SATIRE VII.
All our hope and inducement to study[329] rests on Cæsar[330] alone. For he alone casts a favoring eye[331] on the Muses, who in our days are in a forlorn state. When poets, now become famous and men of renown, would fain try and hire a little bath at Gabii, or a public oven at Rome. While others, again, would esteem it neither shocking nor degrading to turn public criers: since Clio herself, if starving, would quit the vales of Aganippe, and emigrate to courts.[332] For if not a single farthing is offered you in the Pierian shades, be content with the name and calling of Machæra:[333] and sooner sell what the auction duly set[334] sells to those that stand around; wine-flagons, trivets, book-cases, chests; the "Alcyone" of Paccius, or the "Thebes" and "Tereus" of Faustus. This is preferable to asserting before the judge that you are a witness of what you never did see.[335] Even though Asiatic,[336] and Cappadocian, and Bithynian knights stoop to this: fellows whom Gallo-Græcia transports hither with chalked feet.[337] Hereafter, however, no one will be compelled to submit to an employment derogatory to his studies, who unites loftiness of expression to tuneful numbers, and has chewed the bay.[338] Set vigorously to work then, young men! The kindness[339] of the emperor is looking all around, and stimulates your exertions, while he is seeking worthy objects of his patronage. If you think that from any other quarter you may look for encouragement in your pursuits, and with that view fill the parchment of your yellow[340] tablet; call with all speed for a fagot, and make a present of all your compositions, Telesinus, to Venus' husband:[341] or lock them up, and let the bookworm[342] bore them through as they lie stowed away. Destroy your pens, poor wretch! Blot out your battles that have lost you your nights' rest, you that write sublime poetry in your narrow garret,[343] that you may come forth worthy of an ivy-crown and meagre image. You have nothing farther to hope for. The stingy patron of our days has learned only to admire and praise the eloquent as boys do Juno's peacock.[344] But your prime of life is ebbing away; that is able to bear the fatigue of the sea, the helmet, or the spade. Then weariness creeps over the spirits: and an old age, that is indeed learned but in rags,[345] curses itself and the Muses that it courted. Now learn the devices of the great man you pay court to, to avoid laying out any money upon you: quitting the temple of the Muses, and Apollo, he composes verses himself, and only yields the palm to Homer himself on the score of his priority by a thousand years. But if inflamed by the charms of fame you recite your poetry, he kindly lends you a dirty mansion, and places at your service one that has been long barred up, whose front gate emulates those of a city in a state of siege. He knows how to place his freedmen in seats at the farther end of the audience, and how to arrange his clients who are to cheer you lustily.[346] None of these great lords will give you as much as would pay for the benches,[347] or the seats that rise one above another on the platform you have to hire; or your orchestra of chairs, which must be returned when your recitation is over. Yet still we ply our tasks, and draw furrows in the profitless dust, and keep turning up the sea-shore with sterile plow. For even if you try to abandon the pursuit, the long habit[348] of indulging in this vain-glorious trifling,[349] holds you fast in its fetters. An inveterate itch of writing, now incurable, clings to many, and grows old in their distempered body. But the poet that is above his fellows, whose vein is not that of the common herd; that is wont to spin out no stale or vulgar subject, and stamps no hackneyed verse from a die that all may use; such an one as I can not embody in words, and can only feel in my soul, is the offspring of a mind free from solicitude, exempt from all that can embitter life, that courts the quiet of the woods, and loves to drink the fountains of the Aonides. Nor can it be that poverty should sing in the Pierian cave, or handle the thyrsus, if forced to sobriety, and lacking that vile pelf the body needs both day and night. Well plied with food and wine is Horace when he shouts out his Evoe![350] What scope is there for fancy, save when our breasts are harassed by no thoughts but verse alone; and are hurried along[351] under the influence of the lords of Cirrha and Nysa, admitting of no divided[352] solicitude. It is the privilege of an exalted soul, and not of one bewildered how to get enough to buy a blanket, to gaze on chariots and horses and the forms of divinities, and in what dread shapes Erinnys[353] appalls the Rutulian. For had Virgil lacked a slave and comfortable lodging, all the serpents would have vanished from Alecto's hair: his trumpet, starved to silence, would have blazed no note of terror. Is it fair to expect that Rubrenus Lappa should not fall short of the buskin of the ancients, while his Atreus[354] forces him to pawn his very sauceboats and his cloak?
Poor Numitor is so unfortunate as to have nothing he can afford to send his protégé! Yet he can find something to give Quintilla—he managed to pay for a tame lion, that must have pounds of flesh to feed him. No doubt the huge beast is kept at far less expense; and a poet's stomach is far more capacious! Let Lucan recline at his ease in his gardens among his marble statues, satisfied with fame alone. But to poor Serranus, and starving Saleius, of what avail will glory be, however great, if it be glory only? All flock in crowds to hear his sweet voice, and the tuneful strains of the Thebais, when Statius[355] has gladdened the city, and fixed the day for reciting it. So great is the charm with which he captivates their souls; such the eager delight with which he is listened to by the multitude. But when the very benches are broken down by the ecstasies with which his verses are applauded, he may starve, unless he sells[356] his unpublished "Agave"[357] to Paris. It is he that bestows on many the honors due to military service, and encircles the fingers of poets with the ring that marks their six months' command.[358] What nobles will not give, a player will! And dost thou, then, still pay court to the Camerini and Bareæ, and the spacious halls of nobles? It is "Pelopea" that makes prefects, "Philomela" tribunes. Yet envy not the bard whom the stage maintains. Who is your Mæcenas now, or Proculeius, or Fabius? Who will act Cotta's part again, or be a second Lentulus? In those days talent had its meet reward: then it was profitable to many to become pale, and abstain from wine[359] the whole of December.
