Augustus. His patron, Mæcenas, presented Horace the Sabine farm, a few miles from Rome, where the poet passed a part of each year in an agreeable retreat, raising corn, olives and wine, and entertaining his friends. The writings of Horace, though far from voluminous, are marked by an exquisite polish, a masterly condensation, and a refined choice of metre and of diction, which secures to them perennial fame as models of literary art. His satires afford pictures of Roman life and manners in the age of Augustus. No classic author, except Homer, has been so frequently translated as Horace.] TO LUCIUS SEXTIUS, CONSUL. Now Spring, with gentle gales, over wintry cold prevails, And the capstan warps the bark to the sea; The cattle quit their byre, and the husbandmen their fire, As the hoar-frost melts away from the lea. Beneath Diana's glance Cytherea leads the dance, Nymphs and Graces pairing off in the maze; And deep in Etna's gorge toil the Cyclops at their forge, While Vulcan keeps the furnace in a blaze. Let the myrtle-wreath around every shining head be wound, Or the flowers in the earth lately hid; So to Faunus in the shade must our offering be made, Be it lamb or more acceptable kid. Pale Death's impartial foot knocks at the peasant's hut And the palace of the king. O my friend, Away with scheme and plan when our life is but a span, Like spectres of the night must we end. In Pluto's narrow home, whither, Sextius, if thou come, Translated by R. M. HOVENDEN. THE POET'S PRAYER. [Ode 31, Book I.] What asks the poet, who adores Not the rich grain that waves along Nor the unnumber'd herds, that throng Nor gold, nor ivory's snowy gleam, The spoil of far Cathay, Nor fields, which Liris, quiet stream Gnaws silently away. Let fortune's favour'd sons the vine For to the Gods the man is dear Who scathelessly can brave, Three times or more in every year, The wild Atlantic wave. Let olives, endives, mallows light Give me but these, I ask no more, Translated by THEODORE MARTIN TO QUINTUS DELLIUS. In trouble's dark hour don't give way to despair, However you live, whether sadly or not, Where poplar and pine join their branches on high, And form an acceptable shade Where, struggling the bend of the bank to flow by, The murmuring brook is delayed. So bring here your perfumes, your wine, and your flowers, And roses whose bloom is soon fled: While we've money and youth let's enjoy a few hours Before the Fates spin out our thread. You must leave your own groves and your houses, my friend, And your villa beside the fair river,` And the wealth that you've gathered, and never wil spend, Your heir will enjoy every stiver. Are you rich and descended from Inachus old, Or poor, living out in the air? It matters not-off you must go when you're told, No victim will Orcus e'er spar. Thou dost not, oh, Mæcenas! scorn To call the Bard thy friend; Mortal no more! the wondrous change My feathered neck extends; And round my loins and aching shoulders grow The swan-like down and waving plumes of snow. On Dædalean wings I soar, And steer my tuneful flight Where Hellespontic billows roar 'Mid straits and islands bright; My song shall charm the world from Afric's coast To farthest fields of Hyperborean frost. To Colchis, and the Gelon's tribe the lay Who drink the arrowy Rhone: Of Marsian chivalry my strain shall hear. Be no funereal wailing heard, Let no vain incense burn Above the spot where lies interred The Poet's vacant urn; Compose all idle clamour, nor presume Translated by LORD RAVENSWORTH. SCENE WITH A PANTHER. FROM EDGAR HUNTLY. [CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN was the first American who adopted literature as a profession, and was born at Philadelphia, 1771. He published "Wieland" (1798), "Ormond" (1799), and "Arthur Mervyn" (1800). He founded in 1803" The Literary Magazine and American Register," which he edited for five years. His mind was remarkable for originality and imagination. Prescott says in his "Life of C. B. Brown," in "Sparks's American Biography," ""His peculiar merits appeal to a higher order of criticism than is to be found in ordinary and superfi cial readers." We extract from his novel, “Edgar Huntly" (1807), the following:] Clithero, the sleep-walker, has become insane above, and stronger blasts thundered amidst these desolate recesses and profound chasms. Instead of lamenting the prevalence of the tempest, I now began to regard it with pleasure. It conferred new forms of sublimity and grandeur on the scene. As I crept with hands and feet along my imperfect bridge, a sudden gust had nearly whirled me into the frightful abyss. To preserve myself, I was obliged to loose my hold of my burden, and it fell into the gulf. This incident disconcerted and distressed me. As soon as I had effected my dangerous passage, I screened myself behind a cliff, and gave myself up to reflection. While thus occupied, my eyes were fixed upon the opposite steeps. The tops of the trees, waving to and fro, in the wildest commotion, and their trunks, occasionally bending to the blast, which, in these lofty regions, blew with a violence unknown in the tracts below, exhibited an awful spectacle. At length, my attention was attracted by the trunk which lay across the gulf, and which I had converted into a bridge. I perceived that it had already somewhat swerved from its original position, that every blast broke