All this, and more, the G.o.ds have sent, And I am heartily content.

Oh son of Maia, that I may These bounties keep is all I pray.

If ne'er by craft or base design I've swelled what little store is mine, Nor mean, it ever shall be wrecked By profligacy or neglect; If never from my lips a word Shall drop of wishes so absurd As,--'Had I but that little nook Next to my land, that spoils its look!

Or--'Would some lucky chance unfold A crock to me of hidden gold, As to the man whom Hercules Enriched and settled at his ease, Who,--with, the treasure he had found, Bought for himself the very ground Which he before for hire had tilled!'

If I with grat.i.tude am filled For what I have--by this I dare Adjure you to fulfil my prayer, That you with fatness will endow My little herd of cattle now, And all things else their lord may own, Except his sorry wits alone, And be, as heretofore, my chief Protector, guardian, and relief!

So, when from town and all its ills I to my perch among the hills Retreat, what better theme to choose Than satire for my homely Muse?

No fell ambition wastes me there, No, nor the south wind's leaden air, Nor Autumn's pestilential breath, With victims feeding hungry death.

Sire of the morn, or if more dear The name of Ja.n.u.s to thine ear, Through whom whate'er by man is done, From life's first dawning, is begun (So willed the G.o.ds for man's estate), Do thou my verse initiate!

At Rome you hurry me away To bail my friend; 'Quick, no delay, Or some one--could worse luck befall you?-- Will in the kindly task forestall you.'

So go I must, although the wind Is north and killingly unkind, Or snow, in thickly-falling flakes, The wintry day more wintry makes.

And when, articulate and clear, I've spoken what may cost me dear, Elbowing the crowd that round me close, I'm sure to crush somebody's toes.

'I say, where are you pushing to?

What would you have, you madman, you?'

So flies he at poor me, 'tis odds, And curses me by all his G.o.ds.

'You think that you, now, I daresay, May push whatever stops your way, When you are to Maecenas bound!'

Sweet, sweet, as honey is the sound, I won't deny, of that last speech, But then no sooner do I reach The dusky Esquiline, than straight Buzz, buzz around me runs the prate Of people pestering me with cares, All about other men's affairs.

'To-morrow, Roscius bade me state, He trusts you'll be in court by eight!'

'The scriveners, worthy Quintus, pray, You'll not forget they meet to-day, Upon a point both grave and new, One touching the whole body, too.'

'Do get Maecenas, do, to sign This application here of mine!'

'Well, well, I'll try.' 'You can with ease Arrange it, if you only please.'

Close on eight years it now must be, Since first Maecenas numbered me Among his friends, as one to take Out driving with him, and to make The confidant of trifles, say, Like this, 'What is the time of day?'

'The Thracian gladiator, can One match him with the Syrian?'

'These chilly mornings will do harm, If one don't mind to wrap up warm;'

Such nothings as without a fear One drops into the c.h.i.n.kiest ear.

Yet all this tune hath envy's glance On me looked more and more askance.

From mouth to mouth such comments run: 'Our friend indeed is Fortune's son.

Why, there he was, the other day, Beside Maecenas at the play; And at the Campus, just before, They had a bout at battledore.'

Some chilling news through lane and street Spreads from the Forum. All I meet Accost me thus--'Dear friend, you're so Close to the G.o.ds, that you must know: About the Dacians, have you heard Any fresh tidings? Not a word!'

'You're always jesting!' 'Now may all The G.o.ds confound me, great and small, If I have heard one word!' 'Well, well, But you at any rate can tell, If Caesar means the lands, which he Has promised to his troops, shall be Selected from Italian ground, Or in Trinacria be found?'

And when I swear, as well I can, That I know nothing, for a man Of silence rare and most discreet They cry me up to all the street.

Thus do my wasted days slip by, Not without many a wish and sigh, When, when shall I the country see, Its woodlands green,--oh, when be free, With books of great old men, and sleep, And hours of dreamy ease, to creep Into oblivion sweet of life, Its agitations and its strife? [1]

When on my table shall be seen Pythagoras's kinsman bean, And bacon, not too fat, embellish My dish of greens, and give it relish!

Oh happy nights, oh feasts divine, When, with the friends I love, I dine At mine own hearth-fire, and the meat We leave gives my bluff hinds a treat!

