Horace Part 4

"Should you e'er long again for such relish as this is, Devoutly I'll pray, wag Maecenas, I vow, With her hand that your mistress arrest all your kisses, And lie as far off as the couch will allow."

It is startling to our notions to find so direct a reference as that in the last verse to the "reigning favourite" of Maecenas; but what are we to think of the following lines, which point unequivocally to Maecenas's wife, in the following Ode addressed to her husband (Odes, II. 12)?

"Would you, friend, for Phrygia's h.o.a.rded gold, Or all that Achaemenes' self possesses, Or e'en for what Araby's coffers hold, Barter one lock of her cl.u.s.tering tresses,

While she stoops her throat to your burning kiss, Or, fondly cruel, the bliss denies you, She would have you s.n.a.t.c.h, or will, s.n.a.t.c.hing this Herself, with a sweeter thrill surprise you?"

If Maecenas allowed his friends to write of his wife in this strain, it is scarcely to be wondered at if that coquettish and capricious lady gave, as she did, "that worthy man good grounds for uneasiness."

CHAPTER IV.

PUBLICATION OF FIRST BOOK OF SATIRES.--HIS FRIENDS.--RECEIVES THE SABINE FARM FROM MAECENAS.

In B.C. 34, Horace published the First Book of his Satires, and placed in front of it one specially addressed to Maecenas--a course which he adopted in each successive section of his poems, apparently to mark his sense of obligation to him as the most honoured of his friends. The name _Satires_ does not truly indicate the nature of this series. They are rather didactic poems, couched in a more or less dramatic form, and carried on in an easy conversational tone, without for the most part any definite purpose, often diverging into such collateral topics as suggest themselves by the way, with all the ease and buoyancy of agreeable talk, and getting back or not, as it may happen, into the main line of idea with which they set out. Some of them are conceived in a vein of fine irony throughout. Others, like "The Journey to Brundusium," are mere narratives, relieved by humorous ill.u.s.trations. But we do not find in them the epigrammatic force, the sternness of moral rebuke, or the scathing spirit of sarcasm, which are commonly a.s.sociated with the idea of satire. Literary display appears never to be aimed at. The plainest phrases, the homeliest ill.u.s.trations, the most everyday topics--if they come in the way--are made use of for the purpose of insinuating or enforcing some useful truth. Point and epigram are the last things thought of; and therefore it is that Pope's translations, admirable as in themselves they are, fail to give an idea of the lightness of touch, the s.h.i.+fting lights and shades, the carelessness alternating with force, the artless natural manner, which distinguish these charming essays.

"The terseness of Horace's language in his Satires," it has been well said, "is that of a proverb, neat because homely; while the terseness of Pope is that of an epigram, which will only become homely in time, because it is neat."

In writing these Satires, which he calls merely rhythmical prose, Horace disclaims for himself the t.i.tle of poet; and at this time it would appear as if he had not even conceived the idea of "modulating Aeolic song to the Italian lyre," on which he subsequently rested his hopes of posthumous fame. The very words of his disclaimer, however, show how well he appreciated the poet's gifts (Satires, I. 4):--

"First from the roll I strike myself of those I poets call, For merely to compose in verse is not the all-in-all; Nor if a man shall write, like me, things nigh to prose akin, Shall he, however well he write, the name of poet win?

To genius, to the man-whose soul is touched with fire divine, Whose voice speaks like a trumpet-note, that honoured name a.s.sign.

'Tis not enough that you compose your verse In diction irreproachable, pure, scholarly, and terse, Which, dislocate its cadence, by anybody may Be spoken like the language of the father in the play.

