Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 61, No. 377, March 1847
Aquilius. – And I object to bribes; it is a satire upon the underwriters.
Curate. – The underwriters?
Aquilius. – Yes, the “Littoralibus Diis;” what were they but an insurance company, with their chief temple, some Roman “Lloyd’s,” and offices in every sea-port?
Curate. – Or perhaps the “Littoralibus Diis,” referred to a “coast-guard.”
Gratian. – Worse and worse, for that would imply that they took bribes, and that she was an old smuggler. Keep to the original, and if you will modernize Catullus, you must merely say, she was so safe a boat that the owner did not think it worth while to insure.
Curate. – The learned themselves dispute as to the identity of the “Dii Littorales.” In the notes, I find they are said to be Glaucus, Nereus, Melicerta, Neptune, Thetis, and others; but in the notes to Statius, you will find Gevartius bids the aforesaid learned tell that to the marines. He knows better. I remember his words, – “Sed male illi marinos et littorales deos confundunt. Littorales enim potissimum Dii Cælestes erant, Pallas, Apollo, Hercules, &c., unde illi potius apud Catullum sunt intelligendi.”
Gratian. – She might have been doubly insured; for besides Glaucus, Neptune, Thetis, and Co., there was the company registered by Gevartius.
Curate. – I have looked again at the passage, and think I have not quite given the meaning of “novissimo.” I doubt if it does mean remote – it more likely means the last voyage – so let me substitute this: —
She came,
’Twas her last voyage, from far sea,
To this clear inlet-home, the same
Good bark and true, and proudly free
From vows which under doubtful skies,
Are made to sea-side Deities.
Gratian. —Probatum est.– We have, however, run the vessel down. Let me see what comes next. Oh, “To Lesbia.” This is the old well-known deliciously elegant little piece that I remember we were wont to try our luck with in our youth; and many a translation of it may yet be found among half-forgotten trifles. We are, some of us, it is true, a little out of this cherry-season of kissing – there is a time for all things, and so there was a time for that. It is pleasant still to trifle with the subject: even the wise Socrates played with it in one of his dialogues, and so may we, innocently enough. Though there be some greybeards, (no, I am wrong, they are not greybeards, but grave-airs, and they, more shame to them, with scarcely a beard at all,) that would open the book here, and shut it again in haste, and look as if they had just come out of the cave of Trophonius. That is not a healthy and honest purity.
Aquilius. – But these do not object to a little professional kissing.
Gratian. – More shame to them – that is the worst of all, but pass on; here is nothing but a little harmless play. Yet I don’t see why the young poet, (you know he died at thirty,) should mock his elders in “rumoresque senum severiorum,” these “sayings of severe old men.” Why should old men be severe? O’ my conscience, I believe they are far less severe than the young. Had I been present when the poet indited this to his Lesbia, I might just have ventured to hint to him thus: – “My dear friend, you have had enough, perhaps too much of kissing; my advice is, that you keep it to yourself, and tell it to no one; and don’t despise the words of us old men, and mine are words of advice, that if not married already, after all this kissing, you take her, your Lesbia, to wife, as soon as you conveniently can.”
This was pronounced with an amusingly affected gravity. I and the Curate assumed the submissive. We were, as I told you, Eusebius, sitting under the verandah, and very near the breakfast room; the window of which (down to the ground) was open. While our good old friend and host was thus Socratically lecturing, I saw a ribbon catch the air, and float out towards us a little from the window – then appeared half a bonnet, inclined on one side, and downwards, as of one endeavouring to catch sounds more clearly. Seeing that it continued in this position, as soon as my friend had uttered the last words, I walked hastily towards the room, and saw the no very prepossessing countenance of a lady, whose privilege it is to be called young. She blushed, or rather reddened, and boldly came forward, and addressed our friend, – that she had come to see some of the family on a little business for the “visiting and other societies,” and seeing us so enjoying ourselves out of doors, she could not but come forward to pay her respects, adding, with a look at the Curate, whom she evidently thought to be under reproof, that she hoped she had not arrived mal-apropos. Our friend introduced her thus, – Ah, my dear Miss Lydia Prate-apace, is that you? – glad to see you. But (retaining his assumed gravity,) you are not safe here: there has been too much kissing, and too much talk about it, for one of your known rectitude to hear. Dear me, said she, you don’t say so: then I shall bid good-day; and with an inquisitive look at me, and an awful one at the Curate, she very nimbly tripped off. You will be sure to hear of that again, said I to the Curate. He laughed incredulous, in his innocency. Not unlikely, upon my word, said Gratian; for I see them there trotting down the church-path, Lydia Prate-apace, and her friend Clarissa Gadabout; so look to yourself, Mr. Curate. But we have had enough for the present. I must just take a look at my mangel, and my orchard, which you must know is my piggery. Good-bye for the present. In the evening we meet again in the library, and let Catullus be of our company. It was time to change our quarters; for the little spaniel, knowing the hour his master would visit his stock, and intending as usual to accompany him, just then ran in to us, and jumping about and barking, gave us no rest for further discussion.
