Part 7 (1/2)

These hints of life and manners, all drawn from the pages of Horace, might be infinitely extended, and a ramble in the streets of Rome in the present day is consequently fuller of vivid interest to a man who has these pages at his fingers' ends than it can possibly be to any other person. Horace is so a.s.sociated with all the localities, that one would think it the most natural thing in the world to come upon him at any turning. His old familiar haunts rise up about us out of the dust of centuries. We see a short thick-set man come sauntering along, ”more fat than bard beseems.” As he pa.s.ses, lost in reverie, many turn round and look at him. Some point him out to their companions, and by what they say, we learn that this is Horace, the favourite of Maecenas, the frequent visitor at the unpretending palace of Augustus, the self-made man and famous poet. He is still within sight, when his progress is arrested. He is in the hands of a bore of the first magnitude. But what ensued, let us hear from his own lips (Satires, I. 9):--

THE BORE.

It chanced that I, the other day, Was sauntering up the Sacred Way, And musing, as my habit is, Some trivial random fantasies, That for the time absorbed me quite, When there comes running up a wight, Whom only by his name I knew; ”Ha! my dear fellow, how d'ye do?”

Grasping my hand, he shouted. ”Why, As times go, pretty well,” said I; ”And you, I trust, can say the same.”

But after me as still he came, ”Sir, is there anything,” I cried, ”You want of me?” ”Oh,” he replied, ”I'm just the man you ought to know;-- A scholar, author!” ”Is it so?

For this I'll like you all the more!”

Then, writhing to evade the bore, I quicken now my pace, now stop, And in my servant's ear let drop Some words, and all the while I feel Bathed in cold sweat from head to heel.

”Oh, for a touch,” I moaned, in pain, ”Bola.n.u.s, of thy madcap vein, To put this incubus to rout!”

As he went chattering on about Whatever he descries or meets, The crowds, the beauty of the streets, The city's growth, its splendour, size, ”You're dying to be off,” he cries; For all the while I'd been stock dumb.

”I've seen it this half-hour. But come, Let's clearly understand each other; It's no use making all this pother.

My mind's made up, to stick by you; So where you go, there I go, too.”

”Don't put yourself,” I answered, ”pray, So very far out of your way.

I'm on the road to see a friend, Whom you don't know, that's near his end, Away beyond the Tiber far, Close by where Caesar's gardens are.”

”I've nothing in the world to do, And what's a paltry mile or two?

I like it, so I'll follow you!”

Down dropped my ears on hearing this, Just like a vicious jacka.s.s's, That's loaded heavier than he likes; But off anew my torment strikes.

”If well I know myself, you'll end With making of me more a friend Than Viscus, ay, or Varius; for Of verses who can run off more, Or run them off at such a pace?

Who dance with such distinguished grace?

And as for singing, zounds!” said he, ”Hermogenes might envy me!”

Here was an opening to break in.

”Have you a mother, father, kin, To whom your life is precious?” ”None;-- I've closed the eyes of every one.”

Oh, happy they, I inly groan.

Now I am left, and I alone.

Quick, quick, despatch me where I stand; Now is the direful doom at hand, Which erst the Sabine beldam old, Shaking her magic urn, foretold In days when I was yet a boy: ”Him shall no poisons fell destroy, Nor hostile sword in shock of war, Nor gout, nor colic, nor catarrh.

In fulness of the time his thread Shall by a prate-apace be shred; So let him, when he's twenty-one, If he be wise, all babblers shun.”

Now we were close to Vesta's fane, 'Twas hard on ten, and he, my bane, Was bound to answer to his bail, Or lose his cause if he should fail.

”Do, if you love me, step aside One moment with me here!” he cried.

”Upon my life, indeed, I can't, Of law I'm wholly ignorant; And you know where I'm hurrying to.”

”I'm fairly puzzled what to do.

Give you up, or my cause?” ”Oh, me, Me, by all means!” ”I won't!” quoth he; And stalks on, holding by me tight.

As with your conqueror to fight Is hard, I follow. ”How,”--anon He rambles off,--”how get you on, You and Maecenas? To so few He keeps himself. So clever, too!

No man more dexterous to seize And use his opportunities.

Just introduce me, and you'll see, We'd pull together famously; And, hang me then, if, with my backing, You don't send all your rivals packing!”

”Things in that quarter, sir, proceed In very different style, indeed.

No house more free from all that's base; In none cabals more out of place.

It hurts me not if others be More rich, or better read than me.

Each has his place!” ”Amazing tact!

Scarce credible!” ”But 'tis the fact.”

”You quicken my desire to get An introduction to his set.”

”With merit such as yours, you need But wish it, and you must succeed.

He's to be won, and that is why Of strangers he's so very shy.”