od it had been to have his father learn directly from the grim
Orbilius of his first success, to see him with a quick flush on his
face take from the teacher's hands the wax tablet on which his son
had written "the best exercise in the class." His father had not
spoken directly of the matter, but in some way Horace had felt that
the extra sweet-meats they had had that night at supper were a mark
of his special pleasure. And many years afterwards, when he was
looking through a chest that had always been locked in his father's
lifetime, he had found the little wax tablet still showing the
imprint of his childish stylus.

For ten years Horace's school life had continued, and then the second
great day had come. He was familiar with early Latin literature and
with Homer. He had studied philosophy and rhetoric with eager
industry. The end was near, and he had begun to wonder what lay before
him. Some of his friends hoped to get into political life at once,
and perhaps obtain positions in the provinces. Others had literary
ambitions. A few--the most enviable--were planning to go to Greece
for further study in the great philosophical schools. Horace
wondered whether his father would want to go back to his old home
in the country, and whether outside of Rome he himself could find
the stimulus to make something out of such abilities as he had. And
then the miracle happened. His father came to his room one night and
said, in a voice which was not as steady as he tried to make it, "My
boy,"--the old familiar preface to all the best gifts of his early
life--"My boy, would you like to go to Athens?"

That sudden question had changed the course of Horace's life. But
his father had not lived to see the fruits of his sacrifice. The last
time Horace saw him had been on the beach at Brindisi, just as his
vessel cast off from its moorings, and the wind began to fill the
widespread sails. Horace had always realised that the most poignant
emotion of a life which had been singularly free from despotic
passions had come to him on that day when wind and tide seemed to
be hurrying him relentlessly away from the Italian shore, and on its
edge, at the last, he saw a figure grown suddenly old and tired.

The journey itself across the Ionian Sea had not helped to increase
his cheerfulness. There had been a heavy storm, and then long days
of leaden sky and sea, and a cold mist through which one could descry
only at rare intervals ghostly sails of