No More Learning

Brother of mine, oh unheeding dust,
That the fire has seared and the urn has crushed,
"Listen," I cry with a fruitless faith
As I lean my lips to the ear of death,
"Brother of mine! "
Brother of mine, who art gone from me,
Was Life so blind to the worth of thee?
I come, as our fathers bade us come,
With a last sad gift to thy lonely tomb,
Brother of mine.
Brother of mine, to the end of time
Thy death shall live in my tear-stained rhyme.
Comrade of old, be my comrade still,
Hail yet again, and again farewell,
Brother of mine.
[ It might be thought to argue a morbid taste if one should
dwell longer upon this side of Catullus. And yet it is in
j the poems of sorrow that we seem to have his deepest and
I most earnest thought. They are a marvel of self-
"Tevelation. Nor is this only a revelation of self. For,
like Death in Sir Walter Raleigh's famous Epilogue,
Catullus, "the human," holds up a glass before the eyes
of us all in which we may see our own humanity--and we
acknowledge it. And the note is quite distinct from
every other note but Virgil's in Latin Poetry. If
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it admits analysis at all, it is the tingling
protest of full-blooded life against a seemingly inscrut-
able and unjust decree. It is the child's or the pagan's
attitude of rebellion against inevitable law; the blank
despair of the soul, without faith in immortality, which
has dreamed of life that it is very good and awakes to
realise that it is also very short.
It is fortunate for us that in life, as in literature, such
agony is shortlived. And that, unless the sufferer dies of
his wounds, after the horror of the revelation, comes the
cold serenity of middle-age; that the lover with his woeful
ballad quits the stage, and to him succeeds the matter-of-
fact man, who has shed his enthusiasms and parted with
his ambitions, and who is either, as George Meredith says
of Horace, "turning to fat in the %in," hugging a little
hoard of comfortable maxims, which tell him that content
lies here or lies there, and learning the hard and imprac-
ticable lesson to love nothing, hate nothing, value nothing,
except, it may be, the even-balanced mind, with its " perfect
philosophic tolerance " and garish devotion to the pleasure
of the moment, "the little crow and croon" of Omar-
Fitzgerald : --
Ah fill the Cup: what boots it to repeat
How time is slipping underneath our Feet?
Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday,
Why fret about them if To-day be sweet!
Or else, like the hero of Rugby Chapel, he becomes a slave
to the idea of duty, pressing on with a more virile motive
"to a clear-purposed goal," with the same indifference
to all else and with the conscious strenuousness with which
Milton invests the hero of Paradise Lost:--
The unconquerable will
And courage never to submit or yield
And what else is not to be overcome.
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In either case, be he Epicurean or Stoic, the man has lost
the light of his youth, the spirit of Catullus. The vision
and the agony return no more.
It is to the sheaf of "unassailable" lyrics that
Catullus owes his immortality. But he is as remarkable,
in a way, for his lighter verse, short pieces, every one of
them. There is, if we may so say, a kind of "other-
dayishness " about the occasional poems. Slight incidents
and passing episodes, described in language which in point
of diction differs hardly, if at all, from the prose of every
day, take under his hand as vivid a reality as if they had
occurred this week in England, not "nineteen-hundred
years ago " in Rome. Translations can only suggest this;
but two may perhaps be cited--an acknowledgment to the
great orator Cicero and an invitation to a frivolous friend;
for the former I am indebted to an old student,* for the
latter to an anonymous writer in the Press:--
O Marcus, Master of the Roman Bar,
Prince of all Counsels that have been, that are,
And shrewdest of all Counsels yet to be
To guide or gull us,--
His thanks the worst of poets offers thee:
Thee, of all advocates the very first,
He of all poets quite the very worst--
Your friend--Catullus!
If you're in luck's way, by and by
We'll feast, old crony, you and I
Right royally; but don't omit
Rare and refreshing stores of wit
And wine--in short of everything: --
We'll feast like lords if these you'll bring;
* The Rev. Cyril Martindale.
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For cobwebs fill my money-coffer
And I have nothing else to offer
But mere affection. . . . As I live
There's just one dainty left to give--
A scent, distilled by Love and Venus
For Lesbia, which we'll share between us.
