The Satires, Epistles, and Art of Poetry of Horace Part 5

What gives you appet.i.te? 'tis not the meat Contains the relish: 'tis in you that eat.

Get condiments by work: for when the skin Is pale and bloated from disease within, Not golden plover, oyster, nor sardine, Can make the edge of dulled enjoyment keen.

Yet there's one prejudice I sorely doubt If force of reason ever will root out: Oft as a peac.o.c.k's set before you, still Prefer it to a fowl you must and will, Because (as if that mattered when we dine!) The bird is costly, and its tail's so fine.

What? do you eat the feathers? when'tis drest And sent to table, does it still look best?

While, as to flesh, the two are on a par: Yes, you're the dupe of mere outside, you are.

You see that pike: what is it tells you straight Where those wide jaws first opened for the bait, In sea or river? 'twixt the bridges twain, Or at the mouth where Tiber joins the main?

A three-pound mullet you must needs admire, And yet you know 'tis never served entire.

The size attracts you: well then, why dislike The selfsame quality when found in pike?

Why, but to fly in Nature's face for spite.

Because she made these heavy those weigh light?

O, when the stomach's p.r.i.c.ked by hunger's stings, We seldom hear of scorn for common things!

"Great fishes on great dishes! how I gloat Upon the sight!" exclaims some harpy-throat.

Blow strongly, blow, good Auster, and ferment The glutton's dainties, and increase their scent!

And yet, without such aid, they find the flesh Of boar and turbot nauseous, e'en though fresh, When, gorged to sick repletion, they request Onions or radishes to give them zest.

Nay, e'en at royal banquets poor men's fare Yet lingers: eggs and olives still are there.

When, years ago, Gallonius entertained His friends with sturgeon, an ill name he gained.

Were turbots then less common in the seas?

No: but good living waxes by degrees.

Safe was the turbot, safe the stork's young brood, Until a praetor taught us they were good.

So now, should some potential voice proclaim That roasted cormorants are delicious game, The youth of Rome (there's nothing too absurd For their weak heads) will take him at his word.

But here Ofellus draws a line, between A life that's frugal and a life that's mean: For 'tis in vain that luxury you shun, If straight on avarice your bark you run.

Avidienus--you may know him--who Was always call'd the Dog, and rightly too, On olives five-year-old is wont to dine, And, till 'tis sour, will never broach his wine: Oft as, attired for feasting, blithe and gay, He keeps some birthday, wedding, holiday, From his big horn he sprinkles drop by drop Oil on the cabbages himself:--you'd stop Your nose to smell it:--vinegar, I own, He gives you without stint, and that alone.

Well, betwixt these, what should a wise man do?

Which should he copy, think you, of the two?

'Tis Scylla and Charybdis, rock and gulf: On this side howls the dog, on that the wolf.

A man that's neat in table, as in dress, Errs not by meanness, yet avoids excess; Nor, like Albucius, when he plays the host, Storms at his slaves, while giving each his post; Nor, like poor Naevius, carelessly offends By serving greasy water to his friends.

Now listen for a s.p.a.ce, while I declare The good results that spring from frugal fare.

IMPRIMIS, health: for 'tis not hard to see How various meats are like to disagree, If you remember with how light a weight Your last plain meal upon your stomach sate: Now, when you've taken toll of every dish, Have mingled roast with boiled and fowl with fish, The ma.s.s of dainties, turbulent and crude, Engenders bile, and stirs intestine feud.

Observe your guests, how ghastly pale their looks When they've discussed some mystery of your cook's: Ay, and the body, clogged with the excess Of yesterday, drags down the mind no less, And fastens to the ground in living death That fiery particle of heaven's own breath.

Another takes brief supper, seeks repair From kindly sleep, then rises light as air: Not that sometimes he will not cross the line, And, just for once, luxuriously dine, When feasts come round with the revolving year, Or his shrunk frame suggests more generous cheer: Then too, when age draws on and life is slack, He has reserves on which he can fall back: But what have you in store when strength shall fail, You, who forestall your goods when young and hale?

A rancid boar our fathers used to praise: What? had they then no noses in those days?

No: but they wished their friends to have the treat When tainted rather than themselves when sweet.

O had I lived in that brave time of old, When men were heroes, and the age was gold!

Come now, you set some store by good repute: In truth, its voice is softer than a lute: Then know, great fishes on great dishes still Produce great scandal, let alone the bill.

Think too of angry uncles, friends grown rude, Nay, your own self with your own self at feud And longing for a rope to end your pain: But ropes cost twopence; so you long in vain.

"O, talk," you say, "to Trausius: though severe, Such truths as these are just what HE should hear: But I have untold property, that brings A yearly sum, sufficient for three kings."

Untold indeed! then can you not expend Your superflux on some diviner end?

Why does one good man want while you abound?

Why are Jove's temples tumbling to the ground?

O selfish! what? devote no modic.u.m To your dear country from so vast a sum?

Ay, you're the man: the world will go your way....

O how your foes will laugh at you one day!

Take measure of the future: which will feel More confidence in self, come woe, come weal, He that, like you, by long indulgence plants In body and in mind a thousand wants, Or he who, wise and frugal, lays in stores In view of war ere war is at the doors?

