays. 
 
 Thou, as each month thy sphere 
 Measures the gliding year, 
 Goddess, with goodly store 
 Fillest full the farmer's floor. 
 
 Named here as is thy will. 
 Hallowed be thou, and still 
 Blessed as aforetime be 
 Sons of Romulus by thee. 
 
I 
 
 20 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 In the year 59 came the change. Clodia's 
 husband, Quintus Metellus, died, and Clodia, 
 who had grown tired of him long ago, had 
 perhaps begun already to weary of Catullus. 
 Suspicion at least of unfaithfulness must 
 have prompted the lines in which Catullus 
 still fondly prays for a lifetime consecrated 
 to a love as pure and noble as that which 
 binds two friends together. 
 
 cix. 
 A happy love, my life, your lips foreshow 
 For you and me a love without an end — 
 Oh ! gods above me, may the truth be so, 
 >^ And all she vows may all her heart intend ! 
 Then should one love fulfil the years, and 
 
 know 
 The sacred union linking friend to friend. 
 
 Clodia seems indeed at one time to have 
 promised to marry the poet, or at least to 
 have wished that she were free to do so; 
 
 w 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 21 
 
 but Catullus soon had reason to mistrust 
 
 * 
 
 her promises. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 None else but me, my lady vows 'tis true. 
 None else for her though Jove himself 
 
 should sue ; 
 She vows, a woman to her lover : grave / 
 Such words upon the wind and fleeting 
 
 wave ! 
 
 Again we are reminded of Shakespeare in 
 Xroilus and Cressida : 
 
 ' What says she there .? 
 Words, words, mere words, no matter 
 from the heart.' 
 
 Then, as Troilus tears the letter — 
 
 * Go wind to wind, there turn and change 
 together. 
 My love with words and errors still she 
 feeds.' 
 
/ 
 
 22 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 And soon the faithlessness is all too clearly 
 proved. Catullus cannot bless her, nor pray 
 for her, but, alas ! he does not love her less. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 * Catullus only,' Lesbia, once you said, 
 Not Jove himself would please you in my 
 
 stead. 
 Sire's love to son or daughter's husband 
 
 then 
 I gave you, not the common love of men. 
 I know you now, the fiercer burns my flame. 
 Yet lighter, lower, far I prize your fame. 
 You question how ? so wronged, a lover's 
 
 mind 
 Kindles perforce the more, but grows less 
 
 kind. 
 
 There is something infinitely pathetic about 
 this poem ; for it proves that Catullus 
 was ready to give to Lesbia the chivalrous 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 23 
 
 love, whose first aim is not the selfish satis- 
 faction of desire, but the wish that it may 
 be well with the loved one for her own 
 sake. And he feels that he has fallen from 
 this high ideal, and declined to the lower 
 level of sensual passion ; he is beginning to 
 realise that the best gift which a woman 
 might have given, and which alone could 
 have brought him real happiness, has been 
 by Lesbia's sinning irrecoverably lost. The 
 next poem repeats the same thought. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Lesbia, to this your sin has brought my mind. 
 Lost in its own devotion, lost and blind ; }f 
 I cannot bless you, golden though you prove. 
 Though you do anything, I still must love. 
 
 The short poem which follows is addressed 
 to Quintius, possibly a fellow-townsman of 
 Catullus, who is threatening his happiness. 
 
24 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 25 
 
 i! 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 If you would have Catullus be your debtor 
 
 for the light, 
 The light of eyes, or if there be a dearer 
 
 thing than sight, 
 Ah ! Quintius, spare to rob your friend of 
 
 one far dearer prize 
 Than light of eyes, or if there be a dearer 
 
 light than eyes. 
 
 Probably there were many rivals now: 
 certainly there was one who gave Catullus 
 more pain than all the rest. For Clodia 
 had begun to notice Marcus Caelius Rufus, 
 the. poet's friend, who attracted her not only 
 as a young man of exceptional promise and 
 headstrong ambition, but also as the best 
 dancer in Rome. And so in one moment 
 Catullus lost his mistress and his friend. 
 On that friend he turned with an exceeding 
 bitter cry, which might have given even 
 
 Rufus pause, reckless and unprincipled as he 
 was, for all his superficial attractiveness. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Rufus, the friend I trusted so for naught — 
 For naught ? ah ! no, for shame that leaves 
 
 me sad ; 
 You the dark thief to sear my soul who 
 
 wrought 
 And reft me, reft of all the joys I had. 
 You the fell poison of my happy day, 
 You, you upon whose breast my friendship 
 
 lay. 
 
 Another poem, probably due to the treachery 
 and ingratitude of the same friend, belongs 
 to this time : 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Believe no more that service gains a friend, 
 Nor dream that any man may faithful be. 
 Has love reward ? is gratitude the end ? 
 
26 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 "^ Nay, hurt and harm— at least 'tis so for me, 
 Most harried by his hate who once would 
 caU 
 
 Me, me his only friend, his own, his all. 
 
 Rufus indeed would not hear, but 'The 
 gods are just, and of our pleasant vices make 
 instruments to plague us/ and so a few years 
 afterwards Rufus was brought to trial on a 
 charge of poisoning, by Clodia's latest victim, 
 a boy, who to prove his loyalty to his mis- 
 tress endeavoured to ruin the former lover. 
 Rufus, it is true, defended by Cicero, was 
 acquitted, but during that anxious time, if 
 the words of Catullus, ' You the fell poison 
 of my happy day,' were not quite forgotten, 
 he must have felt that there was a charge 
 of poisoning to which he could hardly plead 
 * not guilty.' 
 
 Yet Catullus seems to have forgiven him 
 at last : no one could help forgiving Rufus. 
 And in proof of forgiveness or forgetfulness 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 27 
 
 it is to Caelius Rufus that a later poem 
 is dedicated, in which the poet mourns over 
 Lesbia's final degradation : 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 The peerless Lesbia, Caelius, Lesbia mine, 
 Lesbia the peerless, whom Catullus' heart 
 Dearer than self and kin did once enshrine. 
 Now in the streets and alleys plays her part 
 And snares the noble sons of Remus' line. 
 
 It is interesting to notice that Shakespeare's 
 record of his own love and friendship recalls, 
 if we may trust the sonnets, in almost every 
 particular the experience of Catullus. ' There 
 can be no reasonable doubt that in the early 
 days of his relation with the young maid-of- 
 honour, Shakespeare felt himself a favourite 
 of fortune, intoxicated with love and happi- 
 ness, exalted above his station, honoured and 
 enriched.' So writes Dr. George Brandes in 
 his critical study of Shakespeare, and no 
 
28 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 words could better explain one aspect of the 
 love of Catullus for Clodia. 
 
