Roman Farm Management: The Treatises of Cato and Varro — Edition Insights

Two Roman Voices on Farming

The treatises present markedly different temperaments. Cato's De Agricultura is a collection of blunt instructions: how to buy a farm, stock it, and manage slaves. His prose is direct, almost abrasive, reflecting a worldview where farming is both a moral duty and a practical pursuit. Varro's Rerum Rusticarum, by contrast, is cast as a dialogue among friends, with speakers like Cossinius and Scrofa debating the finer points of animal husbandry and cheese-making. Where Cato commands, Varro inquires, tracing the etymology of vellera from vellere (to pull) to argue that wool-pulling predates shearing.

This structural difference—Cato's manual versus Varro's symposium—shapes how each text conveys knowledge. Cato assumes a single, authoritative voice; Varro invites multiple perspectives, even allowing a speaker to interrupt with a historical aside about the first barbers in Italy. The reader moves from a world of fixed rules to one of reasoned debate.

Practical Details and Their Modern Echoes

Both authors dwell on concrete specifics. Cato advises on draining fields, preparing seed beds, and the duties of the overseer and housekeeper. Varro's speakers discuss the optimal time for milking, the digestibility of cheeses from cow, ewe, and goat milk, and the proper method of shearing sheep—including the use of a mixture of wine, oil, white wax, and hogs' grease for post-shearing treatment. One passage notes that sheep should be sheared between the fourth and tenth hours (10 a.m. to 4 p.m.) because wool sheared in hot sun is softer and heavier.

Harrison's footnotes frequently connect these details to his own experience. For instance, he might remark on the continued use of certain manuring practices or the persistence of seasonal rhythms in Virginia. These annotations do not merely explain the text; they create a dialogue between ancient Mediterranean and early American agriculture, grounding Roman advice in tangible, local practice.

The Translator's Presence and Purpose

Harrison's preface and foreword reveal a translator self-conscious about his amateur status. He quotes Bentley's quip to Pope—'a very pretty poem, Mr. Pope, but don't call it Homer'—to anticipate criticism. Yet he offers the book to 'those who love the country, and to read about the country amidst the crowded life of towns.' This framing positions the treatises not as scholarly artifacts but as sources of pleasure for rural-minded readers.

The translator's voice also emerges in his choice of texts: he used the editions of Schneider and Keil, finding the latter more accurate but the former more sympathetic. His notes, placed at the end of the book, are extensive and sometimes personal. By signing the second edition with his full name—Fairfax Harrison—he steps out from behind anonymity, claiming ownership of a work that bridges two worlds: ancient Rome and his own Virginia farm.

Readers approaching this edition should attend to the footnotes as much as the main text. Harrison's annotations offer a running commentary on how Roman practices align with or diverge from early twentieth-century farming. The treatises themselves reward comparison: read Cato for blunt directives, Varro for discursive inquiry. Together, they provide a layered view of Roman agricultural thought, filtered through the sensibility of a Virginia farmer who found in these ancient texts a mirror of his own land.

Reading Cato and Varro arguing about their estates, I remembered my grandfather’s ledger—those blunt, practical margins. He’d have appreciated Cato’s directness. Later, I found the same quiet satisfaction in the soil analysis pages of Principles and practice of agricultural analysis. Volume 1 (of 3), Soils — Reading Companion. Both felt like listening to someone who simply knew the land, and that’s a comfort.