No stupid laws our feasts control, But each guest drains or leaves the bowl, Precisely as he feels inclined.

If he be strong, and have a mind For b.u.mpers, good! if not, he's free To sip his liquor leisurely.

And then the talk our banquet rouses!

But not about our neighbours' houses, Or if 'tis generally thought That Lepos dances well or not?

But what concerns us nearer, and Is harmful not to understand, By what we're led to choose our friends,-- Regard for them, or our own ends?

In what does good consist, and what Is the supremest form of that?

And then friend Cervius will strike in With some old grandam's tale, akin To what we are discussing. Thus, If some one have cried up to us Arellius' wealth, forgetting how Much care it costs him, 'Look you now, Once on a time,' he will begin, 'A country mouse received within His rugged cave a city brother, As one old comrade would another.

"A frugal mouse upon the whole, But loved his friend, and had a soul,"

And could be free and open-handed, When hospitality demanded.

In brief, he did not spare his h.o.a.rd Of corn and pease, long coyly stored; Raisins he brought, and sc.r.a.ps, to boot, Half-gnawed, of bacon, which he put With his own mouth before his guest, In hopes, by offering his best In such variety, he might Persuade him to an appet.i.te.

But still the cit, with languid eye, Just picked a bit, then put it by; Which with dismay the rustic saw, As, stretched upon some stubbly straw, He munched at bran and common grits, Not venturing on the dainty bits.

At length the town mouse; "What," says he, "My good friend, can the pleasure be, Of grubbing here, on the backbone Of a great crag with trees o'ergrown?

Who'd not to these wild woods prefer The city, with its crowds and stir?

Then come with me to town; you'll ne'er Regret the hour that took you there.

All earthly things draw mortal breath; Nor great nor little can from death Escape, and therefore, friend, be gay, Enjoy life's good things while you may, Remembering how brief the s.p.a.ce Allowed to you in any case."

His words strike home; and, light of heart, Behold with him our rustic start, Timing their journey so, they might Reach town beneath the cloud of night, Which was at its high noon, when they To a rich mansion found their way, Where shining ivory couches vied With coverlets in purple dyed, And where in baskets were ama.s.sed The wrecks of a superb repast, Which some few hours before had closed.

There, having first his friend disposed Upon a purple tissue, straight The city mouse begins to wait With sc.r.a.ps upon his country brother, Each sc.r.a.p more dainty than another, And all a servant's duty proffers, First tasting everything he offers.

The guest, reclining there in state, Rejoices in his altered fate, O'er each fresh tidbit smacks his lips, And breaks into the merriest quips, When suddenly a banging door Shakes host and guest into the floor.

Prom room to room they rush aghast, And almost drop down dead at last, When loud through all the house resounds The deep bay of Molossian hounds.

"Ho!" cries the country mouse, "this kind Of life is not for me, I find.

Give me my woods and cavern! There At least I'm safe! And though both spare And poor my food may be, rebel I never will; so, fare ye well!"'"

[1] Many have imitated this pa.s.sage--none better than Cowley.

"Oh fountains! when in you shall I Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy?

Oh fields! oh woods! when, when shall I be made The happy tenant of your shade?

Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood, Where all the riches be, that she Has coined and stamped for good."

How like is this to Tennyson's--

"You'll have no scandal while you dine, But honest talk and wholesome wine, And only hear the magpie gossip Garrulous, under a roof of pine."

It is characteristic of Horace that in the very next satire he makes his own servant Davus tell him that his rhapsodies about the country and its charms are mere humbug, and that, for all his ridicule of the shortcomings of his neighbours, he is just as inconstant as they are in his likings and dislikings. The poet in this way lets us see into his own little vanities, and secures the right by doing so to rally his friends for theirs. To his valet, at all events, by his own showing, he is no hero.

"You're praising up incessantly The habits, manners, likings, ways, Of people hi the good old days; Yet should some G.o.d this moment give To you the power, like them to live, You're just the man to say,' I won't!'

Because in them you either don't Believe, or else the courage lack, The truth through thick and thin to back, And, rather than its heights aspire, Will go on sticking in the mire.

At Rome you for the country sigh; When in the country to the sky You, flighty as the thistle's down, Are always crying up the town.