You must now, my dear Eusebius, behold us in the library as before – G. reads, —
“Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
Rumoresque senum severiorum.”
Ah, that’s where we were; I remember we did not like the senum severiorum.
Curate. – We!!
G. – Yes, we; for the veriest youth that shoots an arrow at old age, is but shooting at himself some ten or a dozen paces off. I remember, when a boy, being pleased with a translation of this by Langhorne; but I only remember two stanzas, and cannot but think he left out the “soles occidere et redire possunt;” if so, he did wrong; and I opine that he vulgarised and removed all grace from it by the word “pleasure.” Life and love, Catullus means to say, are commensurate; but “pleasure” is a wilful and wanton intrusion. If I remember, his lines are, —
“Lesbia, live to love and pleasure,
Careless what the grave may say;
When each moment is a treasure,
Why should lovers lose a day?
Give me then a thousand kisses —
Twice ten thousand more bestow;
Till the sum of endless blisses,
Neither we nor envy know.”
Catullus himself might as well have omitted the “malus invidere.” Why should he trouble his head about the matter – envied or not? but now, Mr. Curate, let us hear your version.
Curate. – Ad Lesbiam
Love we, live we, Lesbia, proving
Love in living, life in loving,
For all the saws of sages caring
Not one single penny’s paring.
Suns can rise again from setting,
But our short light,
Once sunk in night,
Sleeps a slumber all forgetting:
Give me then a thousand kisses,
Still a hundred little blisses —
Yet a thousand – yet five score,
Yet a thousand, hundred more.
Then, when we have made too many
Thousands, we’ll confound them all,
So as not to know of any
Number, either great or small;
Or lest some caitiff grudge our blisses
When he knows the tale of kisses —
Gratian. – Tale is an ambiguous word, “Kiss and tell” is not fair play – Tale, talley, number. I hope it will be so understood at first reading. – It reminds me of the critical controversy respecting a passage in “L’Allegro,” —
“And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.”
The unsusceptible critic maintained that the shepherd did but count, or take the tale of his sheep. Why not avoid the ambiguity thus – a hasty emendation.
“Knowing our amount of kisses.”
Aquilius. – In the other sense, it will go sadly against him, if Miss Prate-apace should be a listener – she would like to have all the telling to herself.
Gratian. – Doubtless, and matter to tell of too – but, as I suppose that paper in your hand is your translation of this common-property bit of Latin, read it.
Aquilius. – Here it is.
ad lesbiam
We’ll live and love while yet ’tis ours,
To live and love, my Lesbia, dearest,
And when old greybeard saws thou hearest,
(Since joy is but the present hour’s,)
We’ll laugh them down as none the clearest.
For suns will set again to rise,
But our brief day once closed – we slumber
Long nights, long days – too long to number; —
Perpetual sleep shall close our eyes,
And one dark night shall both encumber.
A thousand kisses then bestow;
Ten thousand more, – ten thousand blisses, —
And when we’ve counted million kisses —
Begin again, – for, Lesbia, know,
We way have made mistakes and misses.
Then let our lips the full amount
Commingle so, in one delusion,
Blending beginning with conclusion,
Nor we, nor envy’s self can count
How many in the sweet confusion.
Curate. – I protest against this as a translation. There is addition. Catullus says nothing of “mistakes and misses.”
Aquilius. – I maintain it is implied in “conturbabimus illa:” it shows they had given up all idea of counting correctly.