 ' She must have brought a breath from a 
 higher world, an aroma of aristocratic woman- 
 hood into his life. He must have admired 
 her wit, her presence of mind, and her dar- 
 ing, her capricious fancy, and her quickness 
 of retort. He must have studied, enjoyed, 
 and adored in her — and that in the closest 
 intimacy — the well-bred ease, the sportive 
 coquetry, the security, elegance, and gaiety 
 of the emancipated lady.' Here again the 
 same words might be used without a single 
 change to describe the relations between 
 Clodia and Catullus. We may even go 
 further than this, and contrast or compare in 
 face as well as in character the two women 
 loved by the two poets. With all deference 
 to Mr. Sidney Lee, it has, I think, been 
 "^ proved that Shakespeare's love, the dark lady 
 of the sonnets, was Mary Fitton, maid- 
 of-honour to Queen Elizabeth. Her eyes 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 29 
 
 we know well from Shakespeare's description, 
 'my mistress' eyes are raven black' ; her hair, 
 too, he tells us, is black. She is not beauti- 
 ful, yet ' beauty should look so,' and though 
 * music hath a more pleasing sound ' than 
 her voice, yet *I love to hear her speak.' 
 Further, Dr. Brandes tells us, 'there still 
 exists on the monument of Mary Fitton's 
 mother in Gawsworth Church, in Cheshire, a 
 highly coloured bust of Mary Fitton herself. 
 The colours are so well preserved that it is 
 clear she must have been a marked brunette.' 
 Of Clodia we know fewer particulars, partly, 
 perhaps, because she was really beautiful, and 
 a pretty woman is more easily described than 
 one who is lovely, and partly because Catullus 
 at twenty-three was too young to see any 
 imperfection in a mistress ten years older 
 than himself, whereas Shakespeare at the age 
 of thirty-three was able calmly to criticise j|)f 
 while he loved the maid-of-honour of nine- 
 teen. Catullus only speaks of Clodia as 
 
 f 
 
\ 
 
 
 ■ i 
 
 I 
 
 30 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 perfect loveliness; and calJs her his white 
 goddess. Her enemies have told us of her 
 burning eyes. An unfriendly critic might 
 
 borrow two of Shakespeare's lines to describe 
 her: 
 
 ' A whitcly wanton with a velvet brow, 
 With two pitch balls stuck in her face for 
 eyes.* 
 
 The outward circumstances of the two 
 ladies' lives are very similar: each held 
 a high position, each was married, and each 
 was false, not only to her husband, but to her 
 lover. Marcus Caelius Rufus, the friend of 
 Catullus and the lover of Clodia, finds his 
 counterpart in William Herbert, afterwards 
 Earl of Pembroke, the patron and friend of 
 Shakespeare, and his successful rival for the 
 love of Mary Fitton. A time came to both 
 poets when their eyes were opened and each 
 recognised the faithlessness of his mistress. 
 Again the parallel is interesting. Catullus is 
 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 31 
 
 ready to pardon infidelities if they are but few 
 and more or less concealed : and Shakespeare 
 means much the same when he writes : 
 
 ' Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere : but in my 
 sight, 
 Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside.' 
 
 But when the breach was complete and each 
 found himself betrayed by his friend, while 
 Shakespeare could forgive at once : 
 
 ' I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief. 
 Although thou steal thee all my poverty,' 
 
 Catullus is wounded to the heart. It is true 
 that before many years were passed he too 
 came to realise that there was some excuse 
 even for the friend who had betrayed him, 
 when Clodia by her continued infamies had 
 proved him, comparatively speaking, inno- 
 cent. But no one can think the worse of 
 Catullus for the bitterness of indignation 
 
( 
 
 32 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 with which he turned upon the traitor friend, 
 and no one will envy Shakespeare the facility 
 with which he forgave his patron : 
 
 ^ Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them 
 
 air— 
 
 How could he say it — our Shakespeare ? 
 
 Of Rufus something remains to be told. 
 When the civil war broke out in B.C. 50, he 
 was found, against his professed political 
 principles, on the revolutionary side, pre- 
 ferring the prospect of success with Caesar 
 to the approval of Cicero and Cato. But he 
 soon wearied of playing a secondary part, 
 and in the mad effort to outbid and super- 
 sede Caesar appealed to the mob to follow 
 him, and was punished for his foolish 
 presumption by a violent death. To pity 
 him is impossible ; but it is difficult not to 
 be fascinated by him even now in spite of all 
 his faults, when we read the letters which he 
 wrote to Cicero. During his whole career 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 33 
 
 he was popular with young and old : the 
 gayest of the gay, yet none the less the 
 trusted friend of statesmen, a man of ex- 
 travagant ambition, yet always boyish and 
 irresistibly attractive to the last. Is it strange 
 if men loved him in his lifetime, and spoke 
 gently of him when he was dead ? He started 
 with all the chances, and almost every brilliant 
 gift : character alone was lacking ; and want 
 of principle ruined him even in that un- 
 principled age. 
 
 But it is time to return to Lcsbia. Doubt- 
 less there were many quarrels and reconcilia- 
 tions between the two lovers in the year 59, 
 and Catullus celebrates his restoration to his 
 mistress' fickle favour in one of the happiest 
 of his poems : 
 
 CVII. 
 
 If that which is the heart's desire be told 
 Unhoped for, it is joy beyond the rest. 
 
34 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 Therefore I count it joy more dear than 
 
 gold, 
 That, love, you tur# again and make me 
 
 blest ; 
 You turn, my heart's desire so long denied. 
 Unasked, unhoped for. Oh ! the white, 
 
 bright day ! 
 What happiness in all the world beside 
 Is like to mine? The rapture who shall 
 
 say? 
 
 But for all this the old wounds were slow to 
 heal, and Lesbia seems at last hardly to have 
 wished to hide her own unfaithfulness. And 
 so there came a day when Catullus struggled 
 to be free : 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Catullus, hapless one, be schooled at last. 
 Believe your eyes, confess the past is past. 
 So bright, so white the suns that shone 
 
 before ! 
 Then where your lady led you followed fain. 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 35 
 
 And loved her as none else shall love again. 
 Ah ! then the glad surprises and the play — 
 You wished it so, nor said your lady nay. 
 So white, so bright the suns that shine no 
 
 more ! 
 Now says she nay : ah ! weakling, say it too. 
 Nor live to grieve, nor one who flies pursue. 
 But stubborn stand and bear the purpose 
 
 through. 
 Lady, good-bye ! i now stands Catullus fast. 
 Nor woos against your will nor mourns the 
 
 past : 
 But surely you shall mourn when wooed no y 
 
 more. 
 
 I 
 
 Poor culprit! ah, the days for you in store ! y^ 
 Who now will heed your beauty, take your 
 
 hand? 
 Whom will you fondle ? who will call you 
 
 his? 
 Whose lips will you devour with kiss on 
 
 kiss ? 
 But thou, Catullus, stubborn, steadfast stand, y 
 
36 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 It would have been well for Catullus if he 
 could have followed his own judgment ; but 
 he still wavered, and at last revealed the 
 secret of his sorrow in one of the shortest 
 but most pathetic of his poems. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 SI, I hate the while I love : how this be so, 
 Perchance you seek to know : 
 Ah ! there I am not wise, 
 Only 'tis so I feel and agonise. 
 