Divest those things which now I write, and Lucilius wrote of yore, Of certain measured cadences, by setting that before Which was behind, and that before which I had placed behind, Yet by no alchemy will you in the residuum find The members still apparent of the dislocated bard,"--

a result which he contends would not ensue, however much you might disarrange the language of a pa.s.sage of true poetry, such as one he quotes from Ennius, the poetic charm of which, by the way, is not very apparent. Schooled, however, as he had been, in the pure literature of Greece, Horace aimed at a conciseness and purity of style which had been hitherto unknown in Roman satire, and studied, not unsuccessfully, to give to his own work, by great and well-disguised elaboration of finish, the concentrated force and picturesque precision which are large elements in all genuine poetry. His own practice, as we see from its results, is given in the following lines, and a better description of how didactic or satiric poetry should be written could scarcely be desired (Satires, I. 10).

"'Tis not enough, a poet's fame to make, That you with bursts of mirth your audience shake; And yet to this, as all experience shows, No small amount of skill and talent goes.

Your style must he concise, that what you say May flow on clear and smooth, nor lose its way, Stumbling and halting through a chaos drear Of c.u.mbrous words, that load the weary ear; And you must pa.s.s from grave to gay,--now, like The rhetorician, vehemently strike, Now, like the poet, deal a lighter hit With easy playfulness and polished wit,-- Veil the stern vigour of a soul robust, And flash your fancies, while like death you thrust; For men are more impervious, as a rule, To slas.h.i.+ng censure than to ridicule.

Here lay the merit of those writers, who In the Old Comedy our fathers drew; Here should we struggle in their steps to tread Whom fop Hermogenes has never read, Nor that mere ape of his, who all day long Makes Calvus and Catullus all his song."

The concluding hit at Hermogenes Tigellius and his double is very characteristic of Horace's manner. When he has worked up his description of a vice to be avoided or a virtue to be pursued, he generally drives home his lesson by the mention of some well-known person's name, thus importing into his literary practice the method taken by his father, as we have seen, to impress his ethical teachings upon himself in his youth. The allusion to Calvus and Catullus, the only one anywhere made to these poets by Horace, is curious; but it would be wrong to infer from it, that Horace meant to disparage these fine poets. Calvus had a great reputation both as an orator and poet. But, except some insignificant fragments, nothing of what he wrote is left. How Catullus wrote we do, however, know; and although it is conceivable that Horace had no great sympathy with some of his love verses, which were probably of too sentimental a strain for his taste, we may be sure that he admired the brilliant genius as well as the fine workmans.h.i.+p of many of his other poems. At all events, he had too much good sense to launch a sneer at so great a poet recently dead, which would not only have been in the worst taste, but might justly have been ascribed to jealousy.

When he talks, therefore, of a pair of fribbles who can sing nothing but Calvus and Catullus, it is, as Macleane has said in his note on the pa.s.sage, "as if a man were to say of a modern English c.o.xcomb, that he could sing Moore's ballads from beginning to end, but could not understand a line of Shakespeare,"--no disparagement to Moore, whatever it might be to the vocalist. Hermogenes and his ape (whom we may identify with one Demetrius, who is subsequently coupled with him in the same satire) were musicians and vocalists, idolised, after the manner of modern Italian singers, by the young misses of Rome. Pampered favourites of fas.h.i.+on, the Farinellis of the hour, their opinion on all matters of taste was sure to be as freely given as it was worthless. They had been, moreover, so indiscreet as to provoke Horace's sarcasm by running down his verses. Leave criticism, he rejoins, to men who have a right to judge. Stick to your proper vocation, and

"To puling girls, that listen and adore, Your love-lorn chants and woeful wailings pour!"

In the same Satire we have proof how warmly Horace thought and spoke of living poets. Thus:--

"In grave Iambic measures Pollio sings For our delight the deeds of mighty kings.

The stately Epic Varius leads along, And where is voice so resonant, so strong?

The Muses of the woods and plains have shed Their every grace and charm on Virgil's head."

With none of those will he compete. Satire is his element, and there he proclaims himself to be an humble follower of his great predecessor. But while he bows to Lucilius as his master, and owns him superior in polish and scholarly grace to the satirists who preceded him, still, he continues--

"Still, were he living now--had only such Been Fate's decree--he would have blotted much, Cut everything away that could be called Crude or superfluous, or tame, or bald; Oft scratched his head, the labouring poet's trick, And bitten all his nails down to the quick."

