)
Then Modesty, with veils thrown o'er her face,
Now doubly blushing at her own disgrace;
Then sober thoughts, and whatsoe'er disdains
Love's power, shall feel his power, and wear his chains.
Then Modesty, with veils thrown o'er her face,
Now doubly blushing at her own disgrace;
Then sober thoughts, and whatsoe'er disdains
Love's power, shall feel his power, and wear his chains.
Ovid - 1865 - Ovid by Alfred Church
hathitrust.
org/access_use#pd-google
? 22 0 VID.
Naxos, the desolate island from whose shore Ariadne
has seen the departing sails of the treacherous Theseus.
Nor is there even an attempt at giving any colouring
appropriate to the time and place to which the several
letters are supposed to belong. Penelope, Dido, Ari-
; adne are all alike refined and well-educated persons,
i just like the great Eoman ladies whom the poet used
to meet in daily life. This artificial writing, abso-
lutely without all that is called realism, was character-
istic of Ovid's age, and we cannot make it a special
charge against him. But it has certainly a wearying
effect, which is increased by the sameness and mono-
tony of the subject-matter of the Epistles. The names
are different, the circumstances are changed according
as the several stories demand, but the theme is ever the
same--love, now angry and full of reproaches, now ten-
der and condescending to entreaty. Nor is that love
the "maiden passion" which has supplied in mod-
ern times the theme of poems and romances without
number. It is the fierce emotion, guilty or wrathful,
though sometimes, it must be allowed, melting into
genuine pathos and tenderness, of betrayed maidens
and outraged wives. But, on the other hand, though
the theme is the same, the variety of expression is end-
\ less. The skill with which Ovid continues, again and
again, to say the same thing without repeating him-
self, is astonishing. In this respect no poet has ever
shown himself more thoroughly a master of his art.
Feeling, too, real though not elevated, often makes it-
self felt in the midst of the artificial sentiment; if the
style is disfigured with conceits, it is always exquisitely
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 23
polished; the language is universally easy and trans-
parent, and the verse an unbroken flow of exquisite
melody.
Of all the Epistles, the one which for purity and ten-
derness most commends itself to our taste, is that ad-
dressed by the Thessalian princess Laodamia to her
husband Protesilaus. He had joined the expedition
of the Greeks against Troy, and was the destined
victim of the prophecy which foretold the death of the
Greek chieftain who should be the first to leap from
the ships on to the Trojan shore. Eeaders of "Words-
worth will remember the beautiful poem in which he
has treated that part of the legend which relates how
Jove granted to the prayers of the widowed queen
that her hero should for a brief space of time revisit
the earth. Laodamia had heard that her husband and
his companions were detained at Aulis by contrary
winds. '"Why had not the winds been contrary when
he left his home? They had been too favourable--
favourable for the sailor, not for the lover. As long
as she could see, she had watched the departing sails.
"When they vanished, she had seemed to pass from life,
and could wish that she never had been recalled--for
her, life was sorrow. How could she wear her royal
robes while her husband was enduring the toil and
wretchedness of war? Accursed beauty of Paris that
had wrought such woe! Accursed vengeance of Mene-
laus that would be fatal to so many! How foolish the
enterprise of the Greeks! Surely the man who had
dared to carry off the daughter of Tyndarus would be
able to keep her. And there was some dreadful
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? 24 0 VID.
Hector of whom she had heard; let Protesilaus be-
ware of him. Let him always fight as one who re-
membered that there was a wife waiting for him at
home. It was Menelaus who had been wronged; let
it be Menelaus who should exact vengeance. A rumour
had reached her that the first chief to touch Trojan
soil must fall . Let Protesilaus be careful not to be
he. Eather let his be the last of the thousand ships
--the last in going, but the first to return. Now she
mourned for him night and day. The dreams hi
which she hoped to meet her husband did but bring
back his pale image. This made her pray to the gods
and burn incense on every altar in Thessaly. "When
would he return and tell the tale of his deeds? But
the hope suggested the dreadful thought of Troy and
the dangers of the sea. The sea, indeed, seemed to
forbid their journey. If it was so, what madness to
go! The delay was not an accident; it was an inti-
mation from heaven. Let them return while they
could. But no! She will recall the wish. She will
pray for favourable winds. If only it was not so far
away! ' And then she contrasts the sorrows of her own
loneliness with what she cannot but think the happier
lot of those who were shut up in the walls of Troy:--
j"Ah! Trojan women (happier far than we),
Fain in your lot would I partaker be!
If ye must mourn o'er some dead hero's bier,
And all the dangers of the war are near,
With you at least the fair and youthful bride
May arm her husband, in becoming pride;
Lift the fierce helmet to his gallant brow,
And, with a trembling hand, his sword bestow;
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 25
With fingers all unused the weapon brace,
And gaze with fondest love upon his face!
How sweet to both this office she will make--
How many a kiss receive--how many take!
When all equipped she leads him from the door,
Her fond commands how oft repeating o'er :--
'Return victorious, and thine arms enshrine--
Return, beloved, to these arms of mine! '
Nor shall these fond commands be all in vain,
Her hero-husband will return again.
Amid the battle's din and clashing swords
He still will listen to her parting words;
And, if more prudent, still, ah! not less brave,
One thought for her and for his home will save. "~|
The letter of Sappho, the famous poetess of Lesbos,
to Phaon, a beautiful youth who had betrayed her love,
is founded on a less pleasing story--a story, too, which
has no foundation either in the remains--miserably
scanty, alas! but full of beauty--of the great singer,
or in any authentic records of her life. It might well
have been passed over had it not been illustrated by
the genius of Pope. Pope never attempted the part
of a faithful translator; but his verse has a freedom
and a glow which leave the faithful translator in
despair. And his polished antithetical style is as
suitable, it should be said, to the artificial and rhetori-
cal verse of Ovid, as it is incongruous with the simple
grandeur of Homer. It is thus that he renders the
passage in which Sappho announces her intention to
try the famous remedy for hopeless love, the leap from
the Leucadian rock:--
"A spring there is, where silver waters show,
Clear as a glass, the shining sands below;
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? 26 o viD.
A flowery lotus spreads its arms above,
Shades all the banks, and seems itself a grove:
Eternal greens the mossy margin grace,
Watched by the sylvan genius of the place.
Here as I lay, and swelled with tears the flood,
Before my sight a watery virgin stood:
She stood and cried, ' Oh, you that love in vain,
Fly hence, and seek the fair Leucadian main!