 It is comparatively a slight thing when love 
 turns to hate : it is only too common an 
 experience, and the mischief is not fatal. 
 But to hate the while we love, to love and 
 to hate the same person at the same time, 
 this way madness lies, or death. Not indeed 
 for such men as Cloten in Shakespeare's 
 Cymbeliney though he says, ' I hate and love 
 her * ; such as he can never really love or hate, 
 and he is safe enough unless his own half- 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 37 
 
 wit ted presumption should lead him to his 
 ruin. But Catullus loves and hates with his 
 whole soul : such violent passions are shatter- 
 ing even when separate and distinct ; but 
 now love and hate are centred upon Clodia, 
 and we cannot wonder that he should feel 
 and agonise. It is the same with Othello; 
 because he hates the while he loves we have 
 a tragedy instead of a divorce or a recon- 
 ciliation. 'O thou weed!' he cries in his 
 anguish, * who art so lovely fair and smelPst 
 so sweet that the sense aches at thee. Would 
 thou hadst ne'er been born ! ' and lago tells 
 the hateful truth when he whispers to 
 Othello : 
 
 ' What damned minutes tells he o'er 
 Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly 
 loves ! ' 
 
 But to love and hate is worse than to dote 
 yet doubt, and Catullus, who still loves while 
 he hates Clodia, is in torment. 
 
38 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 The poem which immediately precedes 
 this confession in the traditional but wholly 
 unintelligible arrangement of the poet's 
 works offers a singular contrast to it. It 
 is perhaps not unnatural, though it seems 
 strangely modern, that some Romans should 
 have been guilty of the vulgarity of, unduly 
 aspirating the vowels; but that the chief 
 offender should by his name, Arrius, irresist- 
 ibly recall his modern representative is almost 
 too good to be true. And yet this is what 
 Catullus tells us : 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 ^Honours' for * honours,' Arrius used to say, 
 ^Hambush' for 'ambush,' in his happy way; 
 Proud lord of language, and more lordly 
 
 still 
 Whene'er he gave his * hambush ' with a will. 
 Why not ? his uncle Liber did the same. 
 Grandparents both and mother share the 
 
 blame. 
 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 39 
 
 Well, he was sent to Syria, ears had rest. 
 By softer sounds and gentler tones caressed ; 
 Our fears were laid aside, such words were 
 
 dead, 
 When on a day there came the tidings dread, 
 Arrius is here, the seas to Arrius bow. 
 And once Ionian are Hionian now. 
 
 To the same period, probably to the 
 year 58, belongs that passionate appeal to 
 the gods for deliverance, which, though 
 unsurpassed in pathos and beauty, is even 
 more astonishing for its reiterated assertion 
 of a dutiful and innocent life. That Catullus 
 had been more sinned against than sinning 
 we might allow ; but this would not content 
 him : he says and he believes that he has 
 never sinned at all. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 If there be happiness that haunts the thought 
 In after days of loyal service wrought. 
 
40 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 Faith kept unsullied, hatred of deceit 
 That bids high Heaven be witness to a cheat 
 In the far years, Catullus, you shall prove 
 Rich store of joy from this unthankful love. 
 For all the kindness ever said or done. 
 Love's many gifts, you lavished every one 
 To bless a thankless heart that scorns the 
 prize : 
 
 Then what avails you still should agonise ? 
 Nay, steal your heart, retrace your steps 
 again. 
 
 And cease in Heaven's despite to suffer pain. 
 'Tis hard to end a year-long love to-day ; 
 Tis hard, achieve it then as best you may : 
 This victory win, this only safety trust, 
 Say not you cannot or you can— you must. 
 O gods ! if you can pity, if in the past 
 You ever heard and succoured at the last. 
 Look on my woe, let innocence avail, 
 And save me from the love, my bane and 
 bale. 
 
 Which steals within and deadens every part, 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 41 
 
 Murders each joy and masters all my heart. 
 I pray no more that love for love she give. 
 Or chaste (it cannot be) consent to live ; 
 I would be whole, from shameful sickness 
 
 freed, 
 O gods ! of loyal love be this the meed. 
 
 // 
 
 Catullus was indeed in need of comfort, for 
 at the time when Clodia had first proved 
 herself unfaithful, far away in Asia his 
 brother had died. The two blows had fallen 
 in rapid succession, and life in Rome had 
 now little charm for him : immediate change 
 was necessary, and the poet seized the oppor- 
 tunity of going to Bithynia on the staff of 
 the praetor Memmius. It may have been 
 before he went to Bithynia or after his return 
 that he wrote the pleading lines to Cornificius, 
 a brother poet. Whatever the occasion, it 
 IS clear that Catullus was in need of com- 
 fort, and that the sympathy which he expected 
 had been withheld. His friend's heart must 
 
M 
 
 42 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 indeed have been of stone if he could resist 
 this appeal : 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Ill fares your own Catullus, ill; 
 Aye, Cornificius, in distress 
 That daily grows and hourly still. 
 And did you give (could aught be less ?) 
 A word to soothe him overworn ? 
 You chafe me, slighting love so fond — 
 Vouchsafe a single word beyond 
 Tears of Simonides forlorn. 
 
 To the same time may perhaps be assigned 
 the poem addressed to Quintus Hortensius 
 Ortalus, the great orator, rival and friend 
 of Cicero, who had written, it seems, to 
 Catullus urging him to let him have some 
 verses which he had promised. The poet's 
 answer is sad enough : he is prostrate with 
 grief at his brother's death, and his heart is 
 far from the Muses, yet since he has given 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 43 
 
 his word he will send some versions of 
 Callimachus, if these may suffice. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Since care unceasing holds me sorrow-worn 
 Far from the scholar maidens, Ortalus, 
 How shall the Muses' dainty fruit be born 
 From fancies of a soul storm-shaken thus? — 
 My brother, 'tis but now the creeping wave 
 Moistens thy poor pale feet on Lethe's 
 
 strand, 
 Whom, taken from our eyes, the whelming 
 
 grave 
 Hides by Rhoeteum in the Trojan land. 
 No more to speak to thee, no more to 
 
 hear 
 Thy language, brother mine, than life more 
 
 dear. 
 See thee no more : but what I can, I will, 
 Love thee and sing and sorrow for thee 
 
 still : 
 
till 
 
 44 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 So Daulis' bird in leafy thickets lone 
 For Itys, murdered Itys, makes her moan. — 
 Yet out of such affliction, O my friend, 
 These versions of Callimachus I send, 
 Lest you should think that words of yours 
 
 could be 
 Forgotten, given to wandering winds by me. 
 Forgotten, as a maiden may forget 
 The lover's secret apple-gift she set 
 Neath the soft folds that hide her bosom 
 
 chaste. 
 And springs, ah! fond, forgetful one, in 
 
 haste 
 To meet her mother, spilling it, and lo ! 
 Sudden and sheer it leaps and lies below ; 
 Spreads, saddening all her face, the tell-tale 
 
 glow. 
 
