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The World's Greatest Books [Volumes 1-15, 17-20]
- Автор: Gutenberg
- Год: 1910
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Культурология
Электронная книга - «The World's Greatest Books [Volumes 1-15, 17-20]». Краткое содержание книги:
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 01 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 02 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 03 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 04 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 05 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 06 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 07 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 08 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 09 — Lives and Letters от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 10 — Lives and Letters от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 11 — Ancient and Mediæval History от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 12 — Modern History от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 13 — Religion and Philosophy от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 14 — Philosophy and Economics от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 15 — Science от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 17 — Poetry and Drama от Неизвестный
The world's greatest books от Mee, Arthur, 1875-1943, joint editor & Hammerton, John Alexander, Sir, 1871-1949, joint editor & McClure, S. S. (Samuel Sidney), 1857-1949, joint editor
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 19 — Travel and Adventure от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 20 — Miscellaneous Literature and Index от Неизвестный
Who trivial bursts of laughter strives to raise
And courts for witty cynicism praise,
Who can, what he has never seen, reveal,
And friendship's secrets knows not to conceal—
Romans beware—that man is black of soul.
HORACE'S DEBT TO HIS FATHER
If some few trivial faults deform my soul
(Like a fair face, when spotted with a mole),
If none with avarice justly brand my fame,
With sordidness, or deeds too vile to name;
If pure and innocent; if dear (forgive
These little praises) to my friends I live,
My father was the cause, who, though maintained
By a lean farm but poorly, yet disdained
The country schoolmaster, to whose low care
The mighty captain sent his high-born heir,
With satchel, copy-book, and pelf to pay
The wretched teacher on the appointed day.
To Rome by this bold father was I brought,
To learn those arts which well-born youths are taught,
So dressed, and so attended, you would swear
I was some wealthy lord's expensive heir.
Himself my guardian, of unblemished truth,
Among my tutors would attend my youth,
And thus preserved my chastity of mind—
That prime of virtue in its highest kind.
HORACE'S HABITS IN THE CITY
Alone I saunter, as by fancy led,
I cheapen herbs, or ask the price of bread,
I watch while fortune-tellers fate reveal,
Then homeward hasten to my frugal meal,
Herbs, pulse, and pancakes (each a separate plate),
While three domestics at my supper wait.
A bowl on a white marble table stands,
Two goblets, and a ewer to wash my hands,
And hallowed cup of true Campanian clay
My pure libation to the gods to pay.
I then retire to rest, nor anxious fear
Before dread Marsyas early to appear.
I lie till ten; then take a walk, or choose
A book, perhaps, or trifle with the muse.
For cheerful exercise and manly toil
Anoint my body with the pliant oil—
Yet not with such as Natta's, when he vamps
His filthy limbs and robs the public lamps.
But when the sun pours down his fiercer fire,
And bids me from the toilsome sport retire,
I haste to bathe, and in a temperate mood
Regale my craving appetite with food
(Enough to nourish nature for a day);
Then trifle my domestic hours away.
Such is the life from bad ambition free;
Such comfort has one humble born like me:
With which I feel myself more truly blest,
Than if my sires the quæstor's power possessed.
FOOTNOTES:
[H] Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus), who was born near Venusia, in Apulia, in 65 b.c., and died in 8 b.c., was a southern Italian. When twenty, Horace was a student of philosophy at Athens. A period of poverty-stricken Bohemianism followed his return to Rome, till acquaintance with Virgil opened a path into the circle of Mæcenas and of the emperor. His literary career falls into three divisions—that of his "Epodes" and "Satires," down to 30 b.c.; that of his lyrics, down to 23 b.c., when the first three books of the "Odes" appeared; and that of the reflective and literary "Epistles," which include the famous "Art of Poetry," and, with sundry official odes, belong to his later years. Horatian "satire," it should be observed, does not imply ferocious personal onslaughts, but a miscellany containing good-humoured ridicule of types, and lively sketches of character and incident. So varied a performance as satirist, lyrist, moralist and critic, coupled with his vivid interest in mankind, help to account for the appeal which Horace has made to all epochs, countries, and ranks. Of the translations of Horace here given, some are by Prof. Wight Duff, and have been specially made for this selection, whilst a few are by Milton, Dryden, Cowper, and Francis.
Horace and the Bore
Scene.—Rome, on the Sacred Way. The poet is walking down the street, composing some trifle, in a brown study, when a person, known to him only by name, rushes up and seises his hand.
Bore (effusively): How d'ye do, my dear fellow?
Horace (politely): Nicely at present. I'm at your service, sir. (Horace walks on, and as the Bore keeps following, tries to choke him off.) You don't want anything, do you?
Bore: You must make my acquaintance, I'm a savant.
Horace: Then I'll think the more of you. (Horace, anxious to get away, walks fast one minute, halts the next, whispers something to his attendant slave, and is bathed in perspiration all over. Then, quietly to himself) Lucky Bolanus, with your hot temper!
Bore (whose chatter on things in general, and about the streets of Rome in particular, has been received with dead silence): You're frightfully keen to be off. I've noticed it all along. But it's no good. I'm going to stick to you right through. I'll escort you from here to your destination.
Horace (deprecatingly): No need for you to make such a detour. (Inventing fibs as he goes along) There's someone I want to look up—a person you don't know, on the other side of the river—yes, far away—he's confined to bed—near Cæsar's Park.
Bore: Oh, I've nothing to do, and I don't dislike exercise. I'll follow you right there. (Horace is as crestfallen as a sulky donkey when an extra heavy load is dumped upon its back. The Bore continues) If I know myself, you'll not value Viscus more highly as a friend, or Varius either; for who can write verses faster, and more of them, than I can? Who's a greater master of deportment? As for my singing, it's enough to make even Hermogenes jealous!
Horace (seizing the chance of interrupting): Have you a mother—any relatives to whom your health is of moment?
Bore: Not one left. I've laid them all to rest.
Horace: Lucky people! Now I'm the sole survivor. Do for me! The melancholy fate draws near which a fortune-telling Sabellian crone once prophesied in my boyhood: "This lad neither dread poison nor hostile sword shall take off, nor pleurisy, nor cough, nor crippling gout. A chatterbox will one day be his death!"
Bore (realising that, as it is the hour for opening the law course, he must answer to his recognisances, or lose a suit to which he is a party): Oblige me with your assistance in court for a little.
Horace: Deuce take me if I've strength to hang about so long, or know any law. Besides, I'm hurrying, you know where.
Bore: I'm in a fix what to do—whether to give you up or my case.
Horace: Me, please.
Bore: Shan't! (Starts ahead of Horace, who, beaten at every point, has to follow. The other opens conversation again.) On what footing do you and Mæcenas stand?
Horace (haughtily): He has a select circle, and thoroughly sound judgment.
Bore (unimpressed): Ah! No one ever made a smarter use of his chances. You'd have a powerful supporter, a capable understudy, if you'd agree to introduce your humble servant. Deuce take me if you wouldn't clear everybody out of your way.