If no one asks you out to dine, Oh, then the _pot-au-feu's_ divine!

'You go out on compulsion only-- 'Tis so delightful to be lonely; And drinking b.u.mpers is a bore You shrink from daily more and more.'

But only let Maecenas send Command for you to meet a friend; Although the message comes so late, The lamps are being lighted, straight, 'Where's my pommade? Look sharp!' you shout, 'Heavens! is there n.o.body about?

Are you all deaf?' and, storming high At all the household, off you fly.

When Milvius, and that set, anon Arrive to dine, and find you gone, With vigorous curses they retreat, Which I had rather not repeat."

Who could take amiss the rebuke of the kindly satirist, who was so ready to show up his own weaknesses? In this respect our own great satirist Thackeray is very like him. Nor is this strange. They had many points in common--the same keen eye for human folly, the same tolerance for the human weaknesses of which they were so conscious in themselves, the same genuine kindness of heart. Thackeray's terse and vivid style, too, is probably in some measure due to this, that to him, as to Malherbe, Horace was a kind of breviary.

CHAPTER V.

LIFE IN ROME.--HORACE'S BORE.--EXTRAVAGANCE OF THE ROMAN DINNERS.

It is one of the many charms of Horace's didactic writings, that he takes us into the very heart of the life of Rome. We lounge with its loungers along the Via Sacra; we stroll into the Campus Martius, where young Hebrus with his n.o.ble horsemanship is witching the blushing Neobule, already too much enamoured of the handsome Liparian; and the men of the old school are getting up an appet.i.te by games of tennis, bowls, or quoits; while the young Grecianised fops--lisping feeble jokes--saunter by with a listless contempt for such vulgar gymnastics.

We are in the Via Appia. Barine sweeps along in her chariot in superb toilette, shooting glances from her sleepy cruel eyes. The young fellows are all agaze. What is this? Young Pompilius, not three months married, bows to her, with a visible spasm at the heart, as she hurries by, full in view of his young wife, who hides her mortification within the curtains of her litter, and hastens home to solitude and tears. Here comes Barrus--as ugly a dog as any in Rome--dressed to death; and smiling Malvolio--smiles of self-complacency. The girls t.i.tter and exchange glances as he pa.s.ses; Barrus swaggers on, feeling himself an inch taller in the conviction that he is slaughtering the hearts of the dear creatures by the score. A mule, with a dead boar thrown across it, now winds its way among the chariots and litters. A little ahead of it stalks Gargilius, attended by a strong force of retainers armed with spears and nets, enough to thin the game of the Hercynian forest. Little does the mighty hunter dream, that all his friends, who congratulate him on his success, are asking themselves and each other, where he bought the boar, and for how much? Have we never encountered a piscatory Gargilius near the Spey or the Tweed? We wander back into the city and its narrow streets. In one we are jammed into a doorway by a train of builders' waggons laden with huge blocks of stone, or ma.s.sive logs of timber. Escaping these, we run against a line of undertakers' men, "performing" a voluminous and expensive funeral, to the discomfort of everybody and the impoverishment of the dead man's kindred. In the next street we run the risk of being crushed by some huge piece of masonry in the act of being swung by a crane into its place; and while calculating the chances of its fall with upturned eye, we find ourselves landed in the gutter by an unclean pig, which has darted between our legs at some attractive garbage beyond. This peril over, we encounter at the next turning a mad dog, who makes a pa.s.sing snap at our toga as he darts into a neighbouring blind alley, whither we do not care to follow his vagaries among a covey of young Roman street Arabs. Before we reach home a mumping beggar drops before us as we turn the corner, in a well-simulated fit of epilepsy or of helpless lameness. _'Quoere peregrinum'_--"Try that game on country cousins,"--we mutter in our beard, and retreat to our lodgings on the third floor, encountering probably on the stair some half-tipsy artisan or slave, who is descending from the attics for another cup of fiery wine at the nearest wine-shop. We go to the theatre. The play is "Ilione," by Pacuvius; the scene a highly sensational one, where the ghost of Deiphobus, her son, appearing to Ilione, beseeches her to give his body burial. "Oh mother, mother," he cries, in tones most raucously tragic, "hear me call!" But the Kynaston of the day who plays Ilione has been soothing his maternal sorrow with too potent Falernian. He slumbers on. The populace, like the G.o.ds of our gallery, surmise the truth, and, "Oh! mother, mother, hear me call!" is bellowed from a thousand lungs. We are enjoying a comedy, when our friends the people, "the many-headed monster of the pit," begin to think it slow, and stop the performance with shouts for a show of bears or boxers. Or, hoping to hear a good play, we find the entertainment offered consists of pure spectacle, "inexplicable dumbshow and noise"--

"Whole fleets of ships in long procession pa.s.s, And captive ivory follows captive bra.s.s." (C.)