There stands a rock, from whose impending steep
Apollo's fane surveys the rolling deep;
There injured lovers, leaping from above,
Their flames extinguish and forget to love.
Deucalion once with hopeless fury burned,
In vain he loved, relentless Pyrrha scorned:
But when from hence he plunged into the main,
Deucalion scorned and Pyrrha loved in vain.
Hence, Sappho, haste! from high Leucadia throw
Thy wretched weight, nor dread the deeps below. '
She spoke, and vanished with the voice--I rise,
And silent tears fall trickling from my eyes.
I go, ye nymphs, those rocks and seas to prove:
And much I fear; but ah! how much I love!
I go, ye nymphs, where furious love inspires;
Let female fears submit to female fires.
To rocks and seas I fly from Phaon's hate,
And hope from seas and rocks a milder fate.
Ye gentle gales, below my body blow,
And softly lay me on the waves below!
And then, kind Love, my sinking limbs sustain,
Spread thy soft wings, and waft me o'er the main,
Nor let a lover's death the guiltless flood profane!
On Phoebus' shrine my harp I'll then bestow,
And this inscription shall be placed below--
'Here she who sung to him that did inspire,
Sappho to Phoebus consecrates her lyre;
What suits with Sappho, Phcebus, suits with thee--
The gift, the giver, and the god agree. '"
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 27
"We have 'The Loves,' as has been said, in a second
edition. "Five books," says the poet in his prefatory-
quatrain, "have been reduced to three. " "Though you
find no pleasure in reading us," the volumes are made
to say to the reader, "we shall at least, when thus
diminished by two, vex you less. " A question imme-
diately presents itself, Who was the Corinna whom he c^----
celebrates in these poems? It has often been argued, ^y
and that by critics of no small authority, that she was
no less famous a personage thin Julia, daughter of the
Emperor Augustus by his firs? wife Scribonia. This
indeed is expressly stated as a fact by Sidonius Apol-
linaris, a poet of the fifth century, and a somewhat
distinguished personage, first as a politician, and after-
wards as the bishop of Clerniont in Auvergne. Of
Julia the briefest account will be the best. She was
wife successively of Marcus [Marcellus, nephew to
Augustus; of Marcus Vipsa&ius Agrippa; and of
Tiberius, afterwards emperor. | This last union was
most unhappy. Tiberius h^d been compelled to
divorce a wife whom he deaily loved, and he found
himself bound to a woman whose profligacy was con-
spicuous even in a profligate age. After a short union
he retired into a voluntary exile; and Augustus then
became aware of what all Eomp had long known, that
his daughter was an abandoned woman. He banished
her from Italy, and kept her in a rigorous imprison-
ment, which was never relaxed till her death. There
is nothing, therefore, in the character of Julia that is
inconsistent with her being the Corinna of Ovid's
poems. "We can even find some confirmation of the
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? 28 0 vID.
'theory. Corinna, it is evident, did not belong to that
\ I class of freed-women which included the DeEa~bf
j Tibullus and the Cynthia of Propertius. Sometimes
we are led to believe that she was a lady of high,
social position. Her apartments were guarded by a
eunuch--not a common circumstance in Eome, and.
obviously the mark of a wealthy household. That
she was married the poet expressly states. And a
curious coincidence has been pointed out which,
though it does not go very far, may be allowed to
make for the identification with Julia. This princess
had lost much of her hair through the unsparing use
of dyes. * And we find Ovid remonstrating with
Corinna on her folly in producing in the same way
the same disfigurement:--
"No weeds destroyed them with their fatal juice,
Nor canst thou witches' magic charms accuse,
Nor rival's love, nor dire enchantments blame,
Nor envy's blasting tongue, nor fever's flame;
The mischief by thy own fair hands was wrought,
Nor dost thou suffer for another's fault.
How oft I bade thee, but in vain, beware
The venomed essence that destroyed thy hair!
Now with new arts thou shalt thy friends amuse,
And curls, of German captives borrowed, use.
Drusus to Eome their vanquished nation sends,
And the fair slave to thee her tresses lends. "--D.
But there is a good deal to be said on the other side.
* She sought, it would seem, to change the dark tresses
which nature had given her into the blond locks which
southern nations so admire, injured them in the effort, and
had to replace them by purchase. The vagaries of fashion
continually repeat themselves.
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 29
The testimony of Sidonius Apollinaris, after an interval
of nearly five centuries, is worth very little. "We ^,7'
have no hint of any contemporary authorities on which * ?
he founded it; and tradition, when it has to pass through
so many generations--generations, too, that suffered so
much disturbance and change--stands for next to no-
thing. If some passages, again, favour the notion that
Corinna was Julia, there are others which tell against it.
Ovid could never have ventured to use--would not even
have dreamt of expressing in words--to Agrippa or
Tiberius, the insolent threats which he vents against the
husband of Corinna. Nor is it possible to imagine that
Julia, however profligate, could ever have been even
tempted to the avarice with which Ovid reproaches his
mistress, when he remonstrates against the preference
that she had shown for some wealthy soldier just re-
turned from the wars. Then, again, the poems were
read in public;--an absolutely impossible audacity, if
there had been the faintest suspicion that they referred
to so exalted a personage as the emperor's daughter.
The writer of the verse himself tells us that it was not f f
known who was the theme of his song, and he speaks J /
of some woman who was going about boasting that'/
she was Ovid's Corinna.
Of the subject-matter of ' The Loves' there is little to J
be said. The passion which inspires the verse is coarser/
and more brutal than that of his rival poets, even when
this shows itself in its worst phases. It has nothing
of the fervour of Propertius, the tenderness of Tibullus.
It does not spring from any depth of feeling It is real,i
but its reality is of the basest, most literal sort. That
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? 30 OVID.
he describes an actual amour is only too manifest, but
that this was in any true sense of the words "an
affair of the heart " may well be doubted. But then,
again, he shows an incomparable skill in expression;
he invests even the lowest things with a certain grace.
His wit and fancy "sparkle on the stye. " If he lets
us get away for a moment from the mire--if, with the
delicate fancy that never fails him, he tells us some
legend that "boys and virgins" need not blush to read
--he is charming. There never was a more subtle and
ingenious master of ^language, and it is a grievous pity
that he should so often have used it so ill. Our speci-
men of his 'Loves' must be taken from the episodes
rather than from the ordinary course of the poems.
