"L_et him to whom the G.o.ds award_ C_alenian vineyards prune the vine_; T_he merchant sell his balms and nard_, A_nd drain the precious wine_
"F_rom cups of gold--to Fortune dear_ B_ecause his laden argosy_ C_rosses, unshattered, thrice a year_ T_he storm-vexed Midland sea_.
"R_ipe berries from the olive bough_, M_allows and endives, be my fare_.
S_on of Latona, hear my vow!_ A_pollo, grant my prayer!_
"H_ealth to enjoy the blessings sent_ F_rom heaven; a mind unclouded, strong_; A_ cheerful heart; a wise content_; A_n honored age; and song_."
This is not the prayer of the city-bred formalist. It reflects the heart of humble breeding and sympathies. For the faith which really sets the poet aglow we must go into the fields and hamlets of Italy, among the householders who were the descendants of the long line of Italian forefathers that had worshiped from time immemorial the same G.o.ds at the same altars in the same way. They were not the G.o.ds of yesterday, imported from Greece and Egypt, and splendid with display, but the simple G.o.ds of farm and fold native to the soil of Italy. Whatever his conception of the logic of it all, Horace felt a powerful appeal as he contemplated the picturesqueness of the worship and the simplicity of the worshiper, and reflected upon its genuineness and purity as contrasted with what his worldly wisdom told him of the heart of the urban worshiper.
Horace may entertain a well-bred skepticism of Jupiter"s thunderbolt, and he may pa.s.s the jest on the indifference of the Epicurean G.o.ds to the affairs of men. When he does so, it is with the G.o.ds of mythology and literature he is dealing, not with really religious G.o.ds. For the old-fashioned faith of the country he entertains only the kindliest regard. The images that rise in his mind at the mention of religion pure and undefiled are not the gaudy spectacles to be seen in the marbled streets of the capital. They are images of incense rising in autumn from the ancient altar on the home-stead, of the feast of the Terminalia with its slain lamb, of libations of ruddy wine and offerings of bright flowers on the clear waters of some ancestral spring, of the simple hearth of the farmhouse, of the family table resplendent with the silver _salinum_, heirloom of generations, from which the grave paterfamilias makes the pious offering of crackling salt and meal to little G.o.ds crowned with rosemary and myrtle, of the altar beneath the pine to the Virgin G.o.ddess, of Faunus the shepherd-G.o.d, in the humor of wooing, roaming the sunny farmfields in quest of retreating wood-nymphs, of Priapus the garden-G.o.d, and Silva.n.u.s, guardian of boundaries, and, most of all, and typifying all, of the faith of rustic Phidyle, with clean hands and a pure heart raising palms to heaven at the new of the moon, and praying for the full-hanging vine, thrifty fields of corn, and unblemished lambs. Of the religious life represented by these, Horace is no more tempted to make light than he is tempted to delineate the Italian rustic as De Maupa.s.sant does the French,--as an amusing animal, with just enough of the human in his composition to make him ludicrous.
_iv_. THE INTERPRETER OF THE POPULAR WISDOM
Finally, in the homely, unconventional wisdom which fills _Satire_ and _Epistle_ and sparkles from the _Odes_, Horace is again the national interpreter. The ma.s.ses of Rome or Italy had little consciously to do with either Stoicism or Epicureanism. Their philosophy was vigorous common sense, and was learned from living, not from conning books.
Horace, too, for all his having been a student of formal philosophy in Athens, for all his professed faith in philosophy as a boon for rich and poor and old and young, and for all his inclination to yield to the natural human impulse toward system and adopt the philosophy of one of the Schools, is a consistent follower of neither Stoic nor Epicurean.
Both systems attracted him by their virtues, and both repelled him because of their weaknesses. His half-humorous confession of wavering allegiance is only a reflection of the shiftings of a mind open to the appeal of both:
And, lest you inquire under what guide or to what hearth I look for safety, I will tell you that I am sworn to obedience in no master"s formula, but am a guest in whatever haven the tempest sweeps me to. Now I am full of action and deep in the waves of civic life, an unswerving follower and guardian of the true virtue, now I secretly backslide to the precepts of Aristippus, and try to bend circ.u.mstance to myself, not myself to circ.u.mstance.
Horace is either Stoic or Epicurean, or neither, or both. The character of philosophy depends upon definition of terms, and Epicureanism with Horace"s definitions of pleasure and duty differed little in practical working from Stoicism. In profession, he was more of the Epicurean; in practice, more of the Stoic. His philosophy occupies ground between both, or, rather, ground common to both. It admits of no name. It is not a system. It owes its resemblances to either of the Schools more to his own nature than to his familiarity with them, great as that was.