And then he lays down the canon for all high-cla.s.s composition, which can never be too often enforced:--

"Oh yes, believe me, you must draw your pen Not once or twice, but o'er and o'er again, Through what you've written, if you would entice The man who reads you once to read you twice, Not making popular applause your cue, But looking to find audience fit though few." (C.)

He had himself followed the rule, and found the reward. With natural exultation he appeals against the judgment of men of the Hermogenes type to an array of critics of whose good opinion he might well be proud:--

"Maecenas, Virgil, Varius,--if I please In my poor writings these and such as these,-- If Plotius, Valgius, Fuscus will commend, And good Octavius, I've achieved my end.

You, n.o.ble Pollio (let your friend disclaim All thoughts of flattery, when he names your name), Messala and his brother, Servius too, And Bibulus, and Furnius kind and true, With others, whom, despite their sense and wit, And friendly hearts, I purposely omit; Such I would have my critics; men to gain Whose smiles were pleasure, to forget them pain." (C.)

It is not strange that Horace, even in these early days, numbered so many distinguished men among his friends, for, the question of genius apart, there must have been something particularly engaging in his kindly and affectionate nature. He was a good hater, as all warm-hearted men are; and when his blood was up, he could, like Diggory, "remember his swas.h.i.+ng blow." He would fain, as he says himself (Satires, II. 1), be at peace with all men:--

"But he who shall my temper try-- 'Twere best to touch me not, say I-- Shall rue it, and through all the town My verse shall d.a.m.n him with renown."

But with his friends he was forbearing, devoted, lenient to their foibles, not boring them with his own, liberal in construing their motives, and as trustful in their loyalty to himself as he was a.s.sured of his own to them; clearly a man to be loved--a man pleasant to meet and pleasant to remember, constant, and to be relied on in suns.h.i.+ne or in gloom. Friends.h.i.+p with him was not a thing to be given by halves.

He could see a friend's faults-no man quicker-but it did not lie in his mouth to babble about them. He was not one of those who "whisper faults and hesitate dislikes." Love me, love my friend, was his rule. Neither would he sit quietly by, while his friends were being disparaged. And if he has occasion himself to rally their foibles in his poems, he does so openly, and does it with such an implied sympathy and avowal of kindred weakness in himself, that offence was impossible. Above all, he possessed in perfection what Mr Disraeli happily calls "the rare gift of raillery, which flatters the self-love of those whom it seems not to spare." These characteristics are admirably indicated by Persius (I.

116) in speaking of his Satires--

"Arch Horace, while he strove to mend, Probed all the foibles of his smiling friend; Played lightly round and round each peccant part, And won, unfelt, an entrance to his heart." (Gifford.)

And we may be sure the same qualities were even more conspicuous in his personal intercourse with his friends. Satirist though he was, he is continually inculcating the duty of charitable judgments towards all men.

"What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted,"

is a thought often suggested by his works. The best need large grains of allowance, and to whom should these be given if not to friends? Here is his creed on this subject (Satires, I. 3):--

"True love, we know, is blind; defects, that blight The loved one's charms, escape the lover's sight, Nay, pa.s.s for beauties; as Balbinus shows A pa.s.sion for the wen on Agna's nose.

Oh, with our friends.h.i.+ps that we did the same, And screened our blindness under virtue's name!

For we are bound to treat a friend's defect With touch most tender, and a fond respect; Even as a father treats a child's, who hints, The urchin's eyes are roguish, if he squints: Or if he be as stunted, short, and thick, As Sisyphus the dwarf, will call him 'chick!'

If crooked all ways, in back, in legs, and thighs, With softening phrases will the flaw disguise.