The following, however, will not offend. The poet re-
nounces the vain struggle which he has been waging
against love:--
"I yield, great Love! my former crimes forgive,
Forget my rebel thoughts, and let me live:
No need of force: I willingly obey,
And now, unarmed, shall prove no glorious prey.
So take thy mother's doves, thy myrtle crown,
And for thy chariot Mars will lend his own;
There shalt thou sit in thy triumphal pride,
And whilst glad shouts resound on every side.
Thy gentle hands thy mother's doves shall guide.
And then, to make thy glorious pomp and state, }
A train of sighing j'ouths and maids shall wait, >
Yet none complain of an unhappy fate.
)
Then Modesty, with veils thrown o'er her face,
Now doubly blushing at her own disgrace;
Then sober thoughts, and whatsoe'er disdains
Love's power, shall feel his power, and wear his chains.
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 31
Then all shall fear, all bow, yet all rejoice--
'Io triumphe ! ' is the public voice.
Thy constant guards, soft fancy, hope, and fear,
Anger, and soft caresses shall be there:
By these strong guards are gods and men o'erthrown,
These conquer for thee, Love, and these alone:
Thy mother, from the sky, thy pomp shall grace,
And scatter sweetest roses in thy face.
Then glorious Love shall ride, profusely dressed
With all the richest jewels of the East,
Rich gems thy quiver, and thy wheels infold,
And hide the poorness of the baser gold. "--D.
In the following the poet claims a purity and fidelity
for his affection with which it is impossible to credit
him:--
"Take, dear, a servant bound for ever; take
A heart whose troth no falsehood e'er shall break.
'Tis true but simple knightly birth is mine;
I claim no splendid names to grace my line;
My fields no countless tribe of oxen ploughs,
And scant the means a frugal home allows.
Now Phoebus aid me, and the Muses nine--
Bacchus, and Love, sweet Lord, who makes me thine,
Faith unsurpassed, and life exempt from blame,
And simple Modesty, and blushing Shame;
No trifler I; my heart no rivals share:
Thee will I make, be sure, my lifelong care;
With thee will spend what years the Fates shall give,
And when thou first shalt suffer, cease to live. "
Another little poem has been elegantly paraphrased and
adapted to modern manners by Mr A. A. Brodribb. *
* Lays from Latin Lyrics. By F. W. Hummel and A. A.
Brodribb. Longmans: 1876.
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? 32 0 viD.
It will remind the reader of a pretty passage in Mr
Tennyson's "Miller's Daughter:"--
The Ring.
"Sign of my too presumptuous flame,
To fairest Celia haste, nor linger,
And may she gladly breathe my name,
And gaily put thee on her finger!
Suit her as I myself, that she
May fondle thee with murmured blessing;
Caressed by Celia! Who could be
Unenvious of such sweet caressing i
Had I Medea's magic art,
Or Proteus' power of transformation,
Then would I blithely play thy part,
The happiest trinket in creation!
Oh! on her bosom I would fall,
Her finger guiding all too lightly;
Or else be magically small,
Fearing to be discarded nightly.
And I her ruby lips would kiss
(What mortal's fortune could be better ? )
As oft allowed to seal my bliss
As she desires to seal a letter.
Now go, these are delusions bright
Of idle Fancy's idlest scheming;
Tell her to read the token right--
Tell her how sweet is true love's dreaming. "
But the chief ornaments of the book are two elegies,
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 33
properly so called,--one of a sportive, the other of
a serious character. Catullus, a predecessor in the
poetic art, of whom Ovid speaks with respect, had
lamented, in an exquisite little poem which must
always remain a model for such compositions, the
death of the sparrow which Lesbia, his lady-love,
"loved more than her own eyes. " In a poem which,
though not so graceful as that of the older writer, and
scarcely even pretending to pathos, has many merits,
Ovid commemorates the death of his own Corinna's
parrot:--
"Our parrot, sent from India's farthest shore,
Our parrot, prince of mimics, is no more.
Throng to his burial, pious tribes of air,
With rigid claw your tender faces tear!
Your ruffled plumes, like mourners' tresses, rend,
And all your notes, like funeral trumpets, blend!
Mourn all that cleave the liquid skies, but chief
Beloved turtle, lead the general grief,
Through long harmonious days the parrot's friend,
In mutual faith still loyal to the end!
What boots that faith? those splendid hues and strange?
That voice so skilled its various notes to change?
What to have won my gentle lady's grace?
Thou diest, hapless glory of thy race.
Eed joined with saffron in thy beak was seen,
And green thy wings beyond the emerald's sheen;
Nor ever lived on earth a wiser bird,
With lisping voice to answer all he heard.
'Twas envy slew thee; all averse to strife,
One love of chatter filled thy peaceful life:
For ever satisfied with scantiest fare,
Small time for food that busy tongue could spare.
A. C. S. S. , vol. ii. o
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? 34 o viD.
Walnuts and sleep-producing poppies gave
Thy simple diet, and thy drink the wave.
Long lives the hovering vulture, long the kite
Pursues through air the circles of his flight;
Many the years the noisy jackdaws know,
Prophets of rainfall; and the boding crow
Waits, still unscathed by armed Minerva's hate,
Three ages three times told, a tardy fate.
But he, our prattler from earth's farthest shore,
Our human tongue's sweet image, is no more.
Thus still the ravening fates our best devour,
And spare the mean till life's extremest hour.
Why tell the prayers my lady prayed in vain,
Borne by the stormy south wind o'er the main?
The seventh dawn had come, the last for_thee,
With empty distaff stood the fatal Three.
Yet still from failing throat thy accents rung,
Farewell, Corinna! cried thy dying tongue.
There stands a grove with dark-green ilex crowned )
Beneath the Elysian hill, and all around \
With turf undying shines the verdant ground. f
There dwells, if true the tale, the pious race--
All evil birds are banished from the place;
There harmless swans unbounded pasture find;
There dwells the phcenix, single of his kind;
The peacock spreads his splendid plumes in air,
The kissing doves sit close, an amorous pair;
There in their woodland home a guest allowed,
Our parrot charms the pious listening crowd.
Beneath a mound, of justly measured size,
Small tombstone, briefest epitaph, he lies,
'His mistress' darling'--that this stone may show--
The prince of feathered speakers lies below. "
The other elegy has for its subject the death of the
poet Tibullus:--
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 35
"If bright Aurora mourned for Memnon's fate,
Or the fair Thetis wept Achilles slain,
And the sad sorrows that on mortals wait
Can ever move celestial hearts with pain--
Come, doleful Elegy! too just a name!
