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"It would have been a song after Horace's own heart." "Don't you think," rejoined the curate, "the defiant tone of your song would have been strange to him? I confess that what I find chiefly attractive in Horace is his sad submission to the inevitable." "Sad?" echoed Bascombe. "Don't you think so?" "No. He makes the best of it, and as merrily as he can." "AS HE CAN, I grant you," said Wingfold.
"Horace," cried Ann, "there can't be any way in which he can take them, can there? He didn't tell you how he found out they were here, did he?" "No, I forgot to ask him, and it doesn't matter about that. Our only task now will be to keep them from him. Fledra, when you have finished talking with Ann, will you come to me?" Fledra raised her head. Something in Horace's eyes frightened her.
Many of Horace's friends, as we learn from the Odes, gave their minds to speculative inquiry, but, like the poet himself, they seem to have soon deserted it. At least we hear of no original investigations. Neither a metaphysic nor a psychology arose; only a loose rhetorical treatment of physical questions, and a careful collection of ethical maxims for the most part eclectically obtained.
Horace's youth, however, did not pass entirely under the smiles of fortune. He had to struggle with those difficulties of narrow means with which a very large number of young artists are tolerably intimate. He had to weather the gales of poverty by stooping to all sorts of illustrative work, whose execution we fancy must have been often a severe trial to him.
He was struck by Horace's glumness, and in his frank way openly chaffed the boy about it. "What's up with this young scoundrel?" he said to Mrs. Errington. Horace grew very red. "Horace is not very well to-day," said his mother. "Mater, that's not true I'm all right." "I think it more charitable to suppose you seedy," she replied. "Charitable!" Horace cried.
Horace's heart sank lower still; had he deceived himself after all, then? Had he been nothing but a conceited fool, and most galling thought of all had Beevor judged him only too accurately? And yet, no, he could not believe it he knew his work was good! "This is plain speaking with a vengeance," he said; "I'm sorry you're dissatisfied. I did my best to carry out your instructions."
She had almost come to regard it as one of the many things referred to that somewhat vague period when she should be grown up, and when, in some way how she did not know she would be released from the convent and from Aunt Thérèse, and be at liberty to come and go as she pleased. In the meantime she had almost given up hoping for Monsieur Horace's return.
Ah, those lines of his to the Muse are sweeter even than the verses of Horace, of which they profess to be an imitation. What lines in Horace's ode can vie in sweetness with "Tydi roit a diwair wen Lais eos i lysowen!" "Thou couldst endow, with thy dear smile, With voice of lark the lizard vile!" Eos signifies a nightingale, and Lysowen an eel.
An interval passed a long interval, measured by the impatient reckoning of suspense after the cab which had taken Grace Roseberry away had left the house. The minutes followed each other; and still the warning sound of Horace's footsteps was not heard on the marble pavement of the hall.
All the arts and tricks I have been mentioning are rendered superfluous if the author really has any brains; for that allows him to show himself as he is, and confirms to all time Horace's maxim that good sense is the source and origin of good style: Scribendi recte sapere est et principium et fons.
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