Gratian. – I think it may pass; but you have a word twice, – “day closed,” and “close our eyes.” Why not have it thus: —
“But our brief day once o’er,” or once pass’d, – yet it is not so good, as “closed.” I see in the note on “conturbabimus,” great stress is laid on the mischievous spell that envy was supposed to convey, like the “evil eye.” This does not make much for Catullus – for a good kiss in real earnest, not your kiss poetical, might bid defiance to every charm but its own.
Curate. – There is something of the same superstition in the piece but one following, “malâ fascinare lingua” alludes evidently to the εὐφημία of the Greeks, – the superstition of the evil eye and evil tongue. The very word invidere seems to have been adopted in its wider sense, from the particular superstition of the evil eye. The Neapolitans of the present day inherit, in full possession, both superstitions.
Gratian. – Nor are either quite out of England; and I can hardly think that a legacy left us by the Romans. There is something akin to the feeling in the dislike old country gossips show to having their likenesses taken. I have known a sketcher pelted for putting in a passing figure. And I have seen a servant girl, in the house of a friend, who, having never, until she came into his service, seen a portrait, could not be prevailed upon, for a long while, to go alone into a room where there were some family portraits. What comes next after all these kisses?
Aquilius. – More kisses.
Gratian. – Then you force a bad pun from me, and put my aching bones into an omni-bus, and it is as much as I can do to bear the shaking. Give your account of them, Aquilius.
Aquilius. – ad lesbiam
How many kisses will suffice,
You ask me, Lesbia, – ask a lover!
Go bid him count the sands; – discover,
Even to a very grain precise,
How many lie in heaps, or hover,
When gusty winds the sand hills stir
About the benzoin-bearing plain,
Between Jove’s Cyrenean fane,
And Battus’ sacred sepulchre.
How many stars, in stillest night,
On loving thefts look down approving, —
So many kisses should requite
Catullus, ah too madly loving. —
Ye curious eyes, be closed in slumber,
That would be spies upon our wooing,
That there be none to note the number,
Nor tongue to babble of our doing.
Gratian. – Read that last again – for “my eyes,” I confess, were not as “curious” as they should have been, and were just closing as you came to the wooing.
Aquilius. —
That there be none to note the number,
Nor tongue to babble of our doing.
Gratian. – Well, rubbing his eyes, I am quite awake now; let us have your version, Master Curate.
Curate. – ad lesbiam
Dost bid me, my Lesbia,
A number define,
To fill me, and glut me
With kisses of thine?
When equal thy kisses
The atoms of sand,
By spicy Cyrene
On Lybia’s strand,
The sand grains extending
From Ammon’s hot shrine,
To the tomb of old Battus,
That land-mark divine.
Or count me the star-lights
That see from above,
In still night, the thievings
Of mortals in love.
Thus canst thou, my Lesbia,
A number assign,
To glut thy mad lover
With kisses of thine.
A number the prying
To reckon may spare;
And gossips, unlucky,
Give up in despair.
Gratian. – (After a pause, his eyes half closed,)
“Give up in despair.”
Very mu – si – cal – sooth – ing.
Aquilius. – See, you have set our host asleep; and, judging from his last words, his dream will not be unpleasant. We must not come to a sudden silence, or it will waken him. The murmur of the brook that invites sleep, is pledged to its continuance. The winds and the pattering rain, says the Roman elegiast, assist the sleeper.
Aut gelidas hibernus aquas eum fuderit auster
Securum somnos imbre juvante sequi.
We must not, however, proceed with our translations. Take up Landor’s Pentameron, and begin where you left off, when we first entered upon this discussion of Catullus. He seemed to give the preference to Catullus over Horace. Here is the page, – read on.
The Curate at once took the volume and read aloud. – The following passage arrested our attention: —
“In return for my suggestion, pray tell me what is the meaning of
Obliquo laborat
Lympha fugax trepidare rivo.
“Petrarcha. – The moment I learn it you shall have it. Laborat trepidare! lympha rivo! fugax, too! Fugacity is not the action for hard work or labour.
“Boccaccio. – Since you cannot help me out, I must give up the conjecture, it seems, while it has cost me only half a century. Perhaps it may be curiosa felicitas.”
Aquilius – Stay there: – that criticism is new to me. I never even fancied there was a difficulty in the passage. Let us consider it a moment.
