n amiable light as kindly Mentor to the young
Telemachi of rank who were serving on Tiberius' staff (Ep. I, iii).
"Tell me, Florus, whereabouts you are just now, in snowy Thrace or
genial Asia? which of you poets is writing the exploits of Augustus? how
does Titius get on with his Latin rendering of Pindar? my dear friend
Celsus, what is he at work upon? his own ideas, I hope, not cribs from
library books. And you? are you abandoning all other allurements for
the charms of divine philosophy? Tell me, too, if you have made up your
quarrel with Munatius. To break the tie of brotherhood is a crime:
please, please be friends with him again, and bring him with you when
next you come to see me. I am fattening a calf to feast you both." Here
is a dinner invitation (Ep. I, v.): "If you can put up with deal tables
and a mess of greens served in a common dish, with wine five years old
and not at all bad, come and sup with me, Torquatus, at sunset. We have
swept up the hearth and cleaned the furniture; you may see your face
reflected in cup and platter. We will have a long summer evening of
talk, and you can sleep afterwards as late as you like, for to morrow is
Augustus' birthday, and there will be no business in the courts. I told
you the wine is good, and there is nothing like good drink. It unlocks
reticence, unloads hearts, encourages the shy, makes the tongue-tied
eloquent and the poor opulent. I have chosen my company well: there will
be no blab to repeat our conversation out of doors. Butra and Septimius
are coming, and I hope Sabinus. Just send a line to say whom you would
like to have besides. Bring friends if you choose, but the weather is
hot, and we must not overcrowd the rooms." It all sounds delightful,
except perhaps the mess of greens; but a good Italian cook can make
vegetables tempting down to the present day. I think we should all have
loved to be there, as at the neat repast of Attic taste with wine, which
tempted virtuous Laurence to sup with Milton. So should we like to know
what called forth this pretty piece of moralizing, addressed to the
poet Tibullus (Ep. I, iv). He was handsome, prosperous, popular, yet
melancholy. Horace affectionately reproves him. "Dear Albius," he says,
using the intimate fore-name, "Dear Albius, tell me what you are about
in your pretty villa: writing delicate verses, strolling in your forest
glades, with thoughts and fancies I am sure all that a good man's should
be? What can you w