So, if one friend too close a fist betrays, Let us ascribe it to his frugal ways; Or is another--such we often find-- To flippant jest and braggart talk inclined, 'Tis only from a kindly wish to try To make the time 'mongst friends go lightly by; Another's tongue is rough and over-free, Let's call it bluntness and sincerity; Another's choleric; him we must screen, As cursed with feelings for his peace too keen.

This is the course, methinks, that makes a friend, And, having made, secures him to the end."

What wonder, such being his practice--for Horace in this as in other things acted up to his professions--that he was so dear, as we see he was, to so many of the best men of his time? The very contrast which his life presented to that of most of his a.s.sociates must have helped to attract them to him. Most of them were absorbed in either political or military pursuits. Wealth, power, dignity, the splendid prizes of ambition, were the dream of their lives. And even those whose tastes inclined mainly towards literature and art were not exempt from the prevailing pa.s.sion for riches and display. Rich, they were eager to be more rich; well placed in society, they were covetous of higher social distinction. Now at Rome, gay, luxurious, dissipated; anon in Spain, Parthia, Syria, Africa, or wherever duty, interest, or pleasure called them, encountering perils by land and sea with reckless indifference to fatigue and danger, always with a hunger at their hearts for something, which, when found, did not appease it; they must have felt a peculiar interest in a man who, without apparent effort, seemed to get so much more out of life than they were able to do, with all their struggles, and all their much larger apparent means of enjoyment. They must have seen that wealth and honour were both within his grasp, and they must have known, too, that it was from no lack of appreciation of either that he deliberately declined to seek them. Wealth would have purchased for him many a refined pleasure which he could heartily appreciate, and honours might have saved him from some of the social slights which must have tested his philosophy. But he told them, in every variety of phrase and ill.u.s.tration--in ode, in satire, and epistle--that without self-control and temperance in all things, there would be no joy without remorse, no pleasure without fatigue--that it is from within that happiness must come, if it come at all, and that unless the mind has schooled itself to peace by the renunciation of covetous desires,

"We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest."

And as he spoke, so they must have seen he lived. Wealth and honours would manifestly have been bought too dearly at the sacrifice of the tranquillity and independence which he early set before him as the objects of his life.

"The content, surpa.s.sing wealth, The sage in meditation found;"

the content which springs from living in consonance with the dictates of nature, from healthful pursuits, from a conscience void of offence; the content which is incompatible with the gnawing disquietudes of avarice, of ambition, of social envy,--with that in his heart, he knew he could be true to his genius, and make life worth living for. A man of this character must always be rare; least of all was he likely to be common in Horace's day, when the men in whose circle he was moving were engaged in the great task of crus.h.i.+ng the civil strife which had shaken the stability of the Roman power, and of consolidating an empire greater and more powerful than her greatest statesmen had previously dreamed of.

But all the more delightful to these men must it have been to come into intimate contact with a man who, while perfectly appreciating their special gifts and aims, could bring them back from the stir and excitement of their habitual life to think of other things than social or political successes,--to look into their own hearts, and to live for a time for something better and more enduring than the triumphs of vanity or ambition.

Horace from the first seems to have wisely determined to keep himself free from those shackles which most men are so eager to forge for themselves, by setting their heart on wealth and social distinction.

With perfect sincerity he had told Maecenas, as we have seen, that he coveted neither, and he gives his reasons thus (Satires, I. 6):--

"For then a larger income must be made, Men's favour courted, and their whims obeyed; Nor could I then indulge a lonely mood, Away from town, in country solitude, For the false retinue of pseudo-friends, That all my movements servilely attends.

More slaves must then be fed, more horses too, And chariots bought. Now have I nought to do, If I would even to Tarentum ride, But mount my bobtailed mule, my wallets tied Across his flanks, which, napping as we go, With my ungainly ankles to and fro, Work his unhappy sides a world of weary woe."

From this wise resolution he never swerved, and so through life he maintained an att.i.tude of independence in thought and action which would otherwise have been impossible. He does not say it in so many words, but the sentiment meets us all through his pages, which Burns, whose mode of thinking so often reminds us of Horace, puts into the line,