Curate. – Does he then think Horace not very choice in his words? for he seems to be severe upon the “curiosa felicitas.” Surely the diction of the Latin poets is all in all – For their ideas seem hard stereotyped, – uninterchangeable, the very reverse of the Greek, in whom you always find some unexpected turn, some new thought, thrown out beautifully in the rapidity of their conception – excepting in Sophocles – who, attending more to his diction, deals perhaps a little too much in common-place.
The object of the Latin poets should seem to have been to introduce gracefully, into their own language, what the Greeks had left them; and the nature of this labour quenched the fire of originality, if they had any. – It is hard, however, to deny them the fruits of this labour; and who was more happy in it than Horace?
Aquilius. – Surely, and the familiar love that all bear to Horace, confirms your opinion – the general opinion. Now, I cannot but think Horace happy in his choice of words, in this very passage of
obliquo laborat,
Lympha fugax trepidare rivo.
Let me suggest a meaning, which to me is obvious enough, and I am surprised it should have escaped so acute and so profound a critic. Horace supposes his friend enjoying the landscape in remoto gramine, and there describes it accurately; and it is a favourite scene with him, which he often paints in words, with the introduction of the same imagery. Suppose, then, the scene to be in remoto gramine at Tiber, our modern Tivoli; where, as I presume, the water was always, as now, though not in exactly the same way, turned off from the Anio into cut channels; and such I take to be the meaning generally of rivers, a channel, not a river. And the Lympha here is appropriate; not the body of the stream, but a portion of its water. In this case, “obliquo” may express a new direction, and some obstacle in the turn the river takes, where the water would for a moment seem to labour, “laborare fugax,” expressing its desire to escape. May not, therefore, the first evident meaning be allowed to “trepidare,” to tremble, or undulate, showing the motion a rivulet assumes, just after it has turned the angle of its obstruction. “Obliquo,” may, too, mean the slope, such as would be in a garden at Tivoli, on the verge of the precipice. Possibly Horace generally uses “rivus” in this sense, “Puræ rivus aquæ.” – Then, again, describing the character of Tibur or Tivoli, he does not say the Anio; but “aquæ,” as in the other instance “Lympha.”
“Sed quæ Tibur aquæ fertile præfluunt,”
– “fertile,” being the effect of the irrigation, the purpose for which the aquæ are turned from the river; and this agrees well with the word præfluunt, as applied to irrigated gardens. Pliny thus uses the adjective præfluus: “Hortos esse habendos irriguos præfluo amne.” But there is one passage in Horace where this meaning is so distinctly given to rivers, and which is so characteristic of the very scene of Tibur, that to me it is conclusive.
“et uda
Mobilibus pomarea rivis.”
Evidently channels, moveable and diverse at pleasure, for irrigation.
Nor would Horace use Lympha for a river, or be amenable to a charge of such tautology as this: —
“Labuntur altis interim ripis aquæ,
Quæruntur in sylvis aves,
Fontesque Lymphis obstrepunt manantibus,
Somnos quod inortet leves.”
Curate. – I fancy I now see the garden, where somewhat artificial planting had put together the “Pinus ingens albaque Populus,” to consociate, and form the shady arbour, where the wine and unguents are to be brought, and through which the rivus passes angularly, and doubtless with a view to the garden-beauty. It is a sketch from nature of some particular and favourite spot.
Quo Pinus ingens albaque Populus
Umbram hospitalem consociare amant
Ramis, et obliquo laborat
Lympha fugax trepidare rivo.
Aquilius. – Truly, in many places Horace delights to paint this one individual spot. We have in all, the wood, the waters from their higher banks, making falls such as to induce sleep, the garden with its shade, and its fountain, near the house, this continual “aquæ fons.” Such as was his “Fons Bandusiæ,” not fons a mere spring, but sanctified by architectural art, as well as feeling.
“Fies nobilium tu quoque fontium,
Me dicente cavis impositam illicem
Saxis, unde loquaces
Lymphæ desiliunt tuæ.”
But listen to what he desired to possess, and did possess.
“Hoc erat in votis, modus agri non ita magnus,
Hortus ubi, et tecto vicinus jugis aquæ fons,
Et paulum sylvæ super his foret.”
Is he describing his Sabine villa? – I have a sketch on its site – and there is now, whatever there may have been in his days, a high bank, over which the water still falls, (I believe from the Digentia) which by conduits supplied the house, and cattle returned from their labour, and the flocks. There is a small cascade filling a marble basin (the fountain) and thence flowing off through the garden. Perhaps he had in these descriptions one or two scenes in his mind’s eye much alike. A poet’s geography shifts its scenery ad libitum. But see what his Sabine farm was.