 The poet went naturally enough with the 
 rest of the staff in the train of the praetor 
 Memmius, the unworthy patron to whom 
 Lucretius dedicated his great work. He 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 45 
 
 returned by himself in a yacht of his own, 
 and visited the famous cities on the coast 
 of Asia as far south as Rhodes. He had 
 expected, if we are to believe his own words, 
 to make his fortune in Bithynia : if he 
 failed in this, he succeeded at any rate in 
 recovering his spirits and his health. There 
 are few more buoyantly happy poems than 
 that in which he says good-bye to Bithynia, 
 when the winter is over and the spring has 
 come. The whole poem is well worth 
 quoting : 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Spring — and the warmth has thawed the 
 
 cold, 
 Spring — and the March winds overbold, 
 Lulled to glad Zephyrs, rage no more. 
 Catullus, leave the Phrygian plain 
 And parched Nicaea rich in grain, 
 Take wing for Asia's famous shore. 
 Spring stirs the heart to roam at will. 
 
li 
 
 46 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 Spring bids the feet exultant thrilL 
 Sweet friends in fellowship from Rome 
 Who fared, adieu — wc part, to come 
 By many ways and wanderings home. 
 
 How modern it all is ! What better words 
 could we choose to express the thrill of 
 happiness which most of us have felt when 
 we were starting to visit Italy and the famous 
 towns, Verona among the rest, for the first 
 time in the spring ? And not less happy and 
 not less convincing is the poem in which, his 
 voyage over, he exults in the joy of coming 
 home ; for it is the special delight of travel, 
 that however much we have enjoyed every 
 day and every hour of our wanderings, none 
 the less the home-coming is the best part 
 of all, and the comfort of one's own room 
 and one's own bed is never so dearly prized 
 as after a month in Italy or in Greece. And 
 Catullus just returned to Sirmio has felt this 
 and expressed it once for all. 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 47 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 My pearl of mimic isles and island eyes. 
 That in the liquid lakes or wild waste seas 
 Neptune upholds the god of those and these. 
 My Sirmio, is it true, the glad surprise ? 
 And have I left Bithynia's plains behind. 
 And Thynia left to see you and be safe ? 
 Joy beyond joy to loose the cares that chafe 
 And lay aside the burden of the mind ! 
 Home, home is ours, the weary wanderings 
 
 o'er. 
 The bed we longed for ours, and rest once 
 
 more, 
 Rich recompense alone for all we bore ! 
 Joy, fairy Sirmio, for your master's sake : 
 Joy, waters of my own true Lydian lake : 
 Home - laughter of the depths awake, 
 
 awake ! 
 
 The poem, apart from its charm, is full 
 of interest, as the earliest example of the 
 sonnet. Calverley saw this long ago, and 
 
fii 
 
 ii 
 
 48 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 his version of it in Verses and "Translations 
 is singularly beautiful. I have purposely 
 altered the ordinary form of the sextet in 
 the hope of faithfully reproducing the effect 
 of the original, in which the last three lines 
 are each separate and distinct, recalling, as 
 a friend suggests to me, three wavelets of 
 the Lydian lake. But why the Lydian lake ? 
 Here again Calverley, who renders it 'the 
 golden mere,' and Calverley alone, has 
 interpreted the poet aright. Catullus, we 
 must remember, had just returned from 
 Asia Minor, and he can hardly have failed 
 to visit the Pactolus, the golden Lydian 
 stream, and when he sees the Lago di Garda 
 before him and realises perhaps more fully 
 than ever before its full charm and beauty, 
 he feels that the true Lydian waters of gold 
 are not in Asia far away, but close to his 
 own Sirmio in the dear Italian lake. One 
 other allusion to this passage is interesting. 
 Tennyson in his Sirmione poem speaks of 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 49 
 
 himself as ^ gazing at the Lydian laughter 
 of the Garda lake below. V I have often 
 wondered what meaning he gave to Lydian. 
 Is it possible that the music of the waves 
 suggested to him soft Lydian measures? 
 It may be so: but I do not think that 
 Catullus intended this. Yet no one under- 
 stood Catullus so well as Tennyson or 
 loved him more : witness his ' tenderest of 
 Roman poets nineteen hundred years ago.' 
 
 On the outward voyage Catullus had 
 visited his brother's grave, and had written 
 there the poem which is linked imperishably 
 with his memory. Certainly many English 
 readers who do not know Catullus are 
 familiar with the words which consecrate 
 the "- ave atque vale of the poet's hopeless 
 woe.' We may stop, if we will, to praise 
 the stately march of the opening line, or 
 the pathos of the close ; but the secret of 
 the poem lies in this : Catullus is speaking 
 from his heart to ours. 
 
 D 
 
HI 
 
 I 
 
 50 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 CI. 
 
 
 From land to land, o'er many waters borne, 
 Brother, I come to these thy rites forlorn. 
 The latest gift, the due of death, to pay. 
 The fruitless word to silent dust to say. 
 Since death has reft thy living self from me, 
 Poor brother, stolen away so cruelly. 
 Yet this the while, which ancient use decrees 
 Sad ritual of our sires for obsequies, 
 Take, streaming with a brother's tears that 
 
 tell 
 The last of greeting, brother, and farewell. 
 
 Catullus had now lost by death or estrange- 
 ment his brother, his mistress, and his friend ; 
 but he had true friends as well as false, and 
 Licinius Calvus must have made amends 
 for Caelius Rufus. All one long night the 
 poet lay awake, he tells us, thinking of 
 Calvus, with whom he had spent the happiest 
 of evenings over the walnuts and the wine. 
 But Catullus shall give his own story : 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 51 
 
 L. 
 
 Licinius, yesterday at leisure 
 
 We filled my tablets with our rhymes, 
 
 Such pretty pastime was our pleasure. 
 
 Each answered each a thousand times 
 
 In ever-changing lyric strain, 
 
 Then laughed and drank and laughed again. 
 
 Thence with the wit the charm aflame. 
 
 Your charm, Licinius, home I came 
 
 Unhappy, whom nor food could please. 
 
 Nor slumber give my eyelids ease. 
 
 But to and fro deliriously 
 
 I turned the wished dawn to see. 
 
 With you to talk, with you to be. 
 
 But when the limbs that tossed and tossed 
 
 Half dead were on the pallet laid. 
 
 For you to learn my sorrow's cost. 
 
 My pleasant friend, this song I made. 
 
