Harper's New Monthly Magazine Volume 104 December 1901 to May 1902 . 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. Melodramati
Harper's New Monthly Magazine Volume 104 December 1901 to May 1902 . 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 his Sabine nest may havebeen in fact, as in verse, full of thepeace he flaunted in the face of lessfortunate friends, until, with Mr. Dob-son, they bade him, though he pouredout for them his Csecuban—soft andsleek as girlish cheek—cease to drawfrom his didactic tap the stoic com-monplaces that finally grow Temple of Vesta, Tivoli It is the real-ism of Horacethat strikes onein the valley ofthe Licenza. Hor-ace lives; he is aman, fond ofgood eating anddrinking and thefragrance of flow-ers, loving theease and freedomof the country,describing thepeople and thelife he knowswith such truththat a Horace to-day, given newfriends and newgods for his al-tars, would sing-in much the samemeasure, to thesame tune, as theHorace of twothousand yearsago. In the Sa-bine Valley you believe in him ,as thepeople do. Even the old woman, wander-ing with her cows by the road-side, if shecould not quote the Odes for us, knewthe name of Horace, just as at Pietola,if the Pastorals have perished in thememory of the peasants, the local wine-shop perpetuates the name of Virgil. I suppose we might have examined therival sites with an air of archaeologicalwisdom, but the country of Horacewas so beautiful we were quite willingto leave exact archaeolo
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