name of Cynthia carved again and again by the amatory Propertius. You now see the house of Mæcenas, at the summit of a sunny slope, which was formerly a long flat, disfigured by bones, and forming part of a cemetery, a thousand feet wide. You had before descried that lofty tower, which overhangs the villa. This he uses as an observatory, from which he can watch the flow of life through the streets of the city below. In these delightful gardens he enjoys the most luxurious ease, which, in spite of his active public spirit, no one knows better how to enjoy than does he. Here he celebrates those sparkling entertainments of which the costliest dishes and highest flavored wines form a meagre part: for Virgil, Horace and Propertius are often around the board. But here is the house of Propertius, adjoining that of his great patron; so that the poet might be supposed to own, as he does all but in name, a part of these magnificent gardens. Around the dwelling may be seen an endless variety of verdure. You do not discover the ivy, hanging branches of polished berries upon the trees, but the vine which in autuma exhibits clusters of grapes, changing color on its blackening branches, is here. Cherry trees full of luscious fruit; plum trees, which September will clothe with a purple glow, and reddening mulberries are visible around us. Corn fields too adorn the sunny declivity, and pears, grafted on unprofitable trees, attract the admiration of the passer-by. But Propertius is hardly ever enthusiastic at this scene of natural richness. He loves his residence because it commands a view of the city. He loves the crowds and the bustle of the streets. "It is enough for me he says to see the Roman market place." What a strange life does Propertius lead! His existence is devoted to writing about his love, its sorrows and its joys. Like Ovid, he came to Rome to study law and shine as a patron, but love and the muses led both astray. In the sober thoughts of day, and in the nightly revel, his passion is ever present with him. He has well expressed his own condition in these lines, full of conceits as they are. 66 Wisely the artist wrought and studied, And justly too he holds his arrows, And though his arrows thrill my breast, He makes a home-unbidden guest! I may as well tell you now as ever, that Hostia, who figures in the poems of Propertius as Cynthia, lives on this hill in the district Sabarra. You can see the house from this spot. The daring damsel has often let herself down by a rope to meet Propertius from the window which you see, spite of the guard set to watch her. Poor guard! He hurt his head severely against the tile one night, as he thrust it through another window to detect the lovers. Within the walls, too, of yonder house, Cynthia has often waited impatiently for our poet, beguiling her time by spinning purple threads and touching her lyre. For an exacting and jealous maiden is Hostia. The Appian way has echoed to the rumbling wheels of her silk-topped carriage, as she drove her pair of short-tailed horses with her own hand, followed by her fierce mastiffs, to discover her lover in the act of paying his addresses elsewhere. Nay, she even punishes breaches of fidelity by physical force, and seems to be the Lola Montes of old Rome. She is extravagant too, this Cynthia. What presents do you suppose Propertius gave her but yesterday? A fan made of peacock's feathers and a glass ball, with which she may cool her perspiring hands. With the prowess of her woman's tongue, she can extract multitudes of favors from the deluded bard, which she repays by coyness and cold repulses. Often has he staid the whole of a cold night under her windows, in vain seeking a reception, until his body was actually chilled into pain, and he has kissed the steps of her dwelling in the agony of his infatuation. He often bribes her servants to tell him through what portico she is taking her twilight walk, or around what square she is strolling by day. But he finds her to no purpose; she turns coldly away. But we must think of the poet's residence. He is rarely in it by day, unless it be to write his love-sick poems, or read them to his brother-bards. He wanders off to the theatres to give sly glances to the topmost benches of the circle; or to the gladiatorial shows to make acquaintances among the fair; or to arrange appointments in the shade of Pompey's piazza. But in the evening he is emphatically at home. He celebrates a revel nightly. Crowned with flowers, he sits king of the feast. Around him, his companions engage in dancing to the boisterous music of a trumpet, and the whole neighborhood is made to echo with the riotous sounds of revelry. He seems to be a great social drinker, and even speaks of some ladies whom he thinks a little more charming when slightly intoxicated. After the noisy banquet is over, he sallies out with a party of gallants, to make an uproar under the windows of their favorites. So thoroughly dissipated are his mind and heart by his blind attachment to the cruel enchantress, who fills his hope, his memory and his poetry. We will look for another of Ovid's