"The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense." There's something playfully pretty, and lightly tender in this little piece; but I don't see by what link of thought poor Atalanta is brought in, and thus stripped to the skin, as she was out-stripped in the race. Admitting the text emendable, may not there be supposed such a connexion as this,--that he wishes the bird would be his plaything, that he might lay it as an offering at her feet,--that she might take it, as did Atalanta the golden apple, and become herself the winner's reward? Why should not I come in with an ad libitum movement? We, limping rheumaticists, have ever a spiteful desire to trip up the swift-footed. Now, then, for an old man's limp against Atalanta's speed. Birdie, be my plaything, go-- At her flying feet be thrown;-- Like the golden apple, woo her, Atalanta's wise pursuer Cast and won her for his own;-- Pretty birdie aid me so. Galatea won her lover by the apple. "Malo me Galatea petit." CURATE.--A well thrown apple that golden pippin, grown doubtless from a pip dropt on Mount Ida, and hence the name. We shall not run against you, I perceive. GRATIAN.--Don't talk of golden pippins, or I shall mount my hobby, and go through the genealogy of my whole orchard, and good-bye to Catullus. CURATE.--If you give way to your imagination, you may invent a thousand meanings to the passage; but taking it as I find it, I would attach only this meaning to it,--that Catullus would say, "Lesbia's favourite sparrow" would be as attractive to me as was the golden apple which was thrown in her way when she was racing, to Atalanta. She was to be married to the first youth who could outrun her, so that literally she was very much run after. GRATIAN.--Run after, indeed! Her pursuer, Hippomanes, hadn't my rheumatism (tapping his knee and leg with his stick) or she would have had the apple, and not him. You young men of modern days do not throw your golden apples, but look to pick up what you can. These old tales, or old fables, cast a shade of shame upon our unromantic days. There was a king's daughter offered like a "handy-cap," as if the worthy of mankind were a racing stud. AQUILIUS.--But the lady was not so easily won after all; for there were three golden apples to be picked up: and a bold man was he that threw them, for if he lost, there was neither love nor mercy for him. The condition was worse than Sinbad's. It is a strange story this of Atalanta and her lover, turned into lions by Cybele. The passage in Catullus being corrupt, there is probably an omission, for, as it is, the transition is very abrupt. GRATIAN.--I see the golden apples running about in all directions, and am half asleep, and should be quite so but for this rheumatic hint that it is time to retire: so good-night. Now you will conclude, Eusebius, that I and the Curate made a night and morning of it. On the present occasion, at least, it was not the case; we very soon parted.