Unbind thy tresses fair, in loose attire,
For>>he, thy bard, the herald of thy fame,
Tibullus, burns on the funereal pyre.
Ah, lifeless corse! Lo! Venus' boy draws near
With upturned quiver and with shattered bow,
His torch extinguished, see him toward the bier
With drooping wings disconsolately go.
He smites his heaving breast with cruel blow,
Those straggling locks, his neck all streaming round,
Receive the tears that fastly trickling flow,
While sobs convulsive from his lips resound.
In guise like this, lulus, when of yore
His dear jEneas died, he sorrowing went;
Now Venus wails as when the raging boar
The tender thigh of her Adonis rent.
We bards are named the gods' peculiar care;
Nay, some declare that poets are divine;
Yet forward death no holy thing can spare,
'Eound all his dismal arms he dares entwine.
Did Orpheus' mother aid, or Linus' sire?
That one subdued fierce lions by his song
Availed not; and, they say, with plaintive lyre
The god mourned Linus, woods and glades among.
Mseonides, from whose perennial lay
Flow the rich fonts of the Pierian wave
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? 36 0 riD.
To wet the lips of bards, one dismal day
Sent down to Orcus and the gloomy grave--
Him, too, Averans holds in drear employ;
Only his songs escape the greedy pile;
His work remains--the mighty wars of Troy,
And the slow web, nnwove by nightly guile.
Live a pure life ;--yet death remains thy doom:
Be pious;--ere from sacred shrines you rise,
Death drags you heedless to the hollow tomb!
Confide in song--lo! there Tibullus lies.
Scarce of so great a soul, thus lowly laid,
Enough remains to fill this little urn;
O holy bard! were not the flames afraid
That hallowed corse thus ruthlessly to burn?
These might devour the heavenly halls that shine
With gold--they dare a villany so deep:
She turned who holds the Erycinian shrine,
And there are some who say she turned to weep.
Yet did the base soil of a stranger land
Not hold him nameless; as the spirit fled
His mother closed his eyes with gentle hand,
And paid the last sad tribute to the dead.
Here, with thy wretched mother's woe to wait,
Thy sister came with loose dishevelled hair;
Nemesis kisses thee, and thy earlier mate--
They watched the pyre when all had left it bare.
Departing, Delia faltered,'Thou wert true,
The Fates were cheerful then, when I was thine:
The other,' Say, what hast thou here to do i'
Dying, he clasped his failing hand in mine.
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 37
Ah, yet, if any part of us remains
But name and shadow, Albius is not dead;
And thou, Catullus, in Elysian plains,
With Calvus see the ivy crown his head.
Thou, Gallus, prodigal of life and Wood,
If false the charge of amity betrayed,
And aught remains across the Stygian flood,
Shalt meet him yonder with thy happy shade.
Refined Tibullus! thou art joined to those \
Living in calm communion with the blest; \
In peaceful urn thy quiet bones repose--
May earth lie lightly where thy ashes rest! "
(r ?
Of the 'Art of Love' the less, perhaps, that is said
the better. The poet himself warns respectable per-
sons to have nothing to do with his pages, and the
'warning is amply justified by their contents. It has,
however, some of the brilliant episodes which Ovid
introduces with such effect. His own taste, and the
taste, we may hope, of his readers, demanded that the
base level of sensuality should sometimes be left for a
higher flight of fancy. The description of Ariadne in
yaxos is as brilliant as Titian! s. pjcture; equally vivid
is the story of the flight of Dsedalus and his son Icarus
on the wings which the matchless craftsman had made,
aiuTdTth'e fate which followed the over-daring flight of
the youth through regions too near to the sun. Then,-
agairi, we find ever and anon pictures of Eoman man-
ners which may amuse without offence. Among such
are Ovid's instructions to his fair readers how they
may most becomingly take their part in the games of
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? 38 OVID.
chance and skill which were popular in the polite
circles of Eome. Among these games he mentions
the cubical dice, called tesserm, resembling our own
in shape, and similarly marked. Three of these were
used together; and it was customary to throw them
from cups of a conical shape. The luckiest throw was
"treble sixes," and was honoured by the name of
Aphrodite or Venus. The worst was "treble aces :"
this was stigmatised as " the dog. " There were other
dice made out of the knuckle-bones of animals. They
were called tali. (Our own popular name for them is
"dibs. ") These were used either in the same way as
the cubical dice, though they were not numbered in
the same way, or in a game of manual skill which still
survives among us, where the player throws them
and catches them again, or performs other feats of
dexterity with them. Besides these there was the
game of the "Eobbers" (Ludus Latrunculorum),
played with pieces made of glass or ivory, which has
been compared with chess, but was probably not so
complicated, and more nearly resembling our games
of "Fox and Geese" and "Military Tactics. " The
game of the "Fifteen Lines" must have been very
like our " Backgammon," as the moves of the men were
determined by previous throws of dice. Ovid, after
recommending his readers to practise a graceful play-
ing at the games, wisely warns them that it is still
more important that they should learn to keep their
temper. The suitor he advises to allow his fair an-
tagonist to win, a counsel doubtless often followed by
those who have never had the advantage--or, we should
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. S9
rather say, the disadvantage--of studying Ovid's pre-
cepts. Equally familiar will be the device of a present
of fruit brought by a slave-boy in a rustic basket,
which the lover will declare has been conveyed from
a country garden, though he will probably have bought
it in the neighbouring street. A certain sagacity must
be allowed to the counsel that the lover, when his lady
is sick, must not take upon himself the odious office of
forbidding her a favourite dish; and will, if possible,
hand over to a rival the office, equally odious, of ad-
ministering a nauseous. medicine. The recommenda-
tion not to be too particular in inquiring about age is
equally sagacious. It is curious to observe that Lord
Byron's expressed aversion to seeing women eat was
not unknown to the Eoman youth. Ovid, who, to do
him justice, never praises wine, hints that drinking
was not equally distasteful.
The 'Eemedies ofr Lovef may be dismissed with
a still briefer notice. Like the 'Art of Love,' it
is relieved by some beautiful digressions. "When it
keeps close to its subject, it is, to say the least, not
edifying. The "Eemedies," indeed, are for the most
part as bad as the disease, though we must except that
most respectable maxim that "idleness is the parent
of love," with the poet's practical application of it.