 Then be not overbold, take warning. 
 
 Light of my eyes, nor spurn my prayer, 
 
 Lest Nemesis answer scorn with scorning. 
 
 Stern goddess : whom to chafe beware. 
 

 52 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 All beautiful things, if we are to believe 
 Catullus, were very dear to both the poets, and 
 certainly one very ugly man, Caesar's protege 
 Vatinius, was fiercely hated by both. Calvus 
 brought him to trial more than once, and 
 attacked him so violently that poor Vatinius 
 sprang to his feet with the almost involun- 
 tary interruption, ^ Am I to be condemned 
 because he is so eloquent ? ' And Catullus 
 was hardly more merciful. Vatinius, whom 
 he attacks in company with an almost un- 
 known Nonius, had the misfortune to be 
 scrofulous, but was good-tempered enough 
 to make fun of his own deformity. He was 
 probably unwise to boast of his consulship 
 before being elected, yet there was some 
 justification even for this, as Pompey and 
 Caesar in 56 b.c. drew up a list of those 
 who were to hold office for some years to 
 come, and Vatinius may have seen it. In 
 any case, these are the two points on which 
 Catullus seizes — the man's personal disfig- 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 53 
 
 urement, and his habit of swearing by his 
 consulship. It is difficult to see why 
 Nonius is introduced into the epigram, 
 but perhaps the reason may be this : ' Car- 
 buncled ' would inevitably suggest Vatinius, 
 but he is reprieved for a moment and might 
 hope to have escaped ; his name is, however, 
 reserved for the end of the third line with 
 crushing effect. 
 
 LII. 
 
 How now, Catullus ? die and end despair : 
 Carbuncled Nonius holds a curule chair : 
 By office dreamed Vatinius swears the 
 
 lie : 
 How now, Catullus? end despair and 
 
 die. 
 
 It is worth noticing that Catullus often 
 addresses himself as he does here (' How now, 
 Catullus?') when he is deeply affected, whether 
 
, 
 
 
 nil 
 
 54 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 pleasure or indignation be the moving cause. 
 And there is hardly anything that Catullus 
 can view indifferently or dispassionately : he 
 is always in a fever of love or hate : but ugly, 
 good-humoured Vatinius lived to be consul 
 after all, and perhaps forgave Catullus, who 
 by that time had been already seven years 
 in his grave. 
 \^ But to return to Calvus. He had much 
 in common with Catullus ; but between the 
 two friends there was this great difference : 
 one had a wife whom he dearly loved, and 
 the other had only a cruel mistress. Long 
 before the death of Catullus, Clodia had 
 fallen very low indeed, and counted her 
 lovers by hundreds ; but Quintilia, the wife 
 of Calvus, was dead. Catullus, when he 
 heard the sad news, wrote a few words of 
 comfort and sent them to his friend ; and 
 I doubt if there is any lyric more touching 
 in its sorrowful affection than this : 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 55 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 If any solace, any joy may fall, 
 Calvus, to silent sepulchres through tears. 
 When the lost love regretful we recall 
 And weep the parted friend of early years. 
 Then, sure, Quintilia is not wholly sad. 
 Untimely lost : your love has made her 
 glad. 
 
 But it is time to come to the famous 
 marriage song, the model and the despair of 
 every poet who has written an epithalamium 
 from that day to this. It was sung at the 
 marriage of Manlius Torquatus and Vinia^ 
 Aurunculeia, both of whom were friends 
 of the poet, and he himself is present to 
 wish them happiness. The poem is a marvel 
 of dignity and grace, and yet it is Roman 
 throughout and not Greek. If a few words 
 of explanation are necessary, it is not that 
 any part is obscure, for the whole is as simple 
 as it is beautiful, but a knowledge of the 
 
II 
 
 I 
 
 -If 
 
 56 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 Roman wedding ceremonies is of course taken 
 for granted by Catullus. The points that 
 concern us are briefly these: The bride is 
 almost a child, perhaps not more than twelve 
 years of age ; she wears a white robe (bound 
 round the waist with a girdle which the 
 husband unties), a yellow veil, and yellow 
 shoes, and in our poem the god of marriage 
 is represented as wearing the same dress. 
 In the evening the bride is taken with a show 
 of force from her mother's arms, and, accom- 
 panied by two young boys who hold her 
 arms (in the poem one boy only is mentioned), 
 she is led to her husband's house. There 
 the chorus is waiting to welcome her; she 
 is lifted over the threshold, met by her 
 husband, and, after the banquet, is brought 
 by the boys to the brideswomen, and by 
 them carried to the bridal couch. 
 
 It may at first sight seem strange to com- 
 pare this poem with the 45th Psalm, but 
 any one who will take the trouble to study 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 57 
 
 the two will see how striking the likeness 
 is. That psalm is, as is well known, only a 
 marriage song, though our translation un- 
 fortunately disguises this by introducing an 
 appeal to God in the seventh verse. And 
 the arrangement of the different parts in our 
 poem and in the psalm is almost identically 
 the same ; the only difference being that 
 the psalmist praises the bridegroom first 
 and then turns to the bride, whereas Catullus 
 first addresses the bride and afterwards the 
 bridegroom. The actual words used are 
 very similar in both cases : compare first the 
 psalmist's counsel to the bride to forget her 
 own relations and worship her husband, with 
 the summons in Catullus to a new home and 
 an absorbing love, and then the praise of the 
 bridegroom in the psalm, * fairer than the 
 children of men,' whose lips are 'full of 
 grace,' with the welcome which Catullus gives 
 him as ' the favourite of Venus,' and ' not 
 less beautiful than the bride.' In both cases 
 
 It 
 
i 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 ' 1 
 
 i 
 
 Ml 
 f 
 
 nil 
 
 58 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 children are promised : in Catullus, the child- 
 bride is taken from her mother's bosom, but 
 she will be a mother herself soon with a child 
 on her own bosom to make amends ; and in 
 the psalm a like blessing is foretold in the 
 words: * Instead of thy fathers thou shalt 
 have children, whom thou mayest make 
 princes in all lands.' 
 
 Lxr. 
 
 God, of Urania son. 
 Haunter of Helicon, 
 Who, to the husband's side 
 Snatching a tender bride, 
 Hcar'st Hymen, Hymen, cried ; 
 
 Thy flowery brows around 
 Marjoram sweet be bound. 
 Come with the joy aglow. 
 Come with the veil we know. 
 Yellow shoes, feet of snow. 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 59 
 
 Come, on this happy day. 
 Singing the marriage lay. 
 Raise the song shrill and sweet, 
 Wave the pine torch, and beat 
 Earth with thy frolic feet. 
 
 As by the Phrygian seen, 
 Venus, Idalian queen. 
 So Vinia comes to thee, 
 Manlius, a bride to be. 
 Blessed with blessed augury, 
 
 Blossoming brightly now 
 As Asian myrtle-bough, 
 Myrtle, the sweet plaything 
 Which from the dewy spring 
 Wood nymphs are watering. 
 
