How strange it is that no one lives content with his lot, but must always be envying his neighbor! The soldier would be a merchant, the merchant a soldier; the lawyer would be a farmer, the farmer a lawyer. But these malcontents are not in earnest in this prayer for a change; should some god grant their petition, they would one and all refuse to accept the boon.
The excuse of those who toil early and late is, that when they have "made their pile" and have a modest competency for a peaceful old age, they will retire. They say that they seek gold only as a means to an end, and cite the example of the thrifty ant. But herein they show their insincerity; for, while the ant lives upon its hoarded wealth in winter, and stops its active life, the gain-getter never stops so long as there is more to be gotten.
"But," you say, "it is so delightful to have a whole river to drink from." Why so? You can't possibly drink it all, and besides, the river water is apt to be muddy. I prefer to drink from a clear little spring myself. And then, too, you are liable to be drowned in your attempt to drink from the river.
"But one must have money. A man's social standing depends upon his bank account." It's useless to argue with such a man. He can see nothing but the almighty dollar. If he did but know it, he is simply another Tantalus, surrounded by riches which he cannot, or, in his case, will not enjoy. And besides he does not really care for popular opinion as he professes to do. Poor wretch! he has all the care and none of the pleasures of his wealth. Heaven keep me poor in such possessions!
You say that money secures help in sickness? But such help! Your greed has alienated all who would naturally love and care for you; and you must not be surprised if you do not keep the love which you are doing nothing to preserve.
No, no! away with your greed; cease to think that lack of money is necessarily an evil; and beware lest your fate at last be miserably to lose your all by a violent death. No, I am not asking you to be a spendthrift. Only seek a proper mean between this and the miser's character.
But, to get back to the original proposition, no one is content with his lot, but is constantly trying to surpass his fellows. And so the jostling struggle for existence goes on, and rare indeed is it to find a man who leaves this life satisfied that he has had his share of its blessings.
With this conclusion another man would have been content. But Horace somehow feels that he has been a little hard upon his kind, and by way of softening down the seriousness of the lecture, and at the same time saving himself from the fault of verbosity, which he detests, he ends with a characteristic jibe at the wordy Stoic philosophers:
But enough of this. Lest you think that I have stolen the notes of the blear-eyed Crispinus, I'll say no more.
In another satire, Horace rebukes the fault of censoriousness. His text practically is: "Judge not that ye be not judged." With characteristic indirect approach to his subject, he begins with a tirade against one Tigellius, until we begin to be indignant with this censorious preacher; when suddenly he whips around to the other side, assumes the rôle of one of his hearers, and puts the question to himself: "Have you no faults of your own?" And then we see that he has only been playing a part, and giving us an objective illustration of how it sounds when the other man finds fault, thus exposing to themselves those who, habitually blind to their own faults, are quick to discover those of other men.
The dramatic element, which seems to have been inherent in satire from the beginning, is one of the most noticeable characteristics of style in the satires of Horace. Indeed, his favorite method of expression is the dialogue, carried on either between himself and some other person, real or imaginary, or between two characters of his creation, whom he introduces as best fitted to conduct the discussion of a theme.
The most dramatic of his satires is that in which he introduces the bore. In this, the poem consists solely of dialogue and descriptions of action which may be taken as stage direction. It therefore needs but slight change to give it perfect dramatic form. The problem of the episode is how to get rid of the bore and at the same time keep within the bounds of gentlemanly conduct. This famous satire is given below in full.
THE BORE: A DRAMATIC SATIRE IN ONE ACT
The persons of the drama: Horace; the Bore; Aristius Fuscus, a friend of Horace; an adversary of the Bore; Horace's slave-boy; a street mob.
Scene: The Sacred Way in Rome, extending on during the action into the Forum.
[Enter Horace, walking along the street in deep thought. To him enters Bore, who grasps his hand with great show of affection and slaps him familiarly on the shoulder.]