or loosened some of the fibres by which its roots were connected with the opposite bank, and that, if the storm did not speedily abate, there was imminent danger of its being torn from the rock and precipitated into the chasm. Thus my retreat would be cut off, and the evils, from which I was endeavouring to rescue another, would be experienced by myself.. I believed my destiny to hang upon the expedition with which I should recross this gulf. The moments that were spent in these deliberations were critical, and I shuddered to observe that the trunk was held in its place by one or two fibres which were already stretched almost to breaking. To pass along the trunk, rendered slippery by the wet and unsteadfast by the wind, was eminently dangerous. To maintain my hold in passing, in defiance of the whirlwind, required the most vigorous exertions. For this end it was necessary to discommode myself of my cloak and of the volume. Just as I had disposed of these encumand has fled into one of the wild mountain fast-brances, and had risen from my seat, my nesses of Norway. Edgar Huntly endeavours to discover his retreat. attention was again called to the opposite steep, by the most unwelcome object that at this time could possibly present itself. Something was perceived moving among the bushes and rocks, which, for a time, I hoped osity of my friends, to lose my portion of existence by so untoward and ignoble a destiny, was insupportable. I bitterly deplored my rashness in coming hither unprovided for an encounter like this. was no more than a raccoon or opossum, | age. To perish in this obscure retreat, by but which presently appeared to be a pan- means so impervious to the anxious curither. His gray coat, extended claws, fiery eyes, and a cry which he at that moment uttered, and which, by its resemblance to the human voice, is peculiarly terrific, denoted him to be the most ferocious and untameable of that detested race. The industry of our hunters has nearly banished animals of prey from these precincts. The fastnesses of Norwalk, however, could not but afford refuge to some of them. Of late I had met them so rarely, that my fears were seldom alive, and I trod, without caution, the ruggedest and most solitary haunts. Still, however, I had seldom been unfurnished in my rambles with the means of defence. The unfrequency with which I had lately encountered this foe, and the encumbrance of provision made me neglect on this occasion to bring with me my usual arms. The beast that was now before me, when stimulated by hunger, was accustomed to assail whatever could provide him with a banquet of blood. He would set upon the man and the deer with equal and irresistible ferocity. His sagacity was equal to his strength, and he seemed able to discover when his antagonist was armed. My past experience enabled me to estimate the full extent of my danger. He sat on the brow of the steep, eyeing the bridge, and apparently deliberating whether he should cross it. It was probable that he had scented my footsteps thus far, and, should he pass over, his vigilance could scarcely fail of detecting my asylum. .... Should he retain his present station, my danger was scarcely lessened. To pass over in the face of a famished tiger was only to rush upon my fate. The falling of the trunk, which had lately been so anxiously deprecated, was now, with no less solicitude, desired. Every new gust I hoped would tear asunder its remaining bands, and, by cutting off all communication between the opposite steeps, place me in security. My hopes, however, were destined to be frustrated. The fibres of the prostrate tree were obstinately tenacious of their hold, and presently the animal scrambled down the rock and proceeded to cross it. The evil of my present circumstances consisted chiefly in suspense. My death was unavoidable, but my imagination had leisure to torment itself by anticipations. One foot of the savage was slowly and cautiously moved after the other. He struck his claws so deeply into the bark that they were with difficulty withdrawn. At length he leaped upon the ground. We were now separated by an interval of scarely eight feet. To leave the spot where I crouched was impossible. Behind and beside me the cliff rose perpendicularly, and before me was this grim and terrific visage. I shrunk still closer to the ground and closed my eyes. My From this pause of horror I was aroused by the noise occasioned by a second spring of the animal. He leaped into the pit in which I had so deeply regretted that I had not taken refuge, and disappeared. rescue was so sudden, and so much beyond my belief or my hope, that I doubted for a moment whether my senses did not deceive me. This opportunity of escape was not to be neglected. I left my place and scrambled over the trunk with a precipitation which had liked to have proved fatal. tree groaned and shook under me, the wind blew with unexampled violence, and I had scarcely reached the opposite steep when the roots were severed from the rock, and the whole fell thundering to the bottom of the chasm. The My trepidations were not speedily quieted. I looked back with wonder on my hair-breadth escape, and on that singular concurrence of events which had placed me in so short a period in absolute security. Had the trunk fallen a moment earlier, I should have been imprisoned on the hill or thrown headlong. Had