 Come then, we pray thee, come 
 From rocky Thespian home. 
 Come from Aonian caves 
 Which with the falling waves 
 Cold Aganippe laves. 
 
lUiI 
 
 i 
 
 ■ > ■ 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 mm 
 
 60 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 Home's mistress homeward call, 
 Bid the new love enthral 
 Thoughts that were unconfined, 
 ^ As ivy tendrils bind 
 All the tree close-entwined. 
 
 You too the fancy-free, 
 Maidens that soon shall see 
 Dawn a like day, repeat 
 Hymen, Hymen, and greet 
 Hymen to music's beat. 
 
 So may he gladly hear. 
 So at the sound, draw near 
 Unto his proper deed. 
 Fain the true love to lead. 
 Fain the true hearts to speed. 
 
 What god as he can bless 
 Lovers in love's distress ? 
 First of the heavenly throng, 
 Men's prayers to thee belong, 
 Hymen, Hymen our song. 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 61 
 
 Thee to their children's aid 
 Call failing sires ; a maid 
 Loosens for thee her zone ; 
 Bridegrooms to thee alone 
 All fears and longings own. 
 
 Love without thee is vain. 
 Lustreless all the gain. 
 Yet if thou wilt, 'tis fair : 
 Which of the gods may dare 
 With Hymen to compare ? 
 
 Houses with sons are blest, 
 Fathers on children rest 
 Only if thou be there : 
 Which of the gods may dare 
 With Hymen to compare ? 
 
 Open the gate : 'tis she. 
 Torches are waving, see, | 
 Tresses of light, yet slow 
 Moves she, and all aglow 
 Weeps that she needs must go. 
 
 \ 
 
itti 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 62 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 Sweet, you have wept enow : 
 Aurunculeia, how 
 Should there be feared by you 
 Lovelier eyes to view 
 Dawn dripping ocean dew ? 
 
 Gold feet with omen fair 
 Over the threshold bear, 
 Pass through the bright doorway- 
 Only to thee to-day, 
 Hymen, Hymen, we pray. 
 
 Drop the girl's tender hand 
 Boy with the purple band : 
 Let the men claim her now : 
 Hymen, to thee we bow. 
 Hymen, be gracious thou. 
 
 Wives that are aged and proved 
 True to the lords ye loved. 
 Lay the sweet girl to rest : 
 Hymen, thy name be blest, 
 Hymen, thy praise confessed. 
 
 ■ 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 63 
 
 Come to her now, for she 
 Waits to be thine, and see 
 So sweet a blossom this 
 As the white clematis 
 Or yellow poppy is. 
 
 Haste to her husband now 
 Comely as she, I vow ; 
 Venus has held you dear : 
 Only delay not her^ : 
 Come to her, night is near. 
 
 Quickly you come indeed, 
 Venus befriend your need. 
 Since what you will you dare. 
 Heedless of whosoe'er 
 Looks on a love so fair. 
 
 Dust of the Afric plain 
 Reckon we grain by grain. 
 Count we the stars that shine : 
 Joys that are thine and thine. 
 How shall our hearts divine ? 
 
 
M 
 
 » ! 
 
 64 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 Happy be night and morn. 
 Soon shall a babe be born ; 
 How should an ancient name, 
 Still to abide the same, 
 Lack the new heir to fame ? 
 
 O for a son to rest 
 Safe on his mother's breast ! 
 Outstretching hands so sweet. 
 Flickering lips, and fleet 
 Love-smile, a sire to greet. 
 
 Father in son shall live, 
 Father to son shall give 
 Feature and form, to move 
 Wonder in all, and prove 
 Pledge of a wife's true love. 
 
 • 
 
 Mother shall lend him grace, 
 Sign of his ancient race, 
 Such as the praise we see 
 Rest on thy son from thee. 
 Matchless Penelope. 
 
 i 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 65 
 
 Close ye the doors ; away, 
 Maidens, enough of play ; 
 You, that have youth to share. 
 Cherish a love so fair 
 Happily, happy pair. 
 
 But it is time to come to the most in- 
 teresting and the most famous of the poet's 
 contemporaries, Marcus Tullius Cicero and 
 Gaius Julius Caesar. 
 
 Catullus probably brought with him to 
 Rome an introduction to Cicero : Caesar he 
 had known before at Verona as his father's 
 friend. It is difficult not to feel a sense 
 of almost personal disappointment at the 
 thought of what might have been, if Catullus 
 had found, before meeting Clodia, a woman 
 who could have saved him, as Juliet saved 
 Romeo. That there were such women at 
 Rome, even in that age of profligacy, who 
 can doubt ? Cicero's daughter, Tulliola, as 
 he loves to call her, using the tender diminu- 
 

 I 
 
 l(i 
 
 66 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 tive, was one of these. Had Catullus loved 
 Tullia, two lives that made shipwreck might 
 have been saved, for Tullia herself was un- 
 happy enough ; and though she died before 
 her father, two of the three husbands whom 
 she married in rapid succession were worth- 
 less men. If only Cicero had chosen Catullus 
 for his son-in-law, we should have lost 
 Lesbia's sparrow and Lesbia's kisses, but we 
 should have gained nobler poems inspired by 
 a good woman's love, and Catullus might 
 have risen to Virgil's height instead of sinking 
 at times to the level of Ovid and Propertius. 
 But it was not to be : one poem alone remains 
 addressed to Cicero, and, curiously enough, 
 it is uncertain whether it was written in irony 
 or in genuine gratitude. The words are 
 these : 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Mark Tully, in the long descent 
 From Romulus, most eloquent 
 
 V 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 67 
 
 Of all that are or once have been 
 Or shall in other years be seen, 
 The last in all the poet ranks, 
 Catullus pays you hearty thanks. 
 Of poets all the last, as far 
 As you the first of pleaders are. 
 
 The reasons generally given for believing the 
 poem to be ironical are these. Cicero, it has 
 been suggested, in his defence of Vatinius 
 alluded to his client's enemies, Calvus and 
 Catullus, as bad poets or the worst of poets, 
 and Catullus accepted the challenge. Cicero 
 IS so far the best of advocates as he is the 
 worst of poets ; but if he should prove to be 
 the best of poets, it is obvious that Cicero 
 will sink in the scale as Catullus rises. Yet 
 on the whole it seems safer to suppose that 
 Catullus means what he says when he acknow- 
 ledges his gratitude to Cicero, first, because 
 when he insults an enemy he does not usually 
 leave his meaning doubtful, and secondly, 
 
Ill 
 
 68 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 because he would not be likely to attack Cicero 
 in the one point where he was obviously 
 unassailable. Cicero the worst of pleaders ? 
 If so, Caesar might be called the worst of 
 generals ; yet Catullus said everything bad 
 of Caesar, but not that. 
 