Your toil, forsooth, ye writers of histories! is more profitable, it requires more time and more oil. For regardless of all limit, it rises to the thousandth page; and grows in bulk, expensive from the mass of paper used. This the vast press of matter requires, and the laws of composition. Yet what is the crop that springs from it? what the profit from the soil upturned? Who will give an historian as much as he would a notary?[360] "But they are an idle race, that delight in sofas and the cool shade." Well, tell me then, what do the services rendered their fellow-citizens, and their briefs they carry about with them in a big bundle, bring in to the lawyers? Even of themselves they talk grandly enough, but especially when their creditor is one of their hearers; or if one still more pressing nudges their side, that comes with his great account-book to sue for a doubtful debt. Then the hollow bellows of their lungs breathe forth amazing lies; they foam at the mouth till their breast is covered. But if you like to calculate the actual harvest they reap, set in one scale the estate of a hundred lawyers, and you may balance it on the other side with the single fortune of Lacerna, the charioteer of the Red.[361]
The chiefs have taken their seats![362] You, like Ajax, rise with pallid cheek, and plead in behalf of liberty that has been called in question, before a neat-herd[363] for a juryman! Burst your strained lungs, poor wretch! that, when exhausted, the green palm-branches[364] may be affixed to crown your staircase with honor! Yet what is the reward of your eloquence? A rusty ham, or a dish of sprats; or some shriveled onions, the monthly provender of the Africans;[365] or wine brought down the Tiber. Five bottles[366] for pleading four times! If you have been lucky enough to get a single gold piece,[367] even from that you must deduct the stipulated shares of the attorneys.[368] Æmilius will get as much as the law allows;[369] although we pleaded better than he. For he has in his court-yard a chariot of bronze with four tall horses[370] yoked to it; and he himself, seated on his fierce charger, brandishes aloft his bending spear, and meditates battles with his one eye closed. So it is that Pedo gets involved, Matho fails. This is the end of Tongillus, who usually bathes with a huge rhinoceros' horn of oil, and annoys the baths with his draggled train; and weighs heavily in his ponderous sedan on his sturdy Median slaves, as he presses through the forum to bid for[371] slaves, and plate, and myrrhine vases, and villas. For it is his foreign[372] purple with its Tyrian tissue that gets him credit. And yet this answers their purpose. It is the purple robe that gets the lawyer custom—his violet cloaks that attract clients. It suits their interest to live with all the bustle and outward show of an income greater then they really have. But prodigal Rome observes no bounds to her extravagance. If the old orators were to come to life again, no one now would give even Cicero himself two hundred sesterces, unless a huge ring sparkled on his finger. This is the first point he that goes to law looks to—whether you have eight slaves, ten attendants, a sedan to follow you, and friends in toga to go before. Paulus, consequently, used to plead in a sardonyx, hired for the occasion: and hence it was that Cossus' fees were higher than those of Basilus. Eloquence is a rare quality in a threadbare coat!
When is Basilus allowed to produce in court a weeping mother? Who could endure Basilus, however well he were to plead? Let Gaul become your home, or better still that foster-nurse of pleaders, Africa, if you are determined to let your tongue for hire.
Do you teach declamation? Oh what a heart of steel must Vectius have, when his numerous class kills cruel tyrants! For all that the boy has just conned over at his seat, he will then stand up and spout—the same stale theme in the same sing-song. It is the reproduction of the cabbage[373] that wears out the master's life. What is the plea to be urged: what the character of the cause; where the main point of the case hinges; what shafts may issue from the opposing party;—this all are anxious to know; but not one is anxious to pay! "Pay do you ask for? why, what do I know?" The blame, forsooth, is laid at the teacher's door, because there is not a spark of energy in the breast of this scion of Arcadia,[374] who dins his awful Hannibal into my ears regularly every sixth day. Whatever the theme be that is to be the subject of his deliberation; whether he shall march at once from Cannæ on Rome; or whether, rendered circumspect after the storms and thunderbolts, he shall lead his cohorts, drenched with the tempest, by a circuitous route. Bargain[375] for any sum you please, and I will at once place it in your hands, on condition that his father should hear him his lesson as often as I have to do it! But six or more sophists are all giving tongue at once; and, debating in good earnest, have abandoned all fictitious declamations about the ravisher. No more is heard of the poison infused, or the vile ungrateful husband,[376] or the drugs that can restore the aged blind to youth. He therefore that quits the shadowy conflicts of rhetoric for the arena of real debate, will superannuate himself, if my advice has any weight with him, and enter on a different path of life; that he may not lose even the paltry sum that will purchase the miserable ticket[377] for corn. Since this is the most splendid reward you can expect. Just inquire what Chrysogonus receives, or Pollio, for teaching the sons of these fine gentlemen, and going into all the details[378] of Theodorus' treatise.