literary genius.

It is because Horace's appeal depends so largely upon his qualities as a
person that our interpretation of him must center about his personal
traits. We shall re-present to the imagination his personal appearance.
We shall account for the personal qualities which contributed to the
poetic gift that set him apart as the interpreter of the age to his own
and succeeding generations. We shall observe the natural sympathy with
men and things by reason of which he reflects with peculiar faithfulness
the life of city and country. We shall become acquainted with the
thoughts and the moods of a mind and heart that were nicely sensitive to
sight and sound and personal contact. We shall hear what the poet has to
say of himself not only as a member of the human family, but as the user
of the pen.

This interpretation of Horace as person and poet will be best attempted
from his own work, and best expressed in his own phrase. The pages which
follow are a manner of Horatian mosaic. They contain little not said or
suggested by the poet himself.

1. HORACE THE PERSON

Horace was of slight stature among even a slight-statured race. At the
period when we like him best, when he was growing mellower and better
with advancing years, his black hair was more than evenly mingled with
grey. The naturally dark and probably not too finely-textured skin of
face and expansive forehead was deepened by the friendly breezes of both
city and country to the vigorous golden brown of the Italian. Feature
and eye held the mirror up to a spirit quick to anger but plenteous in
good-nature. Altogether, Horace was a short, rotund man, smiling but
serious, of nothing very remarkable either in appearance or in manner,
and with a look of the plain citizen. Of all the ancients who have left
no material likeness, he is the least difficult to know in person.

We see him in a carriage or at the shows with Maecenas, the Emperor's
fastidious counsellor. We have charming glimpses of him enjoying in
company the hospitable shade of huge pine and white poplar on the grassy
terrace of some rose-perfumed Italian garden with noisy fountain and
hurrying stream. He loiters, with eyes bent on the pavement, along the
winding Sacred Way that leads to the Forum, or on his way home struggles
against the crowd as it pushes its way down town amid the dust and din
of the busy city. He shrugs his shoulders in good-humored despair as the
sirocco brings lassitude