A milk-white elephant or a camelopard is considered more than a subst.i.tute for character, incident, or wit. And if an actor presents himself in a dress of unusual splendour, the house is in ecstasies, and a roar of applause, loud as a tempest in the Garganian forest, or as the surges on the Tuscan strand, makes the velarium vibrate above their heads. Human nature is perpetually repeating itself. So when Pope is paraphrasing Horace, he has no occasion to alter the facts, which were the same in his pseudo, as in the real, Augustan age, but only to modernise the names:--

"Loud as the waves on Orcas' stormy steep Howl to the roarings of the Northern deep, Such is the shout, the long-applauding note, At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat.

Booth enters--hark! the universal peal.

'But has he spoken?' Not a syllable.

'What shook the stage, and made the people stare?'

'Cato's long wig, flowered gown, and lackered chair.'"

We dine out. Maecenas is of the party, and comes in leaning heavily on the two umbrae (guests of his own inviting) whom he has brought with him,--habitues of what Augustus called his "parasitical table," who make talk and find buffoonery for him. He is out of spirits to-day, and more reserved than usual, for a messenger has just come in with bad news from Spain, or he has heard of a conspiracy against Augustus, which must be crushed before it grows more dangerous. Varius is there, and being a writer of tragedies, keeps up, as your tragic author is sure to do, a ceaseless fire of puns and pleasantry. At these young Sybaris smiles faintly, for his thoughts are away with his ladylove, the too fascinating Lydia. Horace--who, from the other side of the table, with an amused smile in his eyes, watches him, as he "sighs like furnace,"

while Neaera, to the accompaniment of her lyre, sings one of Sappho's most pa.s.sionate odes--whispers something in the ear of the brilliant vocalist, which visibly provokes a witty repartee, with a special sting in it for Horace himself, at which the little man winces--for have there not been certain love-pa.s.sages of old between Neaera and himself? The wine circulates freely. Maecenas warms, and drops, with the deliberation of a rich sonorous voice, now some sharp sarcasm, now some aphorism heavy with meaning, which sticks to the memory, like a saying of Talleyrand's. His _umbrae_, who have put but little of allaying Tiber in their cups, grow boisterous and abusive, and having insulted nearly everybody at the table by coa.r.s.e personal banter, the party breaks up, and we are glad to get out with flushed cheeks and dizzy head into the cool air of an early summer night--all the more, that for the last half-hour young Piso at our elbow has been importuning us with whispered specimens of his very rickety elegiacs, and trying to settle an early appointment for us to hear him read the first six books of the great Epic with which he means to electrify the literary circles. We reach the Fabrician bridge, meditating as we go the repartees with which we might have turned the tables on those scurrilous followers of the great man, but did not. Suddenly we run up against a gentleman, who, raising his cloak over his head, is on the point of jumping into the Tiber. We seize him by his mantle, and discover in the intended suicide an old acquaintance, equally well known to the Jews and the bric-a-brac shops, whose tastes for speculation and articles of _vertu_ have first brought him to the money-lenders, next to the dogs, and finally to the brink of the yellow Tiber. We give him all the sesterces we have about us, along with a few sustaining aphorisms from our commonplace book upon the folly, if not the wickedness, of suicide, and see him safely home. When we next encounter the decayed _virtuoso_, he has grown a beard (very badly kept), and set up as a philosopher of the hyper-virtuous Jaques school. Of course he lectures us upon every vice which we have not, and every little frailty which we have, with a pointed asperity that upsets our temper for the day, and causes us long afterwards to bewail the evil hour in which we rescued such an ill-conditioned grumbler from the kindly waters of the river.