One specimen of these two books shall suffice. It is
of the episodical kind, -- a brilliant panegyric oa
the young Csesar, Caius, son of Augustus's daughter
Julia, who was then preparing to take the command
of an expedition against the Parthians. Gross as is
the flattery, it is perhaps less offensive than usual.
? ?
? 22 0 VID.
Naxos, the desolate island from whose shore Ariadne
has seen the departing sails of the treacherous Theseus.
Nor is there even an attempt at giving any colouring
appropriate to the time and place to which the several
letters are supposed to belong. Penelope, Dido, Ari-
; adne are all alike refined and well-educated persons,
i just like the great Eoman ladies whom the poet used
to meet in daily life. This artificial writing, abso-
lutely without all that is called realism, was character-
istic of Ovid's age, and we cannot make it a special
charge against him. But it has certainly a wearying
effect, which is increased by the sameness and mono-
tony of the subject-matter of the Epistles. The names
are different, the circumstances are changed according
as the several stories demand, but the theme is ever the
same--love, now angry and full of reproaches, now ten-
der and condescending to entreaty. Nor is that love
the "maiden passion" which has supplied in mod-
ern times the theme of poems and romances without
number. It is the fierce emotion, guilty or wrathful,
though sometimes, it must be allowed, melting into
genuine pathos and tenderness, of betrayed maidens
and outraged wives. But, on the other hand, though
the theme is the same, the variety of expression is end-
\ less. The skill with which Ovid continues, again and
again, to say the same thing without repeating him-
self, is astonishing. In this respect no poet has ever
shown himself more thoroughly a master of his art.
Feeling, too, real though not elevated, often makes it-
self felt in the midst of the artificial sentiment; if the
style is disfigured with conceits, it is always exquisitely
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 23
polished; the language is universally easy and trans-
parent, and the verse an unbroken flow of exquisite
melody.
Of all the Epistles, the one which for purity and ten-
derness most commends itself to our taste, is that ad-
dressed by the Thessalian princess Laodamia to her
husband Protesilaus. He had joined the expedition
of the Greeks against Troy, and was the destined
victim of the prophecy which foretold the death of the
Greek chieftain who should be the first to leap from
the ships on to the Trojan shore. Eeaders of "Words-
worth will remember the beautiful poem in which he
has treated that part of the legend which relates how
Jove granted to the prayers of the widowed queen
that her hero should for a brief space of time revisit
the earth. Laodamia had heard that her husband and
his companions were detained at Aulis by contrary
winds. '"Why had not the winds been contrary when
he left his home? They had been too favourable--
favourable for the sailor, not for the lover. As long
as she could see, she had watched the departing sails.
"When they vanished, she had seemed to pass from life,
and could wish that she never had been recalled--for
her, life was sorrow. How could she wear her royal
robes while her husband was enduring the toil and
wretchedness of war? Accursed beauty of Paris that
had wrought such woe! Accursed vengeance of Mene-
laus that would be fatal to so many! How foolish the
enterprise of the Greeks! Surely the man who had
dared to carry off the daughter of Tyndarus would be
able to keep her. And there was some dreadful
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? 24 0 VID.
Hector of whom she had heard; let Protesilaus be-
ware of him. Let him always fight as one who re-
membered that there was a wife waiting for him at
home. It was Menelaus who had been wronged; let
it be Menelaus who should exact vengeance. A rumour
had reached her that the first chief to touch Trojan
soil must fall . Let Protesilaus be careful not to be
he. Eather let his be the last of the thousand ships
--the last in going, but the first to return. Now she
mourned for him night and day. The dreams hi
which she hoped to meet her husband did but bring
back his pale image. This made her pray to the gods
and burn incense on every altar in Thessaly. "When
would he return and tell the tale of his deeds? But
the hope suggested the dreadful thought of Troy and
the dangers of the sea. The sea, indeed, seemed to
forbid their journey. If it was so, what madness to
go! The delay was not an accident; it was an inti-
mation from heaven. Let them return while they
could. But no! She will recall the wish. She will
pray for favourable winds. If only it was not so far
away! ' And then she contrasts the sorrows of her own
loneliness with what she cannot but think the happier
lot of those who were shut up in the walls of Troy:--
j"Ah! Trojan women (happier far than we),
Fain in your lot would I partaker be!
If ye must mourn o'er some dead hero's bier,
And all the dangers of the war are near,
With you at least the fair and youthful bride
May arm her husband, in becoming pride;
Lift the fierce helmet to his gallant brow,
And, with a trembling hand, his sword bestow;
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 25
With fingers all unused the weapon brace,
And gaze with fondest love upon his face!
How sweet to both this office she will make--
How many a kiss receive--how many take!
When all equipped she leads him from the door,
Her fond commands how oft repeating o'er :--
'Return victorious, and thine arms enshrine--
Return, beloved, to these arms of mine! '
Nor shall these fond commands be all in vain,
Her hero-husband will return again.
Amid the battle's din and clashing swords
He still will listen to her parting words;
And, if more prudent, still, ah! not less brave,
One thought for her and for his home will save. "~|
The letter of Sappho, the famous poetess of Lesbos,
to Phaon, a beautiful youth who had betrayed her love,
is founded on a less pleasing story--a story, too, which
has no foundation either in the remains--miserably
scanty, alas! but full of beauty--of the great singer,
or in any authentic records of her life. It might well
have been passed over had it not been illustrated by
the genius of Pope. Pope never attempted the part
of a faithful translator; but his verse has a freedom
and a glow which leave the faithful translator in
despair. And his polished antithetical style is as
suitable, it should be said, to the artificial and rhetori-
cal verse of Ovid, as it is incongruous with the simple
grandeur of Homer. It is thus that he renders the
passage in which Sappho announces her intention to
try the famous remedy for hopeless love, the leap from
the Leucadian rock:--
"A spring there is, where silver waters show,
Clear as a glass, the shining sands below;
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? 26 o viD.
A flowery lotus spreads its arms above,
Shades all the banks, and seems itself a grove:
Eternal greens the mossy margin grace,
Watched by the sylvan genius of the place.
Here as I lay, and swelled with tears the flood,
Before my sight a watery virgin stood:
She stood and cried, ' Oh, you that love in vain,
Fly hence, and seek the fair Leucadian main!
There stands a rock, from whose impending steep
Apollo's fane surveys the rolling deep;
There injured lovers, leaping from above,
Their flames extinguish and forget to love.
