Just now he was walking in his garden, whose fruit-trees he had
himself cultivated. He plucked roses and hyacinths, for he awaited
the visit of a favourite guest, his old friend and fellow-student of
Athens, Publius Virgilius Maro, as well known as Horace himself,
although he had not yet allowed his _Aeneid_ to appear in
manuscript.
A table was laid in a vine-arbour; flagons of old Massisian and
Falernian lay already on ice, oysters and eels were there; a kid and
some quails were roasting on the spit in the kitchen; fruit had been
plucked in the garden; and the only thing wanting on the table,
which had been laid for two persons, were flowers.
A little slave, who was able to write, ran to and fro between the
garden-gate and the dove-tower, in order to look out for the
expected guest. The poet was standing at the water-barrel and
washing his hands, after he had finished plucking flowers, when
someone clapped him on the shoulder.
"Virgil! Which way have you come, then?"
"Over the hills of Tibur from Maecenas."
"Welcome, wanderer, whichever way you have come! Sit down--you must
be tired--in my hemicyklion, under the olives I planted myself,
while the spits turn, and they ply the chopping-knife. Here you see
my plot of land which represents the world to me.
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