Curate. – I remember it.
“Scribetur tibi forma loquaciter, et situs agri.”
But does he not in that passage make rivus a river? —
“Fons etiam rivo dare nomen idoneus, ut nec
Frigidior Thracam, nec purior ambiat Hebrus.”
Aquilius. – The river was the Digentia, the cold Digentia.
“Me quoties reficit gelidus Digentia rivus.”
It may be here a river, but not certainly. Do you suppose he went down in sight of the whole neighbourhood to bathe in the little river? for little river it is, and cold enough, too; for I have bathed in it, and can testify of its coldness. Would you take him, 1 say, down from his house to the river itself, when he had it conveyed to his own home by a rivus, or channel, and by a fons such as has been described, from which, without doubt, he was supplied with water enough for his hot and his cold baths? The gelidus Digentia rivus, I well know, and, as I said, bathed in it. A countryman seeing me, cried out, “Fa morir!” The Italians now (at least inland) never bathe; they have a perfect hydrophobia. Few even wash themselves. I asked a boy, whom we took about with us to carry our sketching materials, when he had last washed his face. He confessed he had never washed it, and that nobody did.
Curate. – We know Horace delighted in Tibur, – his “Tibur argeo, positum colono.” In the passage criticised in the Pentameron, I shall always see Tivoli, with its wood, its rocks, and cascatelle. He had the scene before him when he wrote, —
“ego laudo ruris amæni
Rivos; et museo circumlita saxa, nemusque.”
Tibur still; its rocks, woods, and rivus again; and perhaps the “nemus” was “Tiburni lucus.”
Aquilius. – Perhaps a line in this epistle from the lover of country to the lover of town, may throw some light on “obliquo” and “trepidare,” if indeed he has the scene in his eye.
“Purior in vicis aqua tendit rumpere plumbum,
Quam que per pronum trepidat cum murmure rivum.”
Great indeed is the difference, whether the water passes through a leaden pipe, or by the rivers, a mere direction by a channel open to the sky, and whose bed is the rock.
But there is a passage which still more clearly, I think, marks the distinction between the rivus and the river. The poet invites Mæcenas to the country, and tells him, —
“Jam pastor umbras cum grege languido
Rivumque fessus querit, et horridi
Dumeta Silvani, caretque
Ripa vagis taciturna ventis.”
Now, if the shepherd had driven his flock to the river, all bleating and languid with heat, the bank of the river would scarcely have been taciturn; doubtless the shepherd sought the “fontem,” into which the water was conveyed, and under shade, a place not exposed to the sun, or the wind, as was the ripa, the river’s bank. And besides, in this passage, the rivos and the ripa are certainly spoken of as two separate places.
Here our friend and host began to mutter a little. He was evidently going over his model-farm, while we were at the Sabine. He now talked quicker – “John,” (so he always called his hind, his factotum,) “plant ’em a little farther apart, d’ye see, and trench up well.” “That’s the way.” “Now, John, d’ye know how – to clap an old head on young shoulders – why dig a trench the width of the spade, from the stem of an apple-tree, and fill up with good vegetable mould. First pollard your tree, John.” “That’s it, John.” This and more was said, with a few sleepy interruptions; he soon awoke, and said with an amusing indifference, – “Well, any more news of Catullus?”
Aquilius. – We left Catullus asleep some time ago, and thinking it probable that you and he might wake at the same time, we determined to wait for you both, and, in the meanwhile, we have been discussing a passage in Horace, of which, (for we will not now renew the discussion,) I will one day hear your opinion. A very favourite author, however, of yours, doubts the felicity of Horace in the choice of words.
Curate. – And in the structure of his sentences, and says, “How simple in comparison are Catullus and Lucretius.”
Gratian. – Indeed! now I think that is but finding one fault, for the choice of words and construction of sentences go pretty much together. An ill-constructed sentence can hardly have a good choice of words, for it is most probably unmusical, and that fault would make the choice a jumble. If the words were nonsense in Milton, the music of them would make you believe he could have used no other. They are breathed out so naturally; take the first line of Paradise Lost – it is in this manner perfect. Good words are, to good thoughts, what the stars are to the night, sunshine to the brook, flowers to the field, and foliage to the woods; clothing what is otherwise bare, giving glory to the dark, and to the great and spacious; investing the rugged with grace, and adding the vigour and motion of life to the inanimate, the motionless, and the solid. I must defend my friend Horace against all comers.
