But archly pert and debonnair, Still further in he fondly nestled, For her alone piped, chirped, and whistled. But he has reached that dismal where, Whose dreary path none ever dare Retrace, with whom death once hath wrestled. O Orcus' unrequiting shade, Devouring all the good, the dear, Couldst thou not spare one birdling here? Alas, poor thing! for thou hast made Her eyes, how loved, with grief o'erweighed, Grow red, and gush with many a tear. CURATE.--Is that translating? Look at the first line of the original-- Lugete, o Veneres, Cupidinesque. You have acted the undertaker to the sorrow, dressed it out, and protracted it, and set it afloat upon a river of wo, with Queens of Love as chief-mourners, hanging out their weepers. AQUILIUS.--Yes, for the Zephyrs to blow. They are light, airy, graceful. They did not come from the first room of the mourning institution, where the soft-slippered man in black gently, and bowing low as he shows his grief-items, whispers, "Much in vogue for deep affliction." The Queens of Love pass on to "the mitigated wo department," and I hope you will confess they have _put on_ their sorrow with grace and taste. GRATIAN.--That's good--"the mitigated wo department." But there's a department in these establishments farther on still. There is a little glass door, generally left half open, where there is a most delicate show of "orange blossoms." But my good worthy Curate, I don't blame our friend for this little enlargement, because, if it is not in the _words_ of the original, it is every bit of it in the tune and melody of the verses. See how it swells out in full flow in "venustiorum,"--stays but a moment, and is off again without stop to "puellae,"--and that again is repeated ere grief can be said to take any rest. I shall acquit the translator as I would the landscape painter, who, seeing how flowing a line of easy and graceful beauty pervades all nature, and is indeed her great characteristic, rather aims to realise that, than laboriously to dot in every leaf and flower. Characteristic expression is every thing. I am not quite satisfied that either of you have hit the Flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli. CURATE.--If we have not, you remember that Juvenal has, and hit those eyes rather hard, considering whose they are. He, however, only meant the hit for Catullus: nec tibi, cujus Turbavit nitidos extinctus passer ocellos. GRATIAN.--_Turbavit_ is "mitigated wo" again: Unlike the Lesbias of our modern years, Who for a sparrow's death dissolve in tears. AQUILIUS.--Satire is like a flail, an ugly weapon in a crowd, and hits more than it aims at. I won't allow the blow to be a true hit on Catullus. But let us pass on; there is a vessel waiting for us, though we should be loth to trust to her sheathing, no longer sea-worthy. Our poet now addresses his yacht. Are there many of the "Club" who would write better verses on theirs?