The Town Mouse and The Country Mouse
-Horace

This is what I had prayed for: a small piece of land with a garden, a fresh-flowing spring of water at hand near the house, and, above and behind, a small forest stand.

But the Gods have done much better for me, and more---

It’ s perfect. I ask nothing else except to implore, O Son of Maria, that you make these blessings my own for the rest of my life. If my property has not grown by my making a series of deals, neither will it shrink by my mismanagement. If I’m not one of those who think:

“If only that corner were mine, that lies adjacent to my strip, cutting in in a manner that is really indecent!”

Or, “If only some luck came my way, like the find which leading the plowman to buried treasure made him rich enough to buy the land he formerly plowed for hire, thanks to Hercules!” If what I have is all I desire and makes me content, then to this one last wish I aspire:

Make my herd grow fat, and everything else I lay claim to, except my brains. And, Mercury, still be the same to Horace as you have been, his great good guardian. To complete my removal from city streets to mountain retreat,
What else should I do but celebrate it now satirically, dwelling, far from town(and far from lyrically), in my pedestrian style, on how far from that bit of hell known as big city life in my citadel social-climbing can”t get me down here, or the lead-weight blows of Siroccos, or for once and for all plague-laden falls lay me out, and enrich the layout in funeral halls. Instead, I begin this morning by addressing you, Monarch of Morning, or more openly, Janus, if you prefer it:

In allegiance to whom men begin all the work of their days---For so heaven wills it. Be the principal source of my praise.

At Rome the mornings are different: you rush me right off to court to vouch for a friend, “Hey there! Get going! Or someone else will answer this call before you!” And I have to, whether the north wind is taking the land or winter drags snow-laden days through diminishing curves. After saying in court, good and loud, things that may someday incriminate me, I fight my way back through the crowd in the streets, tripping over some slowpokes toes.

“What’s up blockhead? What gives?” some stupid assails me. “Oh Horace, It’s you, it is, racing back home to Maecenus, so full of the fact that you knock over everything in your path!”

Well......the name of Maecenus is honey to me, I admit it. But as soon as I reach the depressing Esqualine Quarter, a hundred conflicting concerns pour down on my head and stream around me. “Rocius wants you to meet him tomorrow
Before seven in the morning, at Libo’s wall.” “Oh Quintus, the clerks request you to remember to return to the forum today for a big new matter of mutual interest.” “Do have Maecenus affix his seal to these papers.” If I say, “Well, I’ll try,” he insists, “You can do it if you want to.”

It is now seven years----actually, nearer the eighth----Since Maecenus began to admit me into his company of friends, insofar as a friend is just good company.

On a trip someone to talk to about such subjects as, “What time is it?” “Oh about the fight: is the Thracian Bantam A match for the Sheik?...” “These frosty mornings will nip you if you don’t wrap up.” And small change talk like that which is perfectly safe to deposit in leaky ears.And the whole time, daily and hourly, our intimate Horace was envied. He watched the games from the stage with M. He played some ball on the campus and with M. “Fortunes favorite son” The thought in unison. A hair raising rumor runs through the streets from the Rostra.And whoever bumps into me seeks my advice. “Dear fellow, you ought to know, you live so much nearer the God’s, What’s up in the Balkans?” “Nothing, as far as I know.”“Oh you’re still making fun of us!” But may the gods undo me if I’ve heard a word. “What about the Veterans’ allotments of land that Caesar promised? Will they be on the three cornered isle, or Italian soil?” When I swear I know nothing about it they marvel at me for being the sole human being who knows how to keep an important unfathomable secret.

Amid such lightweight concerns the light of my day sputters out, leaving me limp, only able to pray:

Oh countryside mine, when will I see you again.
Read my favorite classical authors, and then
get some sleep and get back to my lazy routine of life.
Of pleasure mercifully free of worry and strife

When shall we dine on beans, Pythagoras’ cousins, and eat, cooked in bacon, country greens in their dozens? Those nights and feasts of the gods? When friends and I sup in my lar’s presence, while the saucy slaves lick up what’s left untouched on the plates, each guest drains his cup.

To govern his choice except his free disposition, to toss of heroic amounts and still keep a clear head, or gradually mellow with moderate potions instead. And then we start talking, not about other men’s lives and property and assets but of things on which wisdom thrives. Not whether Lepos is really a good dancer or not but whether happiness comes from the money you’ve got. Or, rather, derives from virtue.

What makes men friends? Self-interest or rectitude? This subject lends interest to us: the good life, and its ends.

From time to time, my good old neighbor, Cervius, rattles off an old wives’ tale, to make a point:
If someone praises Arellius’ wealth, without knowing what worries it brings, Cervius starts like this

“ Once upon a time, a country mouse welcomed a town mouse in his poor little hole of a house in the sticks, both host and guest being quite old friends.

The country mouse roughed it, of course, he kept a close eye on his larder, but not so myopic he couldn’t enlarge his view, with a view to a friends entertainment. What else?

He was not the mouse to begrudge a friend the choice chick-peas, set aside in a special place, or the long grains of oats; But eager to conquer the fastidious disdain of a guest who tended to turn up his tooth after sampling each dainty, he brought in by mouth and served, to vary the meal, a dried grape seed and some half-nibbled pieces of bacon.

The master of the house, stretched out on his couch of chaff ( new chaff), ate spelt and darnel, leaving the best for his guest to digest. Finally the town mouse spoke up:

‘What pleasure can it be for you, my friend, roughing it out here on the edge of a precipitous forest? Take my advice, and my road, with me as your guide. All earthly creatures, after all have drawn as their lot a mortal life: there is no escape from death for large or small. Therefore, while you still can, enjoy a happy career, my good man, live well, live mindful of how short life really is.’

When these words dawned on the vokel, he bounce up gaily from home, and both set out together, according to plan, hoping to sneak through the walls of the city by night. And night was poised, midway across the heavens, when both set foot in a rich man’s house, where crimson coverings blazed against ivory couches, and leftovers from last nights feast were stacked high in the baskets.

Well, the host then made his rural guest stretch out on the crimson covers and began dashing madly about, with his clothes tucked up like a waiters, serving up dish after dish and taking a taste,as a proper slave does, of each course before serving it.

The other mouse, meanwhile, leaned back at ease, delighted with the change in affairs and with all of this good living, and was playing to perfection the part of the satisfied guest, when a sudden loud rattling of doors shook them both right off their couches. Frightened they scampered across the whole length of the room, and, even more frightening, the big house began to ring, at the very same time, with the barking of colossal hounds. Says the country mouse:

‘I have no use for this kind of life. And good-bye! My woodland and hole, where I’m safe from traps like these, will be quite good enough, my slim pickings quite food enough.’”