GRATIAN.--It should seem they were like enough to feast--like their gods they so irreverently prayed to--on the smell and the smoke only; so they needed good noses and bad appetites. There is something a little abrupt in the latter part, which I doubt if I like: the Loves and Graces should not be made parties to the making of such a monster; and as _monster_ is now-a-days all adopted adjective, follow the fashion of speech, and call it "One extensive Monster-Nose."--Well, what next?
AQUILIUS.--A little piece of extravagant badinage. It seems Calvus Licinius had sent Catullus a collection of miserable poems, and that, too, on commencement of the Saturnalia, dedicated to joy, and freedom from care and annoyance. Our author writes to complain of the malicious present. There is some force, and a fair fling of contempt at the bad poets of the day in it.
Now if I loved you less, my friend, Facetious Calvus, than these eyes, You merit hatred in such wise As men Vatinius hate. To send Such stuff to me! Have I been rash In word or deed? The gods forfend! That you should kill me with such trash, Of vile and deleterious verse-- Volumes on volumes without end, Of ignominious poets, worse Than their own works. May gods be pliant, And grant me this: that poison--pest Light on 'em all, and on that client Who sent 'em you; and you in jest Transfer them, odious, and mephitic, And execrable. I suspect 'em Sent you by that grammarian critic, Sulla. If so, and you have lost No precious labour to collect 'em, 'Tis well indeed; and little cost To you, with malice aforethought, To send (and with intent to kill him, And on this blessed day, when nought But Saturnalian joys should fill him) Your friend Catullus such a set Of murderous authors; but the debt I'll pay, be even with you yet-- For no perfidious friend I spare. At early dawn, ere the sun shine, I Will rise, and ransack shop and stall, Collect your Cæsii and Aquini, And that Suffenus: and with care And diligence, will have all sent To you, for a like punishment. Hence, poets! with your jingling chimes: Hence, miserables! halt and lame; Be off, ye troublers of our times! I send you packing whence ye came.
GRATIAN.--Kicking about the volumes, doubtless, as the "Friend of Humanity" did the "Needy Knife-grinder."