But, should you doubt what good Ofellus says, When young I knew him, in his wealthier days: Then, when his means were fair, he spent and spared Nor more nor less than now, when they're impaired.

Still, in the field once his, but now a.s.signed To an intruding veteran, you may find, His sons and beasts about him, the good sire, A st.u.r.dy farmer, working on for hire.

"I ne'er exceeded"--so you'll hear him say-- "Herbs and smoked gammon on a working day; But if at last a friend I entertained, Or there dropped in some neighbour while it rained, I got no fish from town to grace my board, But dined off kid and chicken like a lord: Raisins and nuts the second course supplied, With a split fig, first doubled and then dried: Then each against the other, with a fine To do the chairman's work, we drank our wine, And draughts to Ceres, so she'd top the ground With good tall ears, our frets and worries drowned Let Fortune brew fresh tempests, if she please, How much can she knock off from joys like these!

Have you or I, young fellows, looked more lean Since this new holder came upon the scene?

Holder, I say, for tenancy's the most That he, or I, or any man can boast: Now he has driven us out: but him no less His own extravagance may dispossess Or slippery lawsuit: in the last resort A livelier heir will cut his tenure short.

Ofellus' name it bore, the field we plough, A few years back: it bears Umbrenus' now: None has it as a fixture, fast and firm, But he or I may hold it for a term.

Then live like men of courage, and oppose Stout hearts to this and each ill wind that blows."

SATIRE III.

SIC RARO SCRIBIS.

DAMASIPPUS. HORACE.

DAMASIPPUS.

So seldom do you write, we scarcely hear Your tablets called for four times in the year: And even then, as fast as you compose, You quarrel with the thing, and out it goes, Vexed that, in spite of bottle and of bed, You turn out nothing worthy to be read.

How is it all to end? Here you've come down, Avoiding a December spent in town: Your brains are clear: begin, and charm our ears With something worth your boasting.--Nought appears.

You blame your pens, and the poor wall, accurst From birth by G.o.ds and poets, comes off worst.

Yet you looked bold, and talked of what you'd do, Could you lie snug for one free day or two.

What boot Menander, Plato, and the rest You carried down from town to stock your nest?

Think you by turning lazy to exempt Your life from envy? No, you'll earn contempt.

Then stop your ears to sloth's enchanting voice, Or give up your best hopes: there lies your choice.

H. Good Damasippus, may the immortals grant, For your sage counsel, the one thing you want, A barber! but pray tell me how yon came To know so well what scarce is known to fame?

D. Why, ever since my hapless all went down 'Neath the mid arch, I go about the town, And make my neighbours' matters my sole care, Seeing my own are damaged past repair.

Once I was anxious on a bronze to light Where Sisyphus had washed his feet at night; Each work of art I criticized and cla.s.sed, Called this ill chiselled, that too roughly cast; Prized that at fifty thousand: then I knew To buy at profit grounds and houses too, With a sure instinct: till the whole town o'er "The pet of Mercury" was the name I bore.

H. I know your case, and am surprised to see So clear a cure of such a malady.

D, Ay, but my old complaint (though strange, 'tis true) Was banished from my system by a new: Just as diseases of the side or head My to the stomach or the chest instead, Like your lethargic patient, when he tears Himself from bed, and at the doctor squares.

H. Spare me but that, I'll trust you.

D. Don't be blind; You're mad yourself, and so are all mankind, If truth is in Stertinius, from whose speech I learned the precious lessons that I teach, What time he bade me grow a wise man's beard, And sent me from the bridge, consoled and cheered.

For once, when, bankrupt and forlorn, I stood With m.u.f.fled head, just plunging in the flood, "Don't do yourself a mischief," so he cried In friendly tones, appearing at my side: "'Tis all false shame: you fear to be thought mad, Not knowing that the world are just as bad.

What const.i.tutes a madman? if 'tis shown The marks are found in you and you alone, Trust me, I'll add no word to thwart your plan, But leave you free to perish like a man.

The wight who drives through life with bandaged eyes, Ignorant of truth and credulous of lies, He in the judgment of Chrysippus' school And the whole porch is tabled as a fool.

Monarchs and people, every rank and age, That sweeping clause includes,--except the sage.

"Now listen while I show you, how the rest Who call you madman, are themselves possessed.

Just as in woods, when travellers step aside From the true path for want of some good guide, This to the right, that to the left hand strays, And all are wrong, but wrong in different ways, So, though you're mad, yet he who banters you Is not more wise, but wears his pigtail too.

One cla.s.s of fools sees reason for alarm In trivial matters, innocent of harm: Stroll in the open plain, you'll hear them talk Of fires, rocks, torrents, that obstruct their walk: Another, unlike these, but not more sane, Takes fires and torrents for the open plain: Let mother, sister, father, wife combined Cry 'There's a pitfall! there's a rock! pray mind!'

They'll hear no more than drunken Fufius, he Who slept the part of queen Ilione, While Catienus, shouting in his ear, Roared like a Stentor, 'Hearken, mother dear!'

"Well, now, I'll prove the ma.s.s of humankind Have judgments just as jaundiced, just as blind.