oose to dwell apart with his own heart rather than
with Lucretius's science or Virgil's nature, or your own practical
philosophy. Certain lines that this boy has written haunt
me--perhaps they will prove true:--

Then you will wonder, and often, at me not ignoble a poet;
Then midst the talent of Rome I shall be ranked in the van;
Then will the youths break silence by side of my grave and be saying:
'Dead! Thou of passion our lord! Great one, O poet, laid low!'"

A silence fell between the friends. Two slaves, their faces flushed
with unusual wine, came in to replenish the small lamps on the table,
and stole quietly out again. Horace watched his friend with grave
affection, knowing well where his thoughts had strayed. Presently
Maecenas shook himself with a laugh.

"Exit Terentia's husband," he said, "and reenter the galley-slave
of the Roman State. I have, indeed, been thinking for some time that
this new talent ought to be deflected into other lines. Its energy
would put vitality into national themes. A little less Cynthia and
a little more Caesar will please us all. I mean to suggest some
historical subjects to the boy. Thinking about them may stiffen up
this oversoft Muse of his."

"You speak hopefully," Horace said, "but you have our Hostia (I
understand the 'Cynthia' is an open secret) to reckon with. She is
not going to loosen her hold on a young man who is making her famous,
and whose sudden success with you is due to poetry about her. We have
to acknowledge that she is almost as wonderful as the young fool
thinks she is."

"Certainly," Maecenas answered, "she has insight. Her favour must
have been won by his talent, for he hasn't money enough to meet her
price."

"And I," scoffed Horace, "think the dice about equal between her
favour and his talent. However, I wish you luck, and shall look for
a crop of songs on Caesar and Carthage and the Cimbrians."

With a smile of mutual understanding the friends pledged each other
in one last draught of Chian, as Horace rose to take his leave.

"How lately have you heard from Virgil?" Maecenas asked while they
waited for Davus to be summoned from the festivities in the servants'
hall.

"A letter came yesterday," Horace answered, "and it troubled me
greatly. He wrote in one of his blackest moods of despair over the
_AEneid_. He says he feels as if he were caught in a nightmare, trying
madly to march along a road, while his feet drag heavily, and his
t