Deucalion once with hopeless fury burned,
In vain he loved, relentless Pyrrha scorned:
But when from hence he plunged into the main,
Deucalion scorned and Pyrrha loved in vain.
Hence, Sappho, haste! from high Leucadia throw
Thy wretched weight, nor dread the deeps below. '
She spoke, and vanished with the voice--I rise,
And silent tears fall trickling from my eyes.
I go, ye nymphs, those rocks and seas to prove:
And much I fear; but ah! how much I love!
I go, ye nymphs, where furious love inspires;
Let female fears submit to female fires.
To rocks and seas I fly from Phaon's hate,
And hope from seas and rocks a milder fate.
Ye gentle gales, below my body blow,
And softly lay me on the waves below!
And then, kind Love, my sinking limbs sustain,
Spread thy soft wings, and waft me o'er the main,
Nor let a lover's death the guiltless flood profane!
On Phoebus' shrine my harp I'll then bestow,
And this inscription shall be placed below--
'Here she who sung to him that did inspire,
Sappho to Phoebus consecrates her lyre;
What suits with Sappho, Phcebus, suits with thee--
The gift, the giver, and the god agree. '"
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 27
"We have 'The Loves,' as has been said, in a second
edition. "Five books," says the poet in his prefatory-
quatrain, "have been reduced to three. " "Though you
find no pleasure in reading us," the volumes are made
to say to the reader, "we shall at least, when thus
diminished by two, vex you less. " A question imme-
diately presents itself, Who was the Corinna whom he c^----
celebrates in these poems? It has often been argued, ^y
and that by critics of no small authority, that she was
no less famous a personage thin Julia, daughter of the
Emperor Augustus by his firs? wife Scribonia. This
indeed is expressly stated as a fact by Sidonius Apol-
linaris, a poet of the fifth century, and a somewhat
distinguished personage, first as a politician, and after-
wards as the bishop of Clerniont in Auvergne. Of
Julia the briefest account will be the best. She was
wife successively of Marcus [Marcellus, nephew to
Augustus; of Marcus Vipsa&ius Agrippa; and of
Tiberius, afterwards emperor. | This last union was
most unhappy. Tiberius h^d been compelled to
divorce a wife whom he deaily loved, and he found
himself bound to a woman whose profligacy was con-
spicuous even in a profligate age. After a short union
he retired into a voluntary exile; and Augustus then
became aware of what all Eomp had long known, that
his daughter was an abandoned woman. He banished
her from Italy, and kept her in a rigorous imprison-
ment, which was never relaxed till her death. There
is nothing, therefore, in the character of Julia that is
inconsistent with her being the Corinna of Ovid's
poems. "We can even find some confirmation of the
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? 28 0 vID.
'theory. Corinna, it is evident, did not belong to that
\ I class of freed-women which included the DeEa~bf
j Tibullus and the Cynthia of Propertius. Sometimes
we are led to believe that she was a lady of high,
social position. Her apartments were guarded by a
eunuch--not a common circumstance in Eome, and.
obviously the mark of a wealthy household. That
she was married the poet expressly states. And a
curious coincidence has been pointed out which,
though it does not go very far, may be allowed to
make for the identification with Julia. This princess
had lost much of her hair through the unsparing use
of dyes. * And we find Ovid remonstrating with
Corinna on her folly in producing in the same way
the same disfigurement:--
"No weeds destroyed them with their fatal juice,
Nor canst thou witches' magic charms accuse,
Nor rival's love, nor dire enchantments blame,
Nor envy's blasting tongue, nor fever's flame;
The mischief by thy own fair hands was wrought,
Nor dost thou suffer for another's fault.
How oft I bade thee, but in vain, beware
The venomed essence that destroyed thy hair!
Now with new arts thou shalt thy friends amuse,
And curls, of German captives borrowed, use.
Drusus to Eome their vanquished nation sends,
And the fair slave to thee her tresses lends. "--D.
But there is a good deal to be said on the other side.
* She sought, it would seem, to change the dark tresses
which nature had given her into the blond locks which
southern nations so admire, injured them in the effort, and
had to replace them by purchase. The vagaries of fashion
continually repeat themselves.
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 29
The testimony of Sidonius Apollinaris, after an interval
of nearly five centuries, is worth very little. "We ^,7'
have no hint of any contemporary authorities on which * ?
he founded it; and tradition, when it has to pass through
so many generations--generations, too, that suffered so
much disturbance and change--stands for next to no-
thing. If some passages, again, favour the notion that
Corinna was Julia, there are others which tell against it.
Ovid could never have ventured to use--would not even
have dreamt of expressing in words--to Agrippa or
Tiberius, the insolent threats which he vents against the
husband of Corinna. Nor is it possible to imagine that
Julia, however profligate, could ever have been even
tempted to the avarice with which Ovid reproaches his
mistress, when he remonstrates against the preference
that she had shown for some wealthy soldier just re-
turned from the wars. Then, again, the poems were
read in public;--an absolutely impossible audacity, if
there had been the faintest suspicion that they referred
to so exalted a personage as the emperor's daughter.
The writer of the verse himself tells us that it was not f f
known who was the theme of his song, and he speaks J /
of some woman who was going about boasting that'/
she was Ovid's Corinna.
Of the subject-matter of ' The Loves' there is little to J
be said. The passion which inspires the verse is coarser/
and more brutal than that of his rival poets, even when
this shows itself in its worst phases. It has nothing
of the fervour of Propertius, the tenderness of Tibullus.
It does not spring from any depth of feeling It is real,i
but its reality is of the basest, most literal sort. That
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? 30 OVID.
he describes an actual amour is only too manifest, but
that this was in any true sense of the words "an
affair of the heart " may well be doubted. But then,
again, he shows an incomparable skill in expression;
he invests even the lowest things with a certain grace.
His wit and fancy "sparkle on the stye. " If he lets
us get away for a moment from the mire--if, with the
delicate fancy that never fails him, he tells us some
legend that "boys and virgins" need not blush to read
--he is charming. There never was a more subtle and
ingenious master of ^language, and it is a grievous pity
that he should so often have used it so ill. Our speci-
men of his 'Loves' must be taken from the episodes
rather than from the ordinary course of the poems.
The following, however, will not offend. The poet re-
nounces the vain struggle which he has been waging
against love:--
"I yield, great Love! my former crimes forgive,
Forget my rebel thoughts, and let me live:
No need of force: I willingly obey,
And now, unarmed, shall prove no glorious prey.