So fragrant 'tis, you'll cry, I know:
"Gods, make me nose from top to toe. "
The figures, too, are as true to life in the gay as in the
serious poems: Egnatius with the recurring smile, the
prototype of the man with the teeth in Dickens; Sulla, the
litterateur, how he would have vexed the soul of Dr.
Johnson! (the type is perennial); the man who would not
rest till his friends had read and criticised his work;
Pollio, the shameless cleptomaniac; and Arrius, the Roman
cockney. These portraits form a gallery in which one
would gladly linger. But let me conclude with a poem of
a different stamp, the Hymn to Diana, written for boys
and girls to sing at a public festival. I give it as rendered
by Professor Jebb. "There are few more entirely success-
ful pieces of translation," says the Professor of Poetry at
Oxford in his recent Essays of Poets and Poetry, "than
Sir Richard Jebb's poetic rendering of Catullus's lovely
little lyric. " The poem illustrates the detachment and the
purity that are one side of this chameleon Catullus.
Diana guardeth our estate,
Girls and boys immaculate;
Boys and maidens pure of stain,
Be Diana our refrain.
O Latonia, pledge of love
Glorious to most glorious Jove,
Near the Delian olive-tree
Latona gave thy life to thee,
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That thou should'st be for ever queen
Of mountains and of forests green;
Of every deep glen's mystery;
Of all streams and their melody.
Women in travail ask their peace
From thee, our Lady of Release:
Thou art the watcher of the ways:
Thou art the Moon with borrowed rays:
And, as thy full or waning tide
Marks how the monthly seasons glide,
Thou, Goddess, sendest wealth of store
To bless the farmer's thrifty floor.
Whatever name delights thine ear,
By that name be thou hallowed here;
And, as of old, be good to us,
The lineage of Romulus.
There is a steady glow of tranquil beauty about this
poem, which is worlds away from the volcanic fire and
fury of the epigrams. The contrast is so marked that as
we turn from the one to the other we find ourselves asking
whether they can both be the work of the same man,
unless, indeed, we accept the Diana and the Sirmto as
fruits of study--an acquired calm, and say that the " fever
and the pain" were in the blood--an inheritance and a
birthright. For, indeed, no student of Catullus can live
long among Celts without feeling irresistibly drawn to an
old theory recently revived by a great authority on Celtic
literature, Dr. Kuno Meyer;* the theory, I mean, that
Catullus was a Celt or that at least he had Celtic blood in
* In a University Lecture given at Oxford last autumn. In
what follows I am indebted to Dr. Meyer for the benefit of some
brief remarks which he sent me privately on the subject.
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his veins. The native Latin took from time to time fresh
hues in a Greek school, a Spanish school, an African
school of Roman literature, in all of which a racial pattern
is clearly discernible upon the groundwork of the mother
tongue. Even from different parts of Italy itself came
writers with a local temperament so strongly marked that
it is unhesitatingly declared to have been characteristic of
their native district. Thus the arrogance of Naevius is
ascribed to his Campanian stock and the melancholy of
Propertius to his Umbrian descent. Now there is no
external evidence in the case of Catullus. But we all
know the Celtic temperament. It is the Irish plays of
Mr. Synge; it is Ulster Hall; it is Committee Room
Fifteen; it is the dreamy mysticism of the Highlander;
it is the haunting pathos of those wonderful dirges which
make up the most distinctive element in Welsh music. It
is subject to many moods--a close sympathy with nature
and a keen relish for life. It is compact of gall and
honey, of fire and gloom. It is that strange medley of
stormy optimism and brooding melancholy that we must
often have marvelled to see mixed and commingled in
some Celt of our acquaintance. In a word, it is the
temperament of Catullus. And when we find that the
poet had a Celtic name of which the modern Cadwall or
Cadell is said to be the lineal descendant;* that he came
from a district peopled almost from time immemorial with
Celtic settlers, full of Celtic traditions and Celtic associa-
tions; and when Professor Meyer assures us that " for all
the un-Roman features in his work parallels may be cited
in plenty from Irish and Welsh poetry," we shall be
strangely sceptical if we do not admit that here is perhaps
the clue to the paradox of Catullus, the eager, wayward,
* For this derivation I have to thank my friend Mr. T. H.
Thomas, of Cardiff.
