‘Thou shalt learn ere very long, my Caius. Which among you does not, at certain times, if not constantly, wish for the tranquillity of the rustic, whose music is the whisper of the groves, the rippling of the stream, and the notes of the birds? Eating simply, sleeping soundly, rising cheerfully. Contented with what the gods have given him—the summer sun, the pure air, the green pastures, sweet water and the vine‐clad slope; a heart unvexed by ambitions, envyings, ingratitudes. When I see him wander, wonderingly, through the streets, I envy him his brown cheek, his clear skin, his cheerful simplicity, his vigorous body which cleaves the torrent of pallid citizens. He seems to breathe the odour of the quiet groves and dewy grass. I am sick at heart and weary, friends. I loathe the sight of my once loved city of the hills—the marble, the stone, the thronging people. Peace! Peace! That song of Horace haunts me. Hear it, although you know it well—it will help you to divine my spirit in a little degree.’ He then recited the beautiful song of Horace, the sixteenth of his second book, of which we offer the following translation, inadequate as it is:— ‘Whosoever tempest‐tossed Upon the wide Aegean waters, Prays the gods for peace and rest, When darkling the moon is hid Amid the murky clouds, And guiding stars shine not To cheer the sailor’s breast. ‘War‐torn Thrace cries Peace! And Peace! the quivered Median bold: But, Grosphus, it is neither bought With purple, gems, nor gold. For neither riches Nor the lictor of a consul’s nod, Can drive the troubles of a mind aloof, Nor flout the cares which flit About a gilded roof. ‘With him who lives with little Life goes well; Whose father’s cup Shines bright upon a simple board: Whose slumbers light Are never harmed by fear, nor sudden fright, Which tells of hidden hoard. ‘Why strain ourselves to gain so much In this short life of ours? Why change our childhood’s homes for lands That glow with other suns? What banished man whose fate is such He fain would shun himself? ‘Grim, cankering care climbs up the brazened ships, And swifter than the stag, Or eastern wind which sweeps The storms and rattling rain, It leaveth not the bands of horsemen Trooping o’er the plain. ‘Be happy for the day, And hate to think on what may follow! Tempering all bitterness With an easy laugh; For no such happiness there is As knows no sorrow. ‘Swift death bore off Achilles, and old age Hath shrunk Tithonus— Time, mayhap, will give to me That which it denies to thee.’