seems like begging the question, and scarcely a high tone of self-justification. Indeed, his retort is not simply turning the tables, as he might have done, on his maligners, but somewhat unnecessarily defending his life at the expense of his writings. This, it is probable, has acted in his disfavour. Excepting a few extremely personal and scurrilous epigrams and skits, it is not easy to pick out in the poetry of Catullus a greater looseness of language than in that of his Augustan successors; whilst as compared with his contemporaries in high places and public life, his moral conduct might have passed for fairly decent. What most concerns the modern reader is that after abatements and omissions of what is more or less unpresentable, there remains so much of a more refined standard of poetry and manners, so much tenderness in pure affection and friendship, so much, we might almost say, chivalry and forgivingness in the treatment of more questionable objects of his passion, that we are won to condonation of the evil which is that of the time and society for the charm and ideal refinement of the genius which is specially his own. The standard of purity and morals has, we know, risen and fallen in modern times and nations; and a severe "index expurgatorius" should ban our Herricks, Moores, and Byrons—nay, even Burns; but unless a sponge is to wipe out for the sake of a few blots a body of true poetry, rare in form and singularly rich in talent and grace, and a hard and fast rule is to condemn bitter and sweet alike, it is to be hoped that a fairer insight into the poetry of Catullus, attainable
