Fortunately he was not of a melancholy disposition, like his friends Tibullus and Virgil.  He even had opinions on the subject of melancholy which differ widely from ours.  Whereas, since Lamartine, we have assumed the habit of regarding sadness as one of the essential elements of poetry, he thought on the contrary that poetry has the privilege of preventing us from being sad.  “A man protected by the Muses,” said he, “flings cares and sorrows to the winds to bear away.”  His philosophy had taught him not to revolt against inevitable ills.  However painful they be, one makes them lighter by bearing them.  So he accepted old age because it cannot be eluded, and because no means have yet been found of living long without growing old.  Death itself did not frighten him.  He was not of those who reconcile themselves to it as well as they can by never thinking about it.  On the contrary, he counsels us to have it always in mind.  “Think that the day which lights you is the last you have to live.  The morrow will have more charm for you if you have not hoped to see it:”—­

     “Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum;
     Grata superveniet quae non sperabitur hora.”

This is not, as might be supposed, one of those bravadoes of the timid, who shout before Death in order to deaden the sound of his footsteps.  Horace was never more calm, more energetic, more master of his mind and of his soul, than in the works of his ripe age.  The last lines of his that remain to us are the firmest and most serene he ever wrote.

Then, more than ever, must he have loved the little Sabine valley.  When we visit these beautiful tranquil spots, we tell ourselves that they appear made to shelter the declining years of a sage.  It seems as if with old servants, a few faithful friends, and a stock of well-chosen books, the time must pass there without sadness.  But I must stop.  Since Horace has not taken us into his confidence respecting his last years, and nobody after him has told us of them, we are reduced to form conjectures, and we should put as few of them as possible into the life of a man who loved truth so well.

Copyrighted by G.P.  Putnam’s Sons, New York.

GEORGE H. BOKER

(1823-1890)

Mr. Boker was a man of leisure by inheritance, and a scholar and author by training and choice.  His work is usually deliberate, careful, and polished:  the work of a man of solid culture, of much experience and knowledge of the world; of a man of dignity and social position, not a Bohemian.  It is thoughtfully planned and carefully executed, but not written through inspiration or prompted by passion.  Yet it does not lack vigor, nor are his puppets merely automata.  His plays have life and force; and they are moreover good acting dramas.  ‘Francesca da Rimini’ especially, with Lawrence Barrett in the role of Lanciotto, was decidedly successful on the stage.  In keeping with the character of his work, the scenes of his plays are all laid in foreign countries and in other times:  Portugal, England, Spain, and Italy are the fields in which his characters play their parts.  His personages have an individuality of their own and are consistently drawn; the action is lively, the humor is natural and a needful foil to the tragedy.