 When Catullus hated he hated with his 
 whole soul ; and he acted with a consistency 
 which perhaps no one before or since has 
 ever equalled, on the principle that all is fair 
 in love and war. And so shamelessly and 
 ceaselessly he pelted with mud the greatest 
 of the Romans; and Caesar, who was too 
 wise to undervalue the effect of the words 
 of a great poet, paid him the compli- 
 ment of being wounded by his attacks, and 
 then forgave him. We admire the wisdom 
 and condescension of Caesar, who wished to 
 be reconciled to Catullus ; yet it is difficult 
 not to feel some sort of respect for the 
 courage of the poet who could write : 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 69 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Not overmuch I care, 
 Caesar, your friend to be ; 
 You may be dark or fair, 
 I never looked to see. 
 
 Catullus * never looked to see,' and yet, nine- 
 teen hundred years after the death of Caesar, 
 we care so much. ' His eyes were dark and 
 piercing,' says Suetonius, ' and his complexion 
 fair,' and because he gives us details about 
 Caesar such as these Suetonius is still read 
 and valued to-day. But Catullus had the 
 courage of his convictions, and we cannot 
 help admiring the astonishing impudence 
 which stands in such welcome contrast to the 
 servility of the next generation. For within 
 thirty years from this time, even Virgil, * the 
 chastest poet and royalest that to the memory 
 of man is known,* addressed Augustus as a 
 god, suggesting that Neptune would be will- 
 ing to resign in his favour the empire of the 
 
70 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 • 
 
 seas ; while Horace, for all his sturdy inde- 
 pendence of character, sang of him enthroned 
 between Pollux and Hercules, drinking nectar 
 with rosy mouth, and it never seems *to have 
 occurred to any Roman that the court poets 
 were making the emperor ridiculous. Their 
 predictions were, however, almost literally 
 fulfilled by the criminal lunatic Caligula, 
 who drove across the bay of Baiae on a cause- 
 way made for the purpose, and offered him- 
 self to be worshipped by his subjects as he 
 stood in the temple of Castor and Pollux, 
 embracing with one arm the statue of either 
 god. Catullus misjudged and insulted Caesar, 
 but he did not succeed in making him ridi- 
 culous : Caesar understood the poet, and 
 pardoned him. It is only fair to add that 
 Catullus is said to have asked to be forgiven ; 
 but the epithet * great ' which he gives to 
 Caesar in one of the latest of his poems is 
 the sole evidence they furnish of the poet's 
 repentance. 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS li 
 
 To the year 55 b.c. belongs the exquisite 
 love-poem, 'Acme and Septimius.' 'At the 
 moment when the poem was written,' says 
 Munro, 'Caesar was invading Britain, and 
 Crassus was off partant pour la Syrie to 
 annihilate the Parthians'; and Professor 
 Ellis reminds us that in the same year the 
 ' glare of the lion' became familiar at Rome, 
 since no fewer than six hundred were ex- 
 hibited at the famous games, when the sight 
 of the wounded elephants made so deep an 
 impression on the spectators that they rose 
 to their feet in tears and cursed Pompey. 
 But Septimius recks little of the triumphs 
 and the shows of the triumvirs, with Acme 
 in his arms; and Acme has no thought 
 beyond her boy lover. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Septimius unto Acme laid, 
 
 The loved one, on his bosom, said 
 
 ♦ 
 
72 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 ' My Acme, if I be not lost 
 In sheer devotion, if I falter 
 In thought of love, nor time can alter, 
 Nor he surpass who loves the most, 
 May I alone in Libya bare 
 Or Ind confront a lion's glare.' 
 The lover spoke : left sentinel. 
 Love rightward sneezed that all was 
 well. 
 
 But Acme softly turned her head. 
 The sweet boy's eyes love-deluged 
 Kissed with the shining lips, and said, 
 ' Scptimius, all my life's desire, 
 So serve we this one lord for ever. 
 As stronger, fiercer far the fever 
 Consumes this melting heart with fire.' 
 She spoke : again, left sentinel, 
 Love rightward sneezed that all was well. 
 Oh ! happy augury of bliss. 
 His heart is hers, and hers is his. 
 Septimius all the world refuses, 
 Fond boy, and Acme only chooses : 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 73 
 
 Septimius only Acme treasures. 
 
 True heart, for all desires and pleasures : 
 
 Were ever mortals happier seen. 
 
 Or Venus wearing fairer mien ? 
 
 The poem is irresistible as the glorification 
 of a light, sensuous love : but is this all ? 
 Has the tenderest of Roman poets no other, 
 no higher message to give than this ? Is 
 the mission of woman only to delight, and 
 never to raise and ennoble the man she loves, 
 so that he shall be capable of devotion and 
 self-sacrifice? It is clear that Catullus no 
 longer dreams of such possibilities, and the 
 reason is not far to seek. Could Clodia 
 teach him self-denial ^ Could she inspire a 
 chivalrous love ? Some women might have 
 saved him and shown him the truth : there 
 were such wives in Rome. But married 
 happiness was not destined for Catullus, and 
 so the poet of love died, and left us no record 
 of any woman whom we can reverence. 
 
in 
 
 111 ' 
 
 I! 
 
 74 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 Instead of the soft radiance that clings like 
 a halo to Virgil's heroine, the warrior maid 
 Camilla, burns the baleful light of Clodia's 
 insolent beauty, which drew Catullus like 
 a moth to the flame. 
 
 The end was not far ofF now. Catullus, 
 reconciled to Caesar, had become a person 
 of some importance at Rome ; and Clodia, 
 who perhaps dreamed of fascinating the 
 triumvirs, and still aspired to influence the 
 politics of the world, seems to have made 
 advances, through the mediation of Furius 
 and Aurelius, to her former lover. Her 
 messengers were ill chosen, though nominally 
 friends of Catullus, with whom they pro- 
 fessed to be willing to go anywhere, to 
 venture anything. The poet understood 
 the worth of their professions, and the reason 
 why Clodia had sent them. Again we are 
 reminded of Shakespeare. * Why look you 
 now,* says Hamlet to his 'excellent good 
 friends,' Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 75 
 
 have been sent by the king to discover the 
 cause of his affliction, ' how unworthy a thing 
 you make of me ! You would play upon 
 me ; you would seem to know my stops. . . . 
 'S blood, do you think I am easier to be 
 played on than a pipe? Call me what 
 instrument you will, though you can fret me, 
 yet you cannot play upon me.'^ Clodia's 
 messengers are not more successful, and 
 Catullus, after quoting with unconcealed 
 contempt their promises of heroic devotion, 
 sends them away on a slight errand to do 
 dishonour to Clodia. And this is the last 
 message they are to carry from him 
 to her. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Furius, and you, Aurelius, who have vowed 
 To follow fearless, though Catullus reach 
 Far India ringed with Eastern surge and 
 
 loud 
 
 With roaring beach, 
 
76 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 Or languid Arabs or Hyrcanians brave, 
 Sacae or Parthians ever bearing bows. 
 Or where the Nile incarnadines the wave 
 And sevenfold flows ; 
 
 Or scale afoot the lofty Alpine bar, 
 Viewing the realms that Caesar's greatness 
 
 tell, 
 Gaul and the Rhine and angry seas afar 
 Where Britons dwell ; — 
 
 Oh ! you resolved all this with me to bear, 
 And what the gods may will in other days, 
 A little message to my lady bear, 
 No gentle phrase. 
 
