The Satires, Epistles, and Art of Poetry of Horace Part 6

That Damasippus shows himself insane By buying ancient statues, all think plain: But he that lends him money, is he free From the same charge? 'O, surely.' Let us see.

I bid you take a sum you won't return: You take it: is this madness, I would learn?

Were it not greater madness to renounce The prey that Mercury puts within your pounce?

Secure him with ten bonds; a hundred; nay, Clap on a thousand; still he'll slip away, This Protean scoundrel: drag him into court, You'll only find yourself the more his sport: He'll laugh till scarce you'd think his jaws his own, And turn to boar or bird, to tree or stone.

If prudence in affairs denotes men sane And bungling argues a disordered brain, The man who lends the cash is far more fond Than you, who at his bidding sign the bond.

"Now give attention and your gowns refold, Who thirst for fame, grow yellow after gold, Victims to luxury, superst.i.tion blind, Or other ailment natural to the mind: Come close to me and listen, while I teach That you're a pack of madmen, all and each.

"Of all the h.e.l.lebore that nature breeds, The largest share by far the miser needs: In fact, I know not but Anticyra's juice Was all intended for his single use.

When old Staberius died, his heirs engraved Upon his monument the sum he'd saved: For, had they failed to do it, they were tied A hundred pair of fencers to provide, A feast at Arrius' pleasure, not too cheap, And corn, as much as Afric's farmers reap.

'I may be right, I may be wrong,' said he, 'Who cares? 'tis not for you to lecture me.'

Well, one who knew Staberius would suppose He was a man that looked beyond his nose: Why did he wish, then, that his funeral stone Should make the sum he left behind him known?

Why, while he lived, he dreaded nothing more Than that great sin, the sin of being poor, And, had he left one farthing less in purse, The man, as man, had thought himself the worse: For all things human and divine, renown, Honour, and worth at money's shrine bow down: And he who has made money, fool or knave, Becomes that moment n.o.ble, just, and brave.

A sage, you ask me? yes, a sage, a king, Whate'er he chooses; briefly, everything.

So good Staberius hoped each extra pound His virtue saved would to his praise redound.

Now look at Aristippus, who, in haste To make his journey through the Libyan waste, Bade the stout slaves who bore his treasure throw Their load away, because it made them slow.

Which was more mad? Excuse me: 'twill not do To shut one question up by opening two.

"If one buys fiddles, h.o.a.rds them up when bought, Though music's study ne'er engaged his thought, One lasts and awls, unversed in cobbler's craft, One sails for ships, not knowing fore from aft, You'd call them mad: but tell me, if you please, How that man's case is different from these, Who, as he gets it, stows away his gain, And thinks to touch a farthing were profane?

Yet if a man beside a huge corn-heap Lies watching with a cudgel, ne'er asleep, And dares not touch one grain, but makes his meat Of bitter leaves, as though he found them sweet: If, with a thousand wine-casks--call the h.o.a.rd A million rather--in his cellars stored, He drinks sharp vinegar: nay, if, when nigh A century old, on straw he yet will lie, While in his chest rich coverlets, the prey Of moth and canker, moulder and decay, Few men can see much madness in his whim, Because the ma.s.s of mortals ail like him.

"O heaven-abandoned wretch! is all this care To save your stores for some degenerate heir, A son, or e'en a freedman, who will pour All down his throttle, ere a year is o'er?

You fear to come to want yourself, you say?

Come, calculate how small the loss per day, If henceforth to your cabbage you allow And your own head the oil you grudge them now.

If anything's sufficient, why forswear, Embezzle, swindle, pilfer everywhere?

Can you be sane? suppose you choose to throw Stones at the crowd, as by your door they go, Or at the slaves, your chattels, every lad And every girl will hoot yon down as mad: When with a rope you kill your wife, with bane Your aged mother, are you right in brain?

Why not? Orestes did it with the blade, And 'twas in Argos that the scene was laid.

Think you that madness only then begun To seize him, when the impious deed was done, And not that Furies spurred him on, before The sword grew purple with a parent's gore?

Nay, from the time they reckon him insane, He did no deed of which you could complain: No stroke this madman at Electra aims Or Pylades: he only calls them names, Fury or other monster, in the style Which people use when stirred by tragic bile.

"Opimius, who, with gold and silver store Lodged in his coffers, ne'ertheless was poor (The man would drink from earthen nipperkin Flat wine on working-days, on feast-days thin), Once fell into a lethargy so deep That his next heir supposed it more than sleep, And entering on possession at his ease, Went round the coffers and applied the keys.

The doctor had a conscience and a head: He had a table moved beside the bed, Poured out a money-bag, and bade men come And ring the coin and reckon o'er the sum: Then, lifting up his patient, he began: 'That heir of yours is plundering you, good man.

'What? while I live?' 'You wish to live? then take The necessary steps: be wide awake.'

