SATIRE VI.

ARGUMENT.

There are few points on which men practically differ more than on the question, What is the right use of riches? On this head there was as much diversity of opinion among the philosophers of old as in the present day. Some maintaining that not only a virtuous, but also a happy life consisted in the absence of all those external aids that wealth can bestow; others as zealously arguing that a competency of means was absolutely necessary to the due performance of the higher social virtues. The source of error in most men lies in their mistaking the means for the end; and the object of this Satire, which is the most original, and perhaps the most pleasing of the whole, is to point out how a proper employment of the fortune that falls to our lot may be made to forward the best interests of man. Persius begins with a warm encomium on the genius and learning of his friend Cæsius Bassus, the lyric poet; especially complimenting him on his antiquarian knowledge, and versatility of talent: and he then proceeds to show, by setting forth his own line of conduct, how true happiness may be attained by avoiding the extremes of sordid meanness on the one hand, and ostentatious prodigality on the other; by disregarding the suggestions of envy and the dictates of ambition. A prompt and liberal regard to the necessities and distresses of others is then inculcated; for this, coupled with the maintenance of such an establishment as our fortune warrants us in keeping up, is, to use the words of the poet, "to use wealth, not to abuse it." He then proceeds with great severity and bitter sarcasm to expose the shallow artifices of those who attempt to disguise their sordid selfishness under the specious pretense of a proper prudence, a reverence for the ancient simplicity and frugality of manners, and a proper regard for the interests of those who are to succeed to our inheritance. The Satire concludes with a lively and graphic conversation between Persius and his imaginary heir, in which he exposes the cupidity of those who are waiting for the deaths of men whom they expect to succeed; and shows that the anxiety of these for the death of their friends, furnishes the strongest motive for a due indulgence in the good things of this life; which it would be folly to hoard up merely to be squandered by the spendthrift, or feed the insatiable avarice of one whom even boundless wealth could never satisfy. This Satire was probably written, as Gifford says, "while the poet was still in the flower of youth, possessed of an independent fortune, of estimable friends, dear connections, and of a cultivated mind, under the consciousness of irrecoverable disease; a situation in itself sufficiently affecting, and which is rendered still more so by the placid and even cheerful spirit which pervades every part of the poem."

Has the winter[1511] already made thee retire, Bassus,[1512] to thy Sabine hearth? Does thy harp, and its strings, now wake to life[1513] for thee with its manly[1514] quill? Of wondrous skill in adapting to minstrelsy the early forms of ancient words,[1515] and the masculine sound of the Latin lute—and then again give vent to youthful merriment; or, with dignified touch, sing of distinguished old men. For me the Ligurian[1516] shore now grows warm, and my sea wears its wintry aspect, where the cliffs present a broad side, and the shore retires with a capacious bay. "It is worth while, citizens, to become acquainted with the Port of Luna!"[1517] Such is the best of Ennius in his senses,[1518] when he ceased to dream he was Homer and sprung from a Pythagorean peacock, and woke up plain "Quintus."

Here I live, careless of the vulgar herd—careless too of the evil which malignant Auster[1519] is plotting against my flock—or that that corner[1520] of my neighbor's farm is more fruitful than my own. Nay, even though all who spring from a worse stock than mine, should grow ever so rich, I would still refuse to be bowed down double by old age[1521] on that account, or dine without good cheer, or touch with my nose[1522] the seal on some vapid flagon.

Another man may act differently from this. The star that presides over the natal hour[1523] produces even twins with widely-differing disposition. One, a cunning dog, would, only on his birthday, dip his dry cabbage in pickle[1524] which he has bought in a cup, sprinkling over it with his own hands the pepper, as if it were sacred; the other, a fine-spirited lad, runs through his large estate to please his palate. I, for my part, will use—not abuse—my property; neither sumptuous enough to serve up turbots before my freedmen, nor epicure enough to discern the delicate flavor of female thrushes.[1525]

Live up to your income, and exhaust your granaries. You have a right to do it! What should you fear? Harrow, and lo! another crop is already in the blade!

"But duty calls! My friend,[1526] reduced to beggary, with shipwrecked bark, is clutching at the Bruttian rocks, and has buried all his property, and his prayers unheard by heaven, in the Ionian sea. He himself lies on the shore, and by him the tall gods from the stern;[1527] and the ribs of his shattered vessel are a station for cormorants."[1528] Now therefore detach a fragment from the live turf; and bestow it upon him in his need, that he may not have to roam about with a painting of himself[1529] on a sea-green picture. But[1530] your heir, enraged that you have curtailed your estate, will neglect your funeral supper, he will commit your bones unperfumed to their urn, quite prepared to be careless whether the cinnamon has a scentless flavor, or the cassia be adulterated with cherry-gum. Should you then in your lifetime impair your estate?

But Bestius[1531] rails against the Grecian philosophers: "So it is—ever since this counterfeit[1532] philosophy[1533] came into the city, along with pepper and dates, the very haymakers spoil their pottage with gross unguents."

And are you afraid of this beyond the grave? But you, my heir, whoever you are to be, come apart a little from the crowd, and hear.—"Don't you know, my good friend, that a laureate[1534] letter has been sent by Cæsar on account of his glorious defeat of the flower of the German youth; and now the ashes are being swept from the altars, where they have lain cold; already Cæsonia is hiring arms for the door-posts, mantles for kings, yellow wigs for captives, and chariots, and tall Rhinelanders. Consequently I intend to contribute a hundred pair of gladiators to the gods and the emperor's Genius, in honor of his splendid exploits.—Who shall prevent me? Do you, if you dare! Woe betide you, unless you consent.—I mean to make a largess to the people of oil and meat-pies. Do you forbid it? Speak out plainly!" "Not so," you say. I have a well-cleared field[1535] close by. Well, then! If I have not a single aunt left, or a cousin, nor a single niece's daughter; if my mother's sister is barren, and none of my grandmother's stock survives—I will go to Bovillæ,[1536] and Virbius' hill.[1537] There is Manius already as my heir. "What that son of earth!" Well, ask me who my great-great-grandfather was! I could tell you certainly, but not very readily. Go yet a step farther back, and one more; you will find he is a son of earth! and on this principle of genealogy Manius turns out to be my great uncle. You, who are before me, why do you ask of me the torch[1538] in the race? I am your Mercury! I come to you as the god, in the guise in which he is painted. Do you reject the offer? Will you not be content with what is left? But there is some deficiency in the sum total! Well, I spent it on myself! But the whole of what is left is yours, whatever it is. Attempt not to inquire what is become of what Tadius once left me; nor din into my ears precepts such as fathers give.[1539] "Get interest for your principal, and live upon that."—What is the residue? "The residue!" Here, slave, at once pour oil more bountifully over my cabbage. Am I to have a nettle, or a smoky pig's cheek with a split ear, cooked for me on a festival day, that that spendthrift grandson[1540] of yours may one day stuff himself with goose-giblets, and when his froward humor urge him on, indulge in a patrician mistress? Am I to live a threadbare skeleton,[1541] that his fat paunch[1542] may sway from side to side?

Barter your soul for gain. Traffic; and with keen craft sift every quarter of the globe. Let none exceed you in the art of puffing off[1543] your sleek Cappadocian slaves, on their close-confining platform.[1544] Double[1545] your property. "I have done so"—already it returns three-fold, four-fold, ten-fold to my scrip. Mark where I am to stop. Could I do so, he were found, Chrysippus,[1546] that could put the finish to thy heap!