friends, Tibullus; the Pe trarch of old Rome. He is almost the only one of the great Roman poets, who was born in the queenly city. Yet he is hardly ever to be found here. Although his ancestral estate still furnishes him with abundant means to live elegantly, a large part of it has been confiscated and distributed among the army! for, you know, the father of Tibullus was a prominent partisan on the side of Pompey during the civil wars. Of course, melancholy reflections must cluster around this mutilated domain, and in rural pursuits alone can he find refreshing oblivion of the sorrows of his generous heart. But as none of the great poets has woven more charms around his own person and character than he, we will seek him out. He is young, and is said to be declining already towards the grave. He has wealth, and uses it nobly. He has the most elegant person of any of the Roman youths. The light of genius and his melancholy shed an indescribable charm over his fine features. He is brave. The mountain fastnesses of the Alps, the Garonne, the Arar, and the Rhone, have all been witnesses of his intrepid valor. Perhaps he deemed his life ill-worth keeping, and ventured it rudely among the perils of warfare under his friend and general, the great Messala. He lives at Pedum, a town of Latium, very near the capitol. Here he indulges the melancholy of love, to its utmost extent. You know the cause. He loves a coquette, upon whom all his advantages seem to make no farther impression, than to induce her to excite in his breast the hopes which she will not gratify. It is singular to find that such noble minds as those of Tibullus, Ovid, and Propertius, should all be infatuated with the tender passion, in an age when love is basely overrun by shameless licentiousness, in the families of kings as well as in the huts of poverty. Strange, too, are the different influences to which the three are exposed. Ovid is a gallant, who is a slave to his passions instead of to a woman. He takes an easy conquest wherever he can find it. Propertius is the tool of an Amazon, who favors or rejects him as she pleases. Tibullus is a true sentimentalist, vicious but constant, devoured by a hopeless passion for a cold beauty. The scenery around the villa of Tibullus, is enchanting. Corn stands in rows on the hill-sides. The deep vats in his garden are full of wine. Fruit trees are every where. Flocks of sheep and goats are grazing on the slopes. The harvest waves in yellow folds along the valley. Sparkling streams reflect the verdure of oaks, elms, and willows, not far hence. The reapers are scattered through the fields; in some places swinging the sickle, in others sleeping under trees, and in others heated with wine, dancing rustic measures with unpremeditated skill. Young girls are singing joyful songs and plucking flowers in the meadows. Tibullus himself sometimes joins the party, crowning his forehead with branches of ivy berries, and playing furiously on a rustic pipe. Often has he laughed to see the intoxicated husbandman drag his wife and children home in a dray, with strangely unequal steps. Within his villa he leads a simple life. He composes elegies, and thinks of Delia. At night he rests in a humble couch, delighted to hear the storm blow piteously, and the rain fall in torrents as he sinks into slumber. But his principal occupation is to wander alone in the woods, musing upon his griefs. Horace, who always expresses himself felicitiously, describes Tibullus as "creeping silently among pleasant trees." By the way, did you read the letter of Horace, in which this expression occurs? He calls himself a swine of the herd of Epicurus, fat and sleek, and with a well-stuffed skin, and warns Tibullus, to whom the gods have given "" Beauty and wealth, and the art of enjoyment,” to make the most of the present, and act as if every day was the last of life. Here Tibullus lives, tortured between hope and despair. He says himself: Death should end my life and sorrow, As when Hope sang yesterday. Saying, "Live! though in despair." We have not yet wandered enough among the "Homes of the Poets," but, as night is gathering over us, we will return to the forum. THE AUTUMN VIOLET. BY LILY GRAHAM. "Emblem of high and holy hope, O! meekest bud of spring-time hours, What dost thou here? Here when the frosted forest weaves The changeful Autumn sky is spread The howling wind and chilly blast, With sounds like trampling feet. Within this sheltered, sunny nook, Why linger still? While birds to brighter climes have flown, And earth with painted leaves is strown, And Autumn winds are chill. Not such the boughs beneath whose sprays, That swept in melody along, When glades were musical with song, And dark with waving trees. Still is thy cup as brightly blue, As soft the white that wanders through, In pencilled lines, As those thy sister Violets wore, When orchard boughs their blossoms bore, Amid the springing vines. Was it to bid our thoughts arise, To realms beyond thy native skies, That thou art here? Was it to teach our hearts content? Though winds are wild and boughs are rent, Our Father still is near. |