So take thy mother's doves, thy myrtle crown,
And for thy chariot Mars will lend his own;
There shalt thou sit in thy triumphal pride,
And whilst glad shouts resound on every side.
Thy gentle hands thy mother's doves shall guide.
And then, to make thy glorious pomp and state, }
A train of sighing j'ouths and maids shall wait, >
Yet none complain of an unhappy fate.
)
Then Modesty, with veils thrown o'er her face,
Now doubly blushing at her own disgrace;
Then sober thoughts, and whatsoe'er disdains
Love's power, shall feel his power, and wear his chains.
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 31
Then all shall fear, all bow, yet all rejoice--
'Io triumphe ! ' is the public voice.
Thy constant guards, soft fancy, hope, and fear,
Anger, and soft caresses shall be there:
By these strong guards are gods and men o'erthrown,
These conquer for thee, Love, and these alone:
Thy mother, from the sky, thy pomp shall grace,
And scatter sweetest roses in thy face.
Then glorious Love shall ride, profusely dressed
With all the richest jewels of the East,
Rich gems thy quiver, and thy wheels infold,
And hide the poorness of the baser gold. "--D.
In the following the poet claims a purity and fidelity
for his affection with which it is impossible to credit
him:--
"Take, dear, a servant bound for ever; take
A heart whose troth no falsehood e'er shall break.
'Tis true but simple knightly birth is mine;
I claim no splendid names to grace my line;
My fields no countless tribe of oxen ploughs,
And scant the means a frugal home allows.
Now Phoebus aid me, and the Muses nine--
Bacchus, and Love, sweet Lord, who makes me thine,
Faith unsurpassed, and life exempt from blame,
And simple Modesty, and blushing Shame;
No trifler I; my heart no rivals share:
Thee will I make, be sure, my lifelong care;
With thee will spend what years the Fates shall give,
And when thou first shalt suffer, cease to live. "
Another little poem has been elegantly paraphrased and
adapted to modern manners by Mr A. A. Brodribb. *
* Lays from Latin Lyrics. By F. W. Hummel and A. A.
Brodribb. Longmans: 1876.
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? 32 0 viD.
It will remind the reader of a pretty passage in Mr
Tennyson's "Miller's Daughter:"--
The Ring.
"Sign of my too presumptuous flame,
To fairest Celia haste, nor linger,
And may she gladly breathe my name,
And gaily put thee on her finger!
Suit her as I myself, that she
May fondle thee with murmured blessing;
Caressed by Celia! Who could be
Unenvious of such sweet caressing i
Had I Medea's magic art,
Or Proteus' power of transformation,
Then would I blithely play thy part,
The happiest trinket in creation!
Oh! on her bosom I would fall,
Her finger guiding all too lightly;
Or else be magically small,
Fearing to be discarded nightly.
And I her ruby lips would kiss
(What mortal's fortune could be better ? )
As oft allowed to seal my bliss
As she desires to seal a letter.
Now go, these are delusions bright
Of idle Fancy's idlest scheming;
Tell her to read the token right--
Tell her how sweet is true love's dreaming. "
But the chief ornaments of the book are two elegies,
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 33
properly so called,--one of a sportive, the other of
a serious character. Catullus, a predecessor in the
poetic art, of whom Ovid speaks with respect, had
lamented, in an exquisite little poem which must
always remain a model for such compositions, the
death of the sparrow which Lesbia, his lady-love,
"loved more than her own eyes. " In a poem which,
though not so graceful as that of the older writer, and
scarcely even pretending to pathos, has many merits,
Ovid commemorates the death of his own Corinna's
parrot:--
"Our parrot, sent from India's farthest shore,
Our parrot, prince of mimics, is no more.
Throng to his burial, pious tribes of air,
With rigid claw your tender faces tear!
Your ruffled plumes, like mourners' tresses, rend,
And all your notes, like funeral trumpets, blend!
Mourn all that cleave the liquid skies, but chief
Beloved turtle, lead the general grief,
Through long harmonious days the parrot's friend,
In mutual faith still loyal to the end!
What boots that faith? those splendid hues and strange?
That voice so skilled its various notes to change?
What to have won my gentle lady's grace?
Thou diest, hapless glory of thy race.
Eed joined with saffron in thy beak was seen,
And green thy wings beyond the emerald's sheen;
Nor ever lived on earth a wiser bird,
With lisping voice to answer all he heard.
'Twas envy slew thee; all averse to strife,
One love of chatter filled thy peaceful life:
For ever satisfied with scantiest fare,
Small time for food that busy tongue could spare.
A. C. S. S. , vol. ii. o
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? 34 o viD.
Walnuts and sleep-producing poppies gave
Thy simple diet, and thy drink the wave.
Long lives the hovering vulture, long the kite
Pursues through air the circles of his flight;
Many the years the noisy jackdaws know,
Prophets of rainfall; and the boding crow
Waits, still unscathed by armed Minerva's hate,
Three ages three times told, a tardy fate.
But he, our prattler from earth's farthest shore,
Our human tongue's sweet image, is no more.
Thus still the ravening fates our best devour,
And spare the mean till life's extremest hour.
Why tell the prayers my lady prayed in vain,
Borne by the stormy south wind o'er the main?
The seventh dawn had come, the last for_thee,
With empty distaff stood the fatal Three.
Yet still from failing throat thy accents rung,
Farewell, Corinna! cried thy dying tongue.
There stands a grove with dark-green ilex crowned )
Beneath the Elysian hill, and all around \
With turf undying shines the verdant ground. f
There dwells, if true the tale, the pious race--
All evil birds are banished from the place;
There harmless swans unbounded pasture find;
There dwells the phcenix, single of his kind;
The peacock spreads his splendid plumes in air,
The kissing doves sit close, an amorous pair;
There in their woodland home a guest allowed,
Our parrot charms the pious listening crowd.
Beneath a mound, of justly measured size,
Small tombstone, briefest epitaph, he lies,
'His mistress' darling'--that this stone may show--
The prince of feathered speakers lies below. "
The other elegy has for its subject the death of the
poet Tibullus:--
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 35
"If bright Aurora mourned for Memnon's fate,
Or the fair Thetis wept Achilles slain,
And the sad sorrows that on mortals wait
Can ever move celestial hearts with pain--
Come, doleful Elegy! too just a name!
Unbind thy tresses fair, in loose attire,
For>>he, thy bard, the herald of thy fame,
Tibullus, burns on the funereal pyre.
