Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 61, No. 378, April, 1847

Quite to himself to be himself,
As when of poetry he dreams,
And writes and writes, and fills his reams
With poems destined for the shelf.
We are deceived—in this twin-brothers
All. There's one vanity between us,
And our self-knowledge stands to screen us
From our true portraits. Knowing others,
We ticket each man with his vice;
And find, most accurately nice,
In all a something of Suffenus.
Thus every man one knowledge lacks;
Our error is—we read the score
Of each man as he walks before,
And bear our tickets at our backs.

Gratian.—True, indeed—as old fables mostly are. There is in them the depth of wisdom acquired by experience.

Curate.—I fear experience alone won't do much. It seems thrown away upon most people. They continue follies to the end. I suppose Cicero thought himself a poet; though it may be doubted if he wrote the line as Juvenal gives it,

"O fortunatam natam me consule Romam."

Perhaps most men's natural common sense has a less wide range than they think. For there are some things obvious to all besides, that the wisest cannot see.

Aquilius.—Cicero was less likely to see any defect in himself than most men. He had consummate vanity—which must have led him into many a ridiculous position. But there were no Boswells in those days. I never could understand how it is that so great an admiration of Cicero has come over mankind. Even in language he has had an evil influence; and our literature for a long period was tainted with it. Sensible himself, he taught the art of writing fluently without sense. The flow and period—the esse videatur—a style too common with us less than half a century ago—you might read page after page, and pause to wonder what you had been reading about. The upper current of the book did not disturb the under current of your own thoughts, perhaps aided by the lulling music.

Curate.—The vanity of Cicero was too manifest. It is a pity, for the sake of his reputation, that the letter to his friend, in which he requested him to write his life, is extant. To tell him plainly that it is the duty of a friend to exaggerate his virtues, is a mean vanity—unworthy such a man.

Gratian.—Come, come! let him rest; our business is with Catullus. Curate, let us have your translation.

Curate.—I pass by the account of Suffenus, as well as some other pieces, and come to that very short one in which he complains of the mortgage which is on his villa. It is a wretched pun on the word "opponere," and was scarcely worth translating;—take it, however:

AD FURIUM

You, Furius, ask against what wind
My little villa stands—
If Auster, or Favonius kind
Who comes o'er western lands,
Or cruel Boreas, or that one
That rises with the morning sun?

Alas—it stands against a breeze
Which beats against the door,
Of fifteen thousand sesterces,
And twice a hundred more.
I challenge you on earth to find
So foul and pestilent a wind.

Aquilius.—What! do you look for a wind on earth,—it blows over it; and catch it who can.

Gratian.—It blows every where. The worst I know is that which blows down the chimney. And that reminds me to tell you what a town-bred chimney-sweeper said, the other day, to a friend of mine, in the valley yonder, who wanted to have a smoky chimney cured. My friend inquired if he could teach it not to smoke. "How can I tell?" said he, "I must take out a brick first and look into his intellects."

Curate.—Not the march—but the sweep of intellect spoke there.

Aquilius.—And spoke not amiss; it was merely to see if he had a mind to be cured.

Gratian.—Perhaps you have translated that sweep's language better than your passages from Catullus.

Aquilius.—I did not attempt to translate that little piece,—but ran quite out of course, as the Curate would tell me, in a long paraphrase. The idea is, however, furnished by Catullus,—so I dedicate it

AD FURIUM

You ask me if my villa lies
Exposed to north, east, west, or south:
I answer,—every wind that flies,
Flies at it, and with open mouth.

From every quarter winds assail,
But that which comes from quarter-day,
Though it four times a-year prevail,
It does but whistle, and not pay.

Some blow from far, and some hard by;
One, mortgage-wind, takes shortest journey,
Only across the way from Sly,
And blasts with "power of attorney."

But what is worse than windy racks is,
My windows leak at every pane,
And are not tight 'gainst rates and taxes.
My roof and doors let in the rain—

The only let my villa knows.
So that with taxes, wind, and wet,
From whatsoever point it blows,
My house is blown upon unlet.

Now, I hope my friend the Curate will admit so far to be rather a lengthy translation. I say nothing of addenda—thus:—

"Winds blow, and crack your cheeks,"—alack,
Who said it, wanted house and halls,
Nor knew winds have no cheeks to crack,
In short crack nothing but my walls.

My friends console—"the winds will drop:"
'Tis equal trouble to my mind;
For if it tumbles on the top,
You know I cannot raise the wind.

To sum up all—for its location;—