It is true that in the depth of his heart he does not feel with Democritus, Epicurus, and Lucretius that “Dust thou art, to dust returnest” is spoken of soul as well as body.  The old Roman instinct for ancestor-communion is too strong in him for that.  But he acquiesces in their doctrine in so far as shadowy existence in another world inspires in him no pleasing hope.  He displays no trace of the faith in the supernatural which accompanies the Christian hope of happy immortality.  He contains none of the expressions of yearning for communion with the divine, of self-abasement in the presence of the eternal, which belong to Christian poetry.  The flights of his muse rarely take him into the realm of a divine love and providence.  His aspirations are for things achievable in this world:  for faithfulness in friendship, for enduring courage, for irreproachable patriotism,—­in short, for ideal human relations.

Horace’s idealism is not Christian idealism, and is only in a limited way even spiritual idealism.  When he prays, it is likely to be for others rather than himself, and for temporal blessings only:  for the success of Augustus at home and in the field, for prolongation of Maecenas’ life and happiness, for the weal of the State, for the nurslings of his little flock, for health of body and contentment of heart.  His dwelling is not in the secret place of the Most High.  Philosophy, not religion, is his refuge and his fortress.  In philosophy, not in God, will he trust.

In a word, Horace is logical, self-reliant, and self-sufficient.  He sees no happy future after this life, is conscious of no providence watching over him, is involved in no obligation to the beings of an eternal world.  He looks this world and the next, gods and men, directly in the face, and expects other men to do the same.  Life and its duties are for him clear-cut.  He is no propounder of problems, no searcher after hidden purposes.  He lacks almost absolutely the feverish aspiration and unrest which characterize Christian and other humanitarian modes of thought and sentiment, and whose manifestation is one of the best known features of recent modern times, as it was of the earliest Christian experience.

But Christianity was a religion of men, and therefore human.  If its exaggerations were natural, its reservations and its reactions were also natural.  There were men whose admiration continued to be roused and whose affections continued to be touched by Virgil and Horace.  There were men whose reason as well as whose instinct impelled them to employ the classic authors and the classic arts in the service of the new religion.  Christianity possessed no distinct and separate media of expression and no separate body of knowledge which could bear fruit as matter of instruction.  Pagan art and literature were indispensable whether for the study of history or of mere humanity.  Christianity was therefore compelled to employ the old forms of art, which involved the use of the old instrumentalities of literary education.  When, finally, paganism had fallen under its repeated assaults, what had been forced use became a matter of choice, and the classics were taken under the Church’s protection and marked with her approval.