its fall been delayed another moment I should have been pursued; for the beast now issued from his den, and testified his surprise and disappointment by tokens, the sight of which made my blood run cold." Of all kinds of death, that which now menaced me was the most abhorred. Toj He saw me and hastened to the verge of die by disease, or by the hand of a fellow- the chasm. He squatted on his hind-legs creature, was lenient in comparison with be- and assumed the attitude of one preparing ing rent to pieces by the fangs of this sav-to leap. My consternation was excited afresh by these appearances. It seemed at first as if the rift was too wide for any power of muscles to carry him in safety over; but I knew the unparalleled agility of this animal, and that his experience had made him a better judge of the practicability of this exploit than I was. Still there was hope that he would relinquish this design as desperate. This hope was quickly at an end. He sprung, and his fore-legs touched the verge of the rock on which I stood. In spite of vehement exertions, however, the surface was too smooth and too hard to allow him to make good his hold. He fell, and a piercing cry, uttered below, showed that nothing had obstructed his descent to the bottom. THE POWER OF WORDS. [EDWIN P. WHIPPLE, an American critic and lecturer, was born at Gloucester, Mass., in 1819. Educated at public schools, he became in early life a banker's clerk, and, while yet young, began writing copiously for periodical publications. Since 1860 Mr. Whipple's time has been wholly given up to literature, and he is the author of numerous essays and reviews, besides having made a great reputation as a public lecturer on social, historical and literary topics His style is clear, forcible and ineisive, and he delights in climax and antithesis. Whipple's "Essays and Reviews" were published in two vols. (1848); "Lectures" (1849), and “Literature of the Age of Elizabeth" (1869) He died in 1886.] Words are most effective when arranged in that order which is called style. The great secret of a good style, we are told, is to have proper words in proper places. To marshal one's verbal battalions in such order that they may bear at once upon all quarters of a subject, is certainly a great art. This is done in different ways. Swift, Temple, Addison, Hume, Gibbon, Johnson, Burke, are all great generals in the discipline of their verbal armies, and the conduct of their paper wars. Each has a system of tactics of his own, and excels in the use of some particular weapon. The tread of Johnson's style is heavy and sonorous, resembling that of an elephant or a mailclad warrior. He is fond of levelling an obstacle by a polysyllabic battering-ram. Burke's words are continually practising the broad-sword exercise, and sweeping down adversaries with every stroke. Arbuthnot "plays his weapon like a tongue of flame." Addison draws up his light infan try in orderly array, and marches through sentence after sentence, without having his ranks disordered or his line broken. Luther is different. His words are "half battles ;" "his smiting idiomatic phrases seem to cleave into the very secret of the matter." Gibbon's legions are heavily armed, and march with precision and dignity to the music of their own tramp. They are splendidly equipped, but a nice eye can discern a little rust beneath their fine apparel, and there are sutlers in his camp who lie, cog, and talk gross obscenity. Macaulay, brisk, lively, keen and energetic, runs his thoughts rapidly through his sentence, and kicks out of the way every word which obstructs his passage. He reins in his steed only when he has reached his goal, and then does it with such celerity that he is nearly thrown backwards by the suddenness of his stoppage. Gifford's words are moss-troopers, that waylay innocent travellers and murder them for hire. Jeffrey is a fine "lance," with a sort of Arab swiftness in his movement, and runs an iron-clad horseman through the eye before he has had time to close his helmet. Jolin Wilson's camp is a disorganized mass, who might do effectual service under better discipline, but who under his lead are suffered to carry on a rambling and predatory warfare, and disgrace their general by flagitious excesses. Sometimes they steal, sometimes swear, sometimes drink, and sometimes pray. Swift's words are porcupine's quills, which he throws with unerring aim at whoever approaches his lair. All of Ebenezer Elliott's words are gifted with huge fists, to pummel and bruise. Chatham and Mirabeau throw hot shot into their opponents' magazines. Talfourd's forces are orderly and disciplined, and march to the music of the Dorian flute; those of Keats keep time to the tones of the pipe of Phoebus; and the hard, harsh-featured battalions of Maginn, are always preceded by a brass band. Hallam's word-infantry can do much execution, when they are not in each other's way. Pope's phrases are either daggers or rapiers. Willis's words are often tipsy with the champagne of the fancy, but even when they reel and stagger they keep the line of grace and beauty, and though scattered at first by a fierce onset from graver cohorts, soon reunite without wound or loss. John Neal's forces are multitudinous and fire briskly at every thing. They occupy all the provinces of letters, and are nearly useless from being spread over |