Ah, lifeless corse! Lo! Venus' boy draws near
With upturned quiver and with shattered bow,
His torch extinguished, see him toward the bier
With drooping wings disconsolately go.
He smites his heaving breast with cruel blow,
Those straggling locks, his neck all streaming round,
Receive the tears that fastly trickling flow,
While sobs convulsive from his lips resound.
In guise like this, lulus, when of yore
His dear jEneas died, he sorrowing went;
Now Venus wails as when the raging boar
The tender thigh of her Adonis rent.
We bards are named the gods' peculiar care;
Nay, some declare that poets are divine;
Yet forward death no holy thing can spare,
'Eound all his dismal arms he dares entwine.
Did Orpheus' mother aid, or Linus' sire?
That one subdued fierce lions by his song
Availed not; and, they say, with plaintive lyre
The god mourned Linus, woods and glades among.
Mseonides, from whose perennial lay
Flow the rich fonts of the Pierian wave
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? 36 0 riD.
To wet the lips of bards, one dismal day
Sent down to Orcus and the gloomy grave--
Him, too, Averans holds in drear employ;
Only his songs escape the greedy pile;
His work remains--the mighty wars of Troy,
And the slow web, nnwove by nightly guile.
Live a pure life ;--yet death remains thy doom:
Be pious;--ere from sacred shrines you rise,
Death drags you heedless to the hollow tomb!
Confide in song--lo! there Tibullus lies.
Scarce of so great a soul, thus lowly laid,
Enough remains to fill this little urn;
O holy bard! were not the flames afraid
That hallowed corse thus ruthlessly to burn?
These might devour the heavenly halls that shine
With gold--they dare a villany so deep:
She turned who holds the Erycinian shrine,
And there are some who say she turned to weep.
Yet did the base soil of a stranger land
Not hold him nameless; as the spirit fled
His mother closed his eyes with gentle hand,
And paid the last sad tribute to the dead.
Here, with thy wretched mother's woe to wait,
Thy sister came with loose dishevelled hair;
Nemesis kisses thee, and thy earlier mate--
They watched the pyre when all had left it bare.
Departing, Delia faltered,'Thou wert true,
The Fates were cheerful then, when I was thine:
The other,' Say, what hast thou here to do i'
Dying, he clasped his failing hand in mine.
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. 37
Ah, yet, if any part of us remains
But name and shadow, Albius is not dead;
And thou, Catullus, in Elysian plains,
With Calvus see the ivy crown his head.
Thou, Gallus, prodigal of life and Wood,
If false the charge of amity betrayed,
And aught remains across the Stygian flood,
Shalt meet him yonder with thy happy shade.
Refined Tibullus! thou art joined to those \
Living in calm communion with the blest; \
In peaceful urn thy quiet bones repose--
May earth lie lightly where thy ashes rest! "
(r ?
Of the 'Art of Love' the less, perhaps, that is said
the better. The poet himself warns respectable per-
sons to have nothing to do with his pages, and the
'warning is amply justified by their contents. It has,
however, some of the brilliant episodes which Ovid
introduces with such effect. His own taste, and the
taste, we may hope, of his readers, demanded that the
base level of sensuality should sometimes be left for a
higher flight of fancy. The description of Ariadne in
yaxos is as brilliant as Titian! s. pjcture; equally vivid
is the story of the flight of Dsedalus and his son Icarus
on the wings which the matchless craftsman had made,
aiuTdTth'e fate which followed the over-daring flight of
the youth through regions too near to the sun. Then,-
agairi, we find ever and anon pictures of Eoman man-
ners which may amuse without offence. Among such
are Ovid's instructions to his fair readers how they
may most becomingly take their part in the games of
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? 38 OVID.
chance and skill which were popular in the polite
circles of Eome. Among these games he mentions
the cubical dice, called tesserm, resembling our own
in shape, and similarly marked. Three of these were
used together; and it was customary to throw them
from cups of a conical shape. The luckiest throw was
"treble sixes," and was honoured by the name of
Aphrodite or Venus. The worst was "treble aces :"
this was stigmatised as " the dog. " There were other
dice made out of the knuckle-bones of animals. They
were called tali. (Our own popular name for them is
"dibs. ") These were used either in the same way as
the cubical dice, though they were not numbered in
the same way, or in a game of manual skill which still
survives among us, where the player throws them
and catches them again, or performs other feats of
dexterity with them. Besides these there was the
game of the "Eobbers" (Ludus Latrunculorum),
played with pieces made of glass or ivory, which has
been compared with chess, but was probably not so
complicated, and more nearly resembling our games
of "Fox and Geese" and "Military Tactics. " The
game of the "Fifteen Lines" must have been very
like our " Backgammon," as the moves of the men were
determined by previous throws of dice. Ovid, after
recommending his readers to practise a graceful play-
ing at the games, wisely warns them that it is still
more important that they should learn to keep their
temper. The suitor he advises to allow his fair an-
tagonist to win, a counsel doubtless often followed by
those who have never had the advantage--or, we should
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? THE LOVE-POEMS. S9
rather say, the disadvantage--of studying Ovid's pre-
cepts. Equally familiar will be the device of a present
of fruit brought by a slave-boy in a rustic basket,
which the lover will declare has been conveyed from
a country garden, though he will probably have bought
it in the neighbouring street. A certain sagacity must
be allowed to the counsel that the lover, when his lady
is sick, must not take upon himself the odious office of
forbidding her a favourite dish; and will, if possible,
hand over to a rival the office, equally odious, of ad-
ministering a nauseous. medicine. The recommenda-
tion not to be too particular in inquiring about age is
equally sagacious. It is curious to observe that Lord
Byron's expressed aversion to seeing women eat was
not unknown to the Eoman youth. Ovid, who, to do
him justice, never praises wine, hints that drinking
was not equally distasteful.
The 'Eemedies ofr Lovef may be dismissed with
a still briefer notice. Like the 'Art of Love,' it
is relieved by some beautiful digressions. "When it
keeps close to its subject, it is, to say the least, not
edifying. The "Eemedies," indeed, are for the most
part as bad as the disease, though we must except that
most respectable maxim that "idleness is the parent
of love," with the poet's practical application of it.
One specimen of these two books shall suffice. It is
of the episodical kind, -- a brilliant panegyric oa
the young Csesar, Caius, son of Augustus's daughter
Julia, who was then preparing to take the command
of an expedition against the Parthians. Gross as is
the flattery, it is perhaps less offensive than usual.
? ?