“ – rura, quæ Liris quietâ
Mordet aquâ, taciturnus amnis.”
Is there a bad choice of words there? How insidiously the silent river indents the banks with its quiet water, and how true to nature! It is not your turbulent river that eats into the land, (it may overflow it,) but that ever heavy weight of the taciturn rivers, running not in a rocky bed, but through a deep soft soil.
Curate. – You are lucky in your quotation, for we were discussing some such matter. Horace is particularly happy in his river scenes. Did not he know the value of his own words – he thus speaks of them:
“Verba loquor socianda chordis.”
Aquilius. – Yes, but he speaks of them as immortal. “Ne credas interitura.” But if the “socianda chordis,” means they are to be set to music, I deny that music is or there has long ago been a divorce. I am told, the more manifest the nonsense, the better the song.
“Married to immortal verse,”
Gratian. – Then I leave you to sing it, and reserve your sense and sense-verses for to-morrow. But it cannot be till the evening, for I must attend an agricultural meeting in the morning, some distance off. Would you believe it, I have to defend my own statement. A stupid fellow said publicly, that he would not believe that the produce of my Belgian carrots, which you saw, was 360 lbs. per land-yard, which is at the rate of 25 tons, 14 cwt. 1 qr. 4 lbs. per acre. There are people who will doubt every thing. You see they doubt what I say of my carrots, and what Horace says of his own words. – So, good-night.
This “good night,” Eusebius, was not the abrupt leave-taking which it may here appear. For our friend’s habit was to close the day not unthankful. We regularly retired to the dining-room, where the servants and family were assembled, and prayers were read. So that this “good-night” of our excellent host were but his last worldly and social words. And if devotion, and most kind feelings towards all creatures – man and beast – can ensure pleasant and healthful sleep, his pillow is a charm against comfortless dreams and rheumatic pains.
There we leave him – and if, Eusebius, you are amused with this our chat, you may look again for Noctes Catullianæ.
Postscript. – This should have gone to you, my dear Eusebius, two days ago, but by some accident it was left out of the post-bag. By the neglect, however, I am enabled to tell you that our friend the Curate is in trouble: the very trouble, too, which I foresaw. He came to us this morning with a very long face, and told us that yesterday, on going as usual to his parochial Sunday school, he was surprised that nearly all the bigger girls were absent; that the mistress of the school did not receive him with her usual respect; that the three maiden ladies, Lydia Prateapace, Clarissa Gadabout, and Barbara Brazenstare, were at the farther end of the room, affectedly busy with the children; that seeing him, they slightly acknowledged his presence, as Goldsmith well expresses it, by a “mutilated curtsey.” He approached them, and expressed his surprise at the absence of the elder children. Prateapace looked first down, then away from him, and said it was no business of hers to question their parents. Miss Gadabout added, that every body knew the reason. And Brazenstare looked him boldly in the face, and said, she supposed nobody knew so well as himself. Prateapace put in her word, that now he was come, there was no need of their presence, as there were not too many to teach. Upon which Gadabout cried, “Then let us be off: it is quite time we should.” And as they were moving off, Brazenstare turned round and asked him, mutteringly, if he intended to kiss the schoolmistress. Upon this, he went to some of the parents to inquire respecting the absence of their daughters, and little satisfaction could he get. They didn’t like to say – but people did say – indeed it was all about the township – that they were quite as well at home, for that they might learn more than the book taught – for that his honour had been reproved by good Mr. G. for too great familiarity.
So ends the matter, or rather such is the position of affairs at present – the Curate has come to consult what is to be done. I tell him, that if he knows what he is about, it will proceed with some violence, then an opposition, and end with offerings of bouquets, and perhaps the presentation of a piece of plate. Gratian tells him he hopes nothing so bad as that will come to pass – the Curate almost fears it will, and is vexed at his present awkward position.
You, Eusebius, already see enough mischief in it to delight you; you are, I know, laughing immoderately, and determine to write the inscription for the plate in perspective. Adieu, ever yours. Aquilius.