The foundations of Horace"s philosophy were laid before he ever heard of the Schools. Its basis was a habit of mind acquired by a.s.sociation with his father and the people of Venusia, and with the ordinary people of Rome. Under the influence of reading, study, and social converse at Athens, under the stress of experience in the field, and from long contemplation of life in the large in the capital of an empire, it crystallized into a philosophy of life. The term "philosophy" is misleading in Horace"s case. It suggests books and formulae and externals. What Horace read in books did not all remain for him the dead philosophy of ink and paper; what was in tune with his nature he a.s.similated, to become philosophy in action, philosophy which really was the guide of life. His faith in it is unfeigned:
Thus does the time move slowly and ungraciously which hinders me from the active realization of what, neglected, is a harm to young and old alike.... The envious man, the ill-tempered, the indolent, the wine-bibber, the too free lover,--no mortal, in short, is so crude that his nature cannot be made more gentle if only he will lend a willing ear to cultivation.
The occasional phraseology of the Schools which Horace employs should not mislead. It is for the most part the convenient dress for truth discovered for himself through experience; or it may be literary ornament. The humorous and not unsatiric lines to his poet-friend Albius Tibullus,--"when you want a good laugh, come and see me; you will find me fat and sleek and my skin well cared for, a pig from the sty of Epicurus,"--are as easily the jest of a Stoic as the confession of an Epicurean. Horace"s philosophy is individual and natural, and representative of Roman common sense rather than any School.
HORACE AND h.e.l.lENISM
A word should be said here regarding the frequent use of the word "h.e.l.lenic" in connection with Horace"s genius. Among the results of his higher education, it is natural that none should be more prominent to the eye than the influence of Greek letters upon his work; but to call Horace Greek is to be blinded to the essential by the presence in his poems of Greek form and Greek allusion. It would be as little reasonable to call a Roman triumphal arch Greek because it displays column, architrave, or a facing of marble from Greece. What makes Roman architecture stand is not ornament, but Roman concrete and the Roman vault. Horace is Greek as Milton is Hebraic or Roman, or as Shakespeare is Italian.
4. HORACE THE PHILOSOPHER OF LIFE
HORACE THE SPECTATOR AND ESSAYIST
A great source of the richness of personality which const.i.tutes Horace"s princ.i.p.al charm is to be found in his contemplative disposition. His att.i.tude toward the universal drama is that of the onlooker. As we shall see, he is not without keen interest in the piece, but his prevailing mood is that of mild amus.e.m.e.nt. In time past, he has himself a.s.sumed more than one of the roles, and has known personally many of the actors.
He knows perfectly well that there is a great deal of the mask and buskin on the stage of life, and that each man in his time plays many parts. Experience has begotten reflection, and reflection has contributed in turn to experience, until contemplation has pa.s.sed from diversion to habit.
Horace is another Spectator, except that his "meddling with any practical part in life" has not been so slight:
Thus I live in the world rather as a Spectator of mankind than as one of the species, by which means I have made myself a speculative statesman, soldier, merchant, and artisan, without ever meddling with any practical part in life. I am very well versed in the theory of a husband, or a father, and can discern the errors in the economy, business, and diversion of others, better than those who are engaged in them: as standers-by discover blots which are apt to escape those who are in the game.
He looks down from his post upon the life of men with as clear vision as Lucretius, whom he admires:
Nothing is sweeter than to dwell in the lofty citadels secure in the wisdom of the sages, thence to look down upon the rest of mankind blindly wandering in mistaken paths in the search for the way of life, striving one with another in the contest of wits, emulous in distinction of birth, night and day straining with supreme effort at length to arrive at the heights of power and become lords of the world.
Farther, Horace is not merely the stander-by contemplating the game in which objective mankind is engaged. He is also a spectator of himself.
Horace the poet-philosopher contemplates Horace the man with the same quiet amus.e.m.e.nt with which he surveys the human family of which he is an inseparable yet detachable part. It is the universal aspect of Horace which is the object of his contemplation,--Horace playing a part together with the rest of mankind in the infinitely diverting _comedie humaine_. He uses himself, so to speak, for ill.u.s.trative purposes,--to point the moral of the genuine; to demonstrate the indispensability of hard work as well as genius; to afford concrete proof of the possibility of happiness without wealth. He is almost as objective to himself as the landscape of the Sabine farm. Horace the spectator sees Horace the man against the background of human life just as he sees snow-mantled Soracte, or the cold Digentia, or the restless Adriatic, or leafy Tarentum, or snowy Algidus, or green Venafrum. The clear-cut elegance of his miniatures of Italian scenery is not due to their individual interest, but to their connection with the universal life of man.
Description for its own sake is hardly to be found in Horace. In the same way, the vivid glimpses he affords of his own life, person, and character almost never prompt the thought of egotism. The most personal of poets, his expression of self nowhere becomes selfish expression.
But there are spectators who are mere spectators. Horace is more; he is a critic and an interpreter. He looks forth upon life with a keen vision for comparative values, and gives sane and distinct expression to what he sees.
Horace must not be thought of, however, as a censorious or carping critic. His att.i.tude is judicial, and the verdict is seldom other than lenient and kindly. He is not a wasp of Twickenham, not a Juvenal furiously laying about him with a heavy lash, not a Lucilius with the axes of Scipionic patrons to grind, having at the leaders of the people and the people themselves. He is in as little degree an Ennius, composing merely to gratify the taste for entertainment. There are some, as a matter of fact, to whom in satire he seems to go beyond the limit of good-nature. At vice in p.r.o.nounced form, at all forms of unmanliness, he does indeed strike out, like Lucilius the knight of Campania, his predecessor and pattern, gracious only to virtue and to the friends of virtue; but those whose hands are clean and whose hearts are pure need fear nothing. Even those who are guilty of the ordinary frailties of human kind need fear nothing worse than being good-humoredly laughed at.
