Harper's New Monthly Magazine Volume 104 December 1901 to May 1902 . name asthe temple under whose shade he sat andwrote his verse? And as the plateau isthe more pictorial of the two sites thatdispute the honor, why not believe it wasthere he built his house, planted his gar-den, and played the farmer to the edifi-cation of his neighbors ? But whichever was the actual site ofthe house, the country all about is Hor-aces — the country of the Odes andSatires. It would be hard to find worsefarming-land, and I am not so sure, sinceI have been there, of the generosity ofMaecenas. It seems as if only
Harper's New Monthly Magazine Volume 104 December 1901 to May 1902 . name asthe temple under whose shade he sat andwrote his verse? And as the plateau isthe more pictorial of the two sites thatdispute the honor, why not believe it wasthere he built his house, planted his gar-den, and played the farmer to the edifi-cation of his neighbors ? But whichever was the actual site ofthe house, the country all about is Hor-aces — the country of the Odes andSatires. It would be hard to find worsefarming-land, and I am not so sure, sinceI have been there, of the generosity ofMaecenas. It seems as if only a man injest could have made the gift, only atoady have accepted it in earnest. How-ever, olives do flourish there, and olivespaid then as they do now. Vines toocling to the slopes below, the vines thatyielded the rough little Sabine winepatron and poet drank together. Andhere and there are patches where hemight have raised the mallows and en-dives he prized—or pretended to prize—above gold and ivory. The hills are stillcovered with the woods that sheltered. VIRGILS TOMB; GROTTO OF POSILIPO, NAPLES 874 HARPERS MONTHLY MAGAZINE. his goats fromsummer fires andfurnished himwith shade; youcan find poplarsand pines if, inyour turn, youwould drink thecool Falernianunder theirbranches—that is,if Falernian is tobe bought, begged,or stolen in thevalley; it mayhave been uponthe banks of thebabbling springthe people call theFonte dell Ore-tani, Horace spentthe moments hecounted his hap-piest, sleeping onthe soft grasswhile the watermurmured in thebrook and the birds fluted in the trees; and on the roadbelow his farmers passed weekly to themarket at Vicovaro, perhaps slumberingquietly on the way, after the perilouscustom of the modern Italian. Here, ina word, is the Horatian landscape. A tranquil landscape, M. Boissiercalls it. Melodramatic, I should say, withthat great rock overshadowing pasturesand wood, house and garden. But custommust have staled its melodrama for Hor-ace, and
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