 Bid her live on, thrive still with all her 
 
 train, 
 Enfold her hundred minions and enthral, 
 Loving none truly, though at whiles she 
 
 drain 
 
 The lives of all : 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 77 
 
 Nor let her look to find my love is there. 
 Which now through sin of hers is fallen 
 
 indeed. 
 As some lone flower touched by the passing 
 
 share 
 
 That skirts the mead. 
 
 Is there any contrast in all literature more 
 wonderful than the change from fierceness 
 to tenderness in the last two stanzas ? 
 
 The reference to the conquest of Britain 
 among Caesar's victories makes it almost 
 certain that this poem was not written before 
 54 B.C., and probably in the course of this 
 year the poet died. It is therefore possible 
 that in this farewell to Lesbia we have the 
 last words of Catullus. 
 
 It remains only to say something of the 
 poet's character, and to give some estimate 
 of his poetry. Was Catullus a bad man 
 judged by the standard of his age? We 
 shall not say so if we trust his own evidence. 
 
78 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 * The poet's life,' he says, ' must be chaste, 
 not his poems.' It is true that Ovid and 
 Martial, both notoriously bad men, said the 
 same thing, but they could not have expected 
 to be believed : they said it because it was 
 the conventional thing for a poet to say, 
 because Catullus, whom they both loved and 
 imitated, had said it before them. But 
 Catullus never did or said anything because 
 it was conventional : and if he asserted his 
 life to be pure he must have believed it to 
 be so. Purity, as understood by the poet 
 and his contemporaries, would sanction much 
 which we condemn as impure. But men must 
 be judged by the standard of their own 
 generation, and with this reservation we may 
 accept the assertion of Catullus as the truth. 
 In any case, we cannot admit his verses 
 as evidence against the character of others. 
 Outrageous language was the fashion then, 
 and if even Cicero, the model of propriety. 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 79 
 
 never hesitated to use it, what else could we 
 expect from Catullus ? 
 
 And when we pass from words to deeds, 
 we recognise in him a poet richly dowered 
 with the gifts of love and hate: a loyal 
 friend and faithful lover, a true patriot 
 and fearless enemy of those whom he re- 
 garded, rightly or wrongly, as the enemies 
 of the State — a man for whom, in spite of 
 all his faults, we can still feel sympathy 
 and affection. But the words in which 
 he sums up the story of his love for 
 Lesbia are still, when all is said, his best 
 defence : 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Was never one could say, so loved was 
 
 she 
 As, Lesbia, thou by me : 
 Was never heart to covenant so true 
 As mine to love of you. 
 
8o THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 What place are we to assign to Catullus 
 among the poets ? We must recognise the 
 narrowness of his range, the absence of high 
 ideals, the triviality of his themes, which 
 exclude him from a place among the greatest 
 writers of the world. Yet for all this there 
 is no love-poetry like his till we come to 
 Romeo and Juliet^ and there has been nothing 
 I since to rival it, not even Mrs. Browning's 
 sonnets and Tennyson's Maud, Shakespeare, 
 who, far more than Sophocles, *saw life 
 steadily and saw it whole,' and Catullus, who 
 saw but a single side, alone attain perfection 
 here, because they alone are absolutely true. 
 We can pick out the beautiful points in 
 other poems, and praise them as Catullus 
 praises Quintia, * fair, and straight, and tall,' 
 but when we read, ^It is my soul that 
 calls upon my name,' or * My light, be- 
 cause you live, my life is sweet,' we feel 
 that criticism is impossible and praise imper- 
 tinent. And Shakespeare certainly reminds 
 
 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 8i 
 
 us of Catullus, not only in great single lines 
 such as, 
 
 * To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,' 
 
 which is almost identical with 
 
 * This day, and that, and the next, and the 
 
 next,' 
 
 and gives the same vista of futurity, but in 
 whole passages, as, for example, where Troilus 
 and Cressida vie with one another in pro- 
 tests of love, which recall at once the 
 passionate vows of Acme and Septimius. 
 Therefore, if love-poetry is to be read at 
 all — and the world would be immeasurably 
 poorer for the loss of it, whatever 'elder, 
 sourer men' may say — it is to Shake- 
 speare and Catullus, above all others, that 
 lovers will always turn, because they alone 
 convince us that as they have written *so 
 should such things be.' We need not question 
 Virgil's pre-eminence among Roman authors. 
 
X 
 
 82 THE STORY OF CATULLUS 
 
 and even he would hardly rank higher than 
 sixth among the poets of the world ; yet as 
 some of those who acknowledge Shakespeare's 
 * indivisible supremacy * give to Christina 
 Rossetti a love which even the greatest can- 
 not command, so, without injustice to Virgil, 
 without disloyalty to Keats and Shelley, we 
 may keep for wayward, passionate Catullus 
 a place apart in our hearts. 
 
 HADRIAN'S LAST WORDS 
 
 Wayful, playful spirit-thing. 
 Body's guest and comrade, say 
 Whither wilt thou fare to-day, 
 
 Blanched and bare and shuddering, 
 Quite forgetting all thy play? 
 
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 now writing in English, who is capable of such acute, learned, unacademic, serious, 
 witty, responsible criticism as that contained in these two volumes ? Mr Leslie Stephen 
 is not only a critic, he is a philosophic thinker, and, since the death of Coventry 
 Patmore, I do not know any other writer of criticism whom it would be possible to call 
 by that name." 
 
 Truth.— "Will maintain Mr Leslie Stephen's reputation as indisputably the first of 
 living English critics." 
 
 Outlook.— "Every serious student must really go to the book itself. There is no 
 better example of fair, instructed, well-balanced, and judiciously expressed criticism in 
 the English literature of the present day." 
 
 The titles of the *• Studies ** are as follows : — 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 NATIONAL BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 THE EVOLUTION OF EDITORS. 
 
 JOHN BYROM. 
 
 JOHNSONIANA. 
 
 gibbon's AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 arthur young. 
 Wordsworth's youth. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 the story of scott's ruin. 
 
 the importation of GERMAN. 
 
 matthew arnold, 
 jowett's life, 
 oliver wendell holmes, 
 life of tennyson. 
 
 PASCAL. 
 
OLUMBIA UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES 
 
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