The objects of Horace"s smiling condemnation are not the trifling faults of the individual or the cla.s.s, but the universal grosser stupidities which poison the sources of life.
The Horace of the _Satires_ and _Epistles_ is better called an essayist.
That he is a satirist at all is less by virtue of intention than because of the mere fact that he is a spectator. To look upon life with the eye of understanding is to see men the prey to pa.s.sions and delusions,--the very comment on which can be nothing else than satire.
And now, what is it that Horace sees as he sits in philosophic detachment on the serene heights of contemplation; and what are his reflections?
The great factor in the character of Horace is his philosophy of life.
To define it is to give the meaning of the word Horatian as far as content is concerned, and to trace the thread which more than any other makes his works a unity.
_i_. THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES
Horace looks forth upon a world of discontented and restless humanity.
The soldier, the lawyer, the farmer, the trader, swept over the earth in the pa.s.sion for gain, like dust in the whirlwind,--all are dissatisfied.
Choose anyone you will from the midst of the throng; either with greed for money or with miserable ambition for power, his soul is in travail.
Some are dazzled by fine silver, some lose their senses over bronze.
Some are ever straining after the prizes of public life. There are many who love not wisely, but too well. Most are engaged in a mad race for money, whether to a.s.sure themselves of retirement and ease in old age, or out of the sportsman"s desire to outstrip their rivals in the course.
As many as are mortal men, so many are the objects of their pursuit.
And, over and about all men, by reason of their bondage to avarice, ambition, appet.i.te, and pa.s.sion, hovers Black Care. It flits above their sleepless eyes in the panelled ceiling of the darkened palace, it sits behind them on the courser as they rush into battle, it dogs them as they are at the pleasures of the bronze-trimmed yacht. It pursues them everywhere, swifter than the deer, swifter than the wind that drives before it the storm-cloud. Not even those who are most happy are entirely so. No lot is wholly blest. Perfect happiness is unattainable.
t.i.thonus, with the gift of ever-lasting life, wasted away in undying old age. Achilles, with every charm of youthful strength and gallantry, was doomed to early death. Not even the richest are content. Something is always lacking in the midst of abundance, and desire more than keeps pace with satisfaction.
Nor are the mult.i.tude less enslaved to their desires than the few. Glory drags bound to her glittering chariot-wheels the nameless as well as the n.o.bly-born. The poor are as inconstant as the rich. What of the man who is not rich? You may well smile. He changes from garret to garret, from bed to bed, from bath to bath and barber to barber, and is just as seasick in a hired boat as the wealthy man on board his private yacht.
And not only are all men the victims of insatiable desire, but all are alike subject to the uncertainties of fate. Insolent Fortune without notice flutters her swift wings and leaves them. Friends prove faithless, once the cask is drained to the lees. Death, unforeseen and unexpected, lurks in ambush for them in a thousand places. Some are swallowed up by the greedy sea. Some the Furies give to destruction in the grim spectacle of war. Without respect of age or person, the ways of death are thronged with young and old. Cruel Proserpina pa.s.ses no man by.
Even they who for the time escape the object of their dread must at last face the inevitable. Invoked or not invoked, Death comes to release the lowly from toil, and to strip the proud of power. The same night awaits all; everyone must tread once for all the path of death. The summons is delivered impartially at the hovels of the poor and the turreted palaces of the rich. The dark stream must be crossed by prince and peasant alike. Eternal exile is the lot of all, whether nameless and poor, or sprung of the line of Inachus:
A_las! my Postumus, alas! how speed_ T_he pa.s.sing years: nor can devotion"s deed_ S_tay wrinkled age one moment on its way_, N_or stay one moment death"s appointed day_;
N_ot though with thrice a hundred oxen slain_ E_ach day thou prayest Pluto to refrain_, T_he unmoved by tears, who threefold Geryon drave_, A_nd t.i.tyus, beneath the darkening wave_.
T_he wave we all must one day surely sail_ W_ho live and breathe within this mortal vale_, W_hether our lot with princely rich to fare_, W_hether the peasant"s lowly life to share_.
I_n vain for us from murderous Mars to flee_, I_n vain to shun the storms of Hadria"s sea_, I_n vain to fear the poison-laden breath_ O_f Autumn"s sultry south-wind, fraught with death_;
A_down the wandering stream we all must go_, A_down Cocytus" waters, black and slow_; T_he ill-famed race of Danaus all must see_, A_nd Sisyphus, from labors never free_.
A_ll must be left,--lands, home, beloved wife_,-- A_ll left behind when we have done with life_; O_ne tree alone, of all thou holdest dear_, S_hall follow thee,--the cypress, o"er thy bier!_