“Proud delight.” Now I think I shall correct that to “dear delight.” I think the alliteration is well worth securing, and you may allow yourself a familiarity in literature, Horatius, where all men are equal, which, as I have no doubt you felt in writing, would be highly unbecoming in society. “Proud delight” does you credit as a man, my good Horatius; as a poet I permit—nay, I invite you to write “dear.” To hug the post with wheels afire The piece gets a little tame in the middle, Horatius, ... ah! what is this? But deign me so to canonize, O’er highest heaven my fame will rise. Yes, very happy. A very good ode, Horatius. You have distinctly added to your reputation. I am very glad to note that you disavow that most dangerous tendency, which I am sorry to see is growing among some of my poets, to defer to the popular judgment. Even poor Virgil is tainted by it in this last epic, as he calls it, published in one of those measly magazinelets. I am afraid Virgil is coming to think more of the so-called glories of Rome than of his truest friends. Such defection on your part, I warn you candidly, I should feel very deeply. Now what is this other? I hope none of that Epicurean stuff which is such a handicap, if I may so phrase it, upon your best powers for good.... Ah, Postumus, how fleet, how fleet, The years slip by no prayers may stay Since beldame Age knows not delay, Since Death pursues with ruthless feet— I think you might have found a fitter name than Postumus; but it is very passable. I suppose you have verified all these mythological allusions in the Greek; it is not your industry I need ever distrust. Your land, your house, your yielding wife Renounce; and of these trees you trim; None follows, save the cypress grim, The lordling of the little life. Yes, the tone of the work is quite good.... And then—really Horatius, you are too annoying—then you must spoil all again in the last stanza. I have warned you a thousand times against that, Horatius. Listen, sir, to what you say here— He breaks your seals, the worthier heir, He sweeps your bins, the worthier lord, Dashing imperial winds abroad, While Pontiffs envy and despair.