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? 28
passionate child, at whose touch the cold Latin took on the
warm humanity and poignant pathos which meet us again
and again in that other quasi-Celt, the Master, Virgil,* and
which through some mysterious medium of racial sym-
pathy never fail to awaken a responsive echo of vivid
affection in Celtic students to-day. t
Here, then, is one clue. But a greater marvel remains.
For, given the Celtic temperament and the bitter-sweet
experience, who shall say how it was all to be embodied
in language? That is the triumph which Art achieves
although it is denied to Science. A famous teacher cf
Science, at the close of a long life devoted to experi-
mental research, declared his work to be, after all, a
failure, because on his laboratory tables he had never been
able to create life. And yet that is just the miracle which
Catullus performed and which the true poet must always
perform. Unless the characters "breathe and move and
have their being" in his song, the work does not count.
Two streams of life, with ebb and flow,
Throughout the world forever go,
Two currents that set steadily
From century to century.
But one runs in the veins of man
And has done since the race began;
The other floods the unchanging page
With changing hues from age to age.
The men that were, the men that are,
Look ever to the self-same star,
* Cf. (e. g. ) Sellar's Virgil, p. 104.
t This theory might help to solve the enigma of the Attis.
Traditions which assigned an Oriental origin to the Celts may
have interested Catullus in Eastern legends, just as in modern
times they drew Mangan to handle Oriental themes. See Lionel
Johnson in the Treasury of Irish Poetry, edited by Stopford A.
Brooke and T. W. Rolleston (Smith, Elder & Co. ), p. 245.
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And Nature on her living loom
Weaves still the pattern of our doom,
Impulse and effort, love and strife,
The travail and the joy of life,
The hope, the fear, the rage, the lust,
That will not mingle with the dust,
But still incarnate, vocal still,
Their destiny and ours fulfil.
Pent in our narrow room we see
The passion and the pageantry,
And each in his own soul still hives
The mystery of other lives,
And claims for kin the nobler soul,
Who ran the race and reached the goal,
Or struck the blow and won renown,
That to all time goes ringing down.
Aye, still those gallant spirits ride
Triumphant on the racing tide,
And still upon the wind is borne
The challenge of that elfin horn.
Ladies and Gentlemen,--It has been a very great privilege
to stand here this evening and put in a plea for the study
of Latin poetry. Little that I have said can claim to be
considered new. But no appreciation, however imperfect,
of a writer like Catullus can wholly fail to show at how
many points ancient literature touches modern life. The
late Professor Freeman was never tired of insisting on the
unity of History. We are apt to forget that there is also
a unity of Literature. Human life has grown more com-
plex; human nature has changed but little. The Roman
boy was father of the English man. And in the Classics
(the Greek and Latin Classics) we have not only the great
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? 3?
original of almost all modern literature: we have also a
vivid picture of a simpler, a more virile, perhaps also a
more earnest, life than the life of to-day. The great aim
and object of our Association is, I take it, to see that
study of the language and study of the life shall hence-
forth go hand-in-hand; that it shall be a study not of dry
bones but of living men, men in whose simplicity and
earnestness and patriotism we may even chance to find a
priceless antidote to the spirit of an age, which tends to
fix its gaze upon itself and which often seems to be in
danger of making material comfort and material prosperity
the one and only standard of human achievement.
'<
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? PUBLICATIONS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF
MANCHESTER.
(No. 31, 1908. )
Demy 8vo. , pp. xx. , 188. 5/- net.
A STUDY OF THE
BACCHAE OF EURIPIDES
BY
G. NORWOOD, M. A. ,
Professor of Greek in University College, Cardiff.
"The interest of Mr. Norwood's book, which . . . is a very welcome
addition to the bibliography of Euripides, and a scholarly and interest-
ing piece of work, displaying erudition and insight beyond the ordinary,
lies in the way in which, by applying Dr. Verrall's methods . . . he
first shows up difficulties and inconsistencies, some of which have
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theory, which he claims is the great solvent of all the perplexities. "
Saturday Review.
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. . . Mr. Norwood is generally clear, and abounds in illuminating
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Athenaum.
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Manchester Guardian.
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Professor Gilbert Murray in the Natio
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elle est mfime tres seduisante. "--Revue Critique.
MANCHESTER
AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS
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PRINCETON U.
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