had also proved to be
more charming than he could have anticipated. There had been the dual
claims of literature and philosophy to stir his mind, and memories
of the ancient masters of Greece to make honoured and venerable the
gardens and the gymnasiums where he listened to his modern lectures,
to enhance the beauty of the incomparable marble temples, to throw
a glamour even over the streets of Athens, and so to minimise his
Roman contempt for the weakness of her public life. And then there
were the pleasures of youth, the breaks in the long days, when he
and his comrades would toss lecture notes, and even the poets, to
the winds, buy sweet-smelling ointments for their hair in some
Oriental shop in the lively market-place, pick out a better wine than
usual, and let Dionysus and Aphrodite control the fleeting hours.
On the morrow Apollo and Athena would once more hold their proper
place.

Of Roman affairs they knew little and thought less, in their
charmingly egotistic absorption in student life. But a violent shock
was finally to shatter this serene oblivion. Horace could remember
the smallest details about that day. It was in the spring. The March
sun had risen brightly over Hymettus, and the sky was cloudless.
Marcus, meeting him at a morning lecture of Cratippus, had surprised
him by asking him to take his afternoon walk with him. "My father,"
he explained, "has written me about a walk that he and my uncle
Quintus took to the Academy when they were students. They felt that
Plato was still alive there, and in passing the hill of Colonus they
thought of Sophocles. He wants me to take the same walk, and I wish
you would come along, too, and tell me some Sophocles and Plato to
spout back; my father will be sure to expect a rhapsody." Horace had
joyfully assented, for Marcus was always an entertaining fellow, and
might he not write to Cicero about his new acquaintance, and might
that not lead to his some day meeting the great man, and hearing him
talk about Greek philosophy and poetry?

In the cool of the late afternoon the two young men had found the
lovely grove of the Academy almost deserted, and even Marcus had
grown silent under the spell of its memories. As they turned homeward
the violet mantle had once more been let fall by the setting sun over
Athens and the western hills. Only the sound of their own footsteps
could be heard along the quiet road. But at the Dipylon Gate an end
was put to their converse with th