e
have been filled with flowers"--I fear I misquote. Why do people babble?
Surely Herrick, in his true vein, is superior to Martial himself, though
Martial is a very pretty poet.

Did you ever read St. Augustine? The first chapters of the _Confessions_
are marked by a commanding genius: Shakespearian in depth. I was struck
dumb, but, alas! when you begin to wander into controversy, the poet
drops out. His description of infancy is most seizing. And how is this:
"Sed majorum nugae negotia vocantur; puerorum autem talia cum sint
puniuntur a majoribus." Which is quite after the heart of R. L. S. See
also his splendid passage about the "luminosus limes amicitiae" and the
"nebulae de limosa concupiscentia carnis"; going on "_Utrumque_ in
confuso aestuabat et rapiebat imbecillam aetatem per abrupta
cupiditatum." That "Utrumque" is a real contribution to life's science.
Lust _alone_ is but a pigmy; but it never, or rarely, attacks us
single-handed.

Do you ever read (to go miles off, indeed) the incredible Barbey
d'Aurevilly? A psychological Poe--to be for a moment Henley. I own with
pleasure I prefer him with all his folly, rot, sentiment, and mixed
metaphors, to the whole modern school in France. It makes me laugh when
it's nonsense; and when he gets an effect (though it's still nonsense
and mere Poery, not poesy) it wakens me. _Ce qui ne meurt pas_ nearly
killed me with laughing, and left me--well, it left me very nearly
admiring the old ass. At least, it's the kind of thing one feels one
couldn't do. The dreadful moonlight, when they all three sit silent in
the room--by George, sir, it's imagined--and the brief scene between the
husband and wife is all there. _Quant au fond_, the whole thing, of
course, is a fever dream, and worthy of eternal laughter. Had the young
man broken stones, and the two women been hard-working honest
prostitutes, there had been an end of the whole immoral and baseless
business: you could at least have respected them in that case.

I also read _Petronius Arbiter_, which is a rum work, not so immoral as
most modern works, but singularly silly. I tackled some Tacitus too. I
got them with a dreadful French crib on the same page with the text,
which helps me along and drives me mad. The French do not even try to
translate. They try to be much more classical than the classics, with
astounding results of barrenness and tedium. Tacitus, I fear, was too
solid for me. I liked the war part; but the drear