Bore. How are you, my dear old fellow? Horace [stiffly]. Fairly well, as times go. I trust all is well with you? [As the Bore follows him up, Horace attempts to forestall conversation, and to dismiss his companion with the question of formal leave:] There's nothing I can do for you is there? Bore. Yes, make my acquaintance. I am really worth knowing; I'm a scholar. Horace. Really? You will be more interesting to me on that account, I am sure. [He tries desperately to get rid of the Bore, goes faster, stops, whispers in the slave-boy's ear; while the sweat pours down his face, which he mops desperately. He exclaims aside:] O Bolanus, how I wish I had your hot temper! Bore [chatters empty nothings, praises the scenery, the buildings, etc. As Horace continues silent, he says:] You're terribly anxious to get rid of me; I've seen that all along. But it's no use, I'll stay by you, I'll follow you. Where are you going from here? Horace [trying to discourage him]. There's no need of your going out of your way. I'm going to visit a man—an entire stranger to you. He lies sick at his house away over beyond the Tiber, near Cæsar's gardens. Bore. O, I have nothing else to do, and I'm a good walker. I'll just go along with you. [As Horace keeps on doggedly in sullen silence, he continues:] Unless I am much mistaken in myself, you will find me a more valuable friend than Viscus or Varius. There's no one can write more poetry in a given time than I, or dance more gracefully; and as for singing, Hermogenes himself would envy me. Horace [interrupting, tries to frighten him off by suggesting that the sick man whom he is going to visit may be suffering from some contagious disease]. Have you a mother or other relative dependent on you? Bore. No, I have no one at all. I've buried every one of them. Horace [aside]. Lucky dogs! Now I'm the only victim left. Finish me up; for a dreadful fate is dogging my steps, which an old Sabine fortune-teller once warned me of when I was a boy. She said: "No poisonous drug shall carry this boy off, nor deadly sword, nor wasting consumption, nor crippling gout; in the fulness of time some chatterbox will talk him to death. So then, if he be wise, when he shall come to man's estate, let him beware of all chatterboxes." [They have now come opposite the Temple of Vesta in the south end of the Forum, near which the courts of justice were held. The hour for opening court has arrived.] Bore [suddenly remembering that he has given bond to appear in a certain suit, and that if he fails to appear this suit will go against him by default]. Won't you kindly attend me here in court a little while? Horace. I can't help you any. Hang it, I'm too tired to stand around here; and I don't know anything about law, anyhow. Besides, I'm in a hurry to get—you know where. Bore. I'm in doubt what to do, whether to leave you or my case. Horace. Leave me, by all means. Bore [after a brief meditation]. No, I don't believe I will. [He takes the lead, and Horace helplessly follows. The Bore starts in on the subject which is uppermost in his mind.] How do you and Mæcenas get on? He's a very exclusive and level-headed fellow, now, isn't he? No one has made a better use of his chances. You would have an excellent assistant in that quarter, one who could ably support you, if only you would introduce yours truly. Strike me dead, if you wouldn't show your heels to all competitors in no time. Horace. Why, we don't live there on any such basis as you seem to think. There is no circle in Rome more free from self-seeking on the part of its members, or more at variance with such a feeling. It makes no difference to me if another man is richer or more learned than I. Every man has his own place there. Bore. You don't really mean that? I can scarcely believe it. Horace. And yet such is the case. Bore. You only make me more eager to be admitted. Horace [with contemptuous sarcasm]. O, you have only to wish it: such is your excellence, you'll be sure to gain your point. To tell the truth, Mæcenas is a soft-hearted fellow, and for this very reason guards the first approach to his friendship more carefully. Bore [taking Horace's suggestion in earnest]. O, I shall keep my eyes open. I'll bribe his servants. And if I don't get in to-day, I'll try again. I'll lie in wait for chances, I'll meet him on the street corners, and walk down town with him. You can't get anything in this life without working for it. [Enter Aristius Fuscus, an intimate friend of Horace. They meet and exchange greetings]. Horace [to Fuscus]. Hello! where do you come from? Fuscus. Where are you going? [Horace slyly plucks his friend's toga, pinches his arm, and tries by nods and winks to get Fuscus to rescue him from the Bore. But Fuscus pretends not to understand.] Horace [to Fuscus]. Didn't you say that you had something to say to me in private? Fuscus. Yes, but I'll tell you some other time. To-day is a Jewish festival. You wouldn't have me insult the Jews, would you? Horace. O, I have no such scruples myself. Fuscus. But I have. I'm just one of the plain people—not as strong-minded as you are. You really must excuse me; I'll tell you some other time. [Fuscus hurries away, with a wicked wink, leaving his friend in the lurch.] Horace [in a despairing aside]. O, to think that so dark a day as this should ever have dawned for me! [At this juncture the Bore's adversary at law comes running up.] The Adversary [to Bore, in a loud voice.] Where are you going, you bail-breaking rascal? [To Horace.] Will you come witness against him? [Horace gives him his ear to touch in token of his assent, and the Bore is hurried off to court, with loud expostulations on both sides, and with the inevitable jeering street crowd following after.] Horace [left alone]. Saved, by the grace of Apollo!
The fourth and tenth satires of the first book are of especial value to us, because they contain Horace's own estimate of his predecessor, Lucilius; answers to popular criticism against the spirit and form of satire; much general literary criticism; and many personal comments by the poet upon his own method and spirit as a satirist. Following is an abstract of the tenth:
Yes, Lucilius is rough—anybody will admit that. I also admit that he is to be praised for his great wit. But wit of itself does not constitute great poetry. There must also be polish, variety of style, sprightliness and versatility. This is what caused the success of the old Greek comedy. "But," you say, "Lucilius was so skilled in mingling Latin and Greek." That, I reply, neither requires any great skill, nor is it a thing to be desired. This last assertion is at once apparent if you take the discussion into other fields of literature than poetry. I myself have been warned by Quirinus not to attempt Greek verse.
I have looked over the literary field and found it occupied by men who could write better than I in each department—comedy, tragedy, epic, pastoral. Satire alone promised success to me; but still I do not profess to excel Lucilius. I freely leave the crown to him.
But for all that I cannot help seeing his faults which I mentioned in my former satire—his extreme verbosity and roughness. In criticizing him I take the same license which he himself used toward his predecessors, and which he would use now toward his own extant works were he alive to-day. He surely would be more careful, and take more pains with his work, if he were now among us.
And that is just the point. One must write and rewrite, and polish to the utmost, if he would produce anything worth reading. He must not be eager to rush into print and cater to the public taste. Let him be content with the applause of men of culture, and strive to win that; and let him leave popular favor to men who are themselves no better than the rabble whom they court.