'What steps d'ye mean?' 'Your strength will soon run short, Unless your stomach have some strong support.

Come, rouse yourself: take this ptisane of rice.'

'The price?' 'A trifle.' 'I will know the price.'

'Eight-pence.' 'O dear! what matters it if I Die by disease or robbery? still I die.'

"'Who then is sane?' He that's no fool, in troth.

'Then what's a miser?' Fool and madman both.

'Well, if a man's no miser, is he sane That moment?' No. 'Why, Stoic?' I'll explain.

The stomach here is sound as any bell, Craterus may say: then is the patient well?

May he get up? Why no; there still are pains That need attention in the side or reins.

You're not forsworn nor miserly: go kill A porker to the G.o.ds who ward off ill.

You're headlong and ambitious: take a trip To Madman's Island by the next swift ship.

For where's the difference, down the rabble's throat To pour your gold, or never spend a groat?

Servius Oppidius, so the story runs, Rich for his time, bequeathed to his two sons Two good-sized farms, and calling to his bed The hopeful youths, in faltering accents said: 'E'er since I saw you, Aulus, give away Your nuts and taws, or squander them at play, While you, Tiberius, careful and morose, Would count them over, hide them, keep them close, I've feared lest both should err in different ways, And one have Ca.s.sius', one Cicuta's craze.

So now I beg you by the household powers Who guard, and still shall guard, this roof of ours, That you diminish not, nor you augment What I and nature fix for your content.

To bar ambition too, I lay an oath Of heaviest weight upon the souls of both; Should either be an aedile, or, still worse, A praetor, let him feel a father's curse.

What? would you wish to lavish my bequest In vetches, beech-nuts, lupines and the rest, You, that in public you may strut, or stand All bronze, when stripped of money, stripped of land; You, that Agrippa's plaudits you may win, A sneaking fox in a brave lion's skin?'

"What moves you, Agamemnon, thus to fling Great Ajax to the dogs? 'I am a king.'

And I a subject: therefore I forbear More questions. 'Right; for what I will is fair: Yet, if there be who fancy me unjust, I give my conduct up to be discussed.'

Mightiest of mighty kings, may proud success And safe return your conquering army bless!

May I ask questions then, and shortly speak When you have answered? 'Take the leave you seek.'

Then why should Ajax, though so oft renowned For patriot service, rot above the ground, Your bravest next Achilles, just that Troy And envious Priam may the scene enjoy, Beholding him, through whom their children came To feed the dogs, himself cast out to shame?

'A flock the madman slew, and cried that he Had killed my brother, Ithacus, and me.'

Well, when you offered in a heifer's stead Your child, and strewed salt meal upon her head, Then were you sane, I ask you? 'Why not sane?'

Why, what did Ajax when the flock was slain?

He did no violence to his wife or child: He cursed the Atridae, true; his words were wild; But against Teucer ne'er a hand he raised, Nor e'en Ulysses: yet you call him crazed.

'But I, of purpose, soothed the G.o.ds with blood, To gain our fleet free pa.s.sage o'er the flood.'

Blood! ay, your own, you madman. 'Nay, not so: My own, I grant it: but a madman's, no.'

"He that sees things amiss, his mind distraught By guilty deeds, a madman will be thought; And, so the path of reason once be missed, Who cares if rage or folly gave the twist?

When Ajax falls with fury on the fold, He shows himself a madman, let us hold: When you, of purpose, do a crime to gain A meed of empty glory, are you sane?

The heart that air-blown vanities dilate, Will medicine say 'tis in its normal state?

Suppose a man in public chose to ride With a white lambkin nestling at his side, Called it his daughter, had it richly clothed, And did his best to get it well betrothed, The law would call him madman, and the care Of him and of his goods would pa.s.s elsewhere.

You offer up your daughter for a lamb; And are you rational? Don't say, I am.

No; when a man's a fool, he's then insane: The man that's guilty, he's a maniac plain: The dupe of bubble glory, war's grim queen Has dinned away his senses, clear and clean.

"Ca.s.sius and luxury! hunt that game with me; For spendthrifts are insane, the world shall see.

Soon as the youngster had received at last The thousand talents that his sire ama.s.sed, He sent round word to all the sharking clan, Perfumer, fowler, fruiterer, fisherman, Velabrum's refuse, Tuscan Alley's sc.u.m, To come to him. next morning. Well, they come.

First speaks the pimp: 'Whatever I or these Possess, is yours: command it when you please.'

Now hear his answer, and admire the mind That thus could speak, so generous and so kind.

'You sleep in Umbrian snow-fields, booted o'er The hips, that I may banquet on a boar; You scour the sea for fish in winter's cold, And I do nought; I don't deserve this gold: Here, take it; you a hundred, you as much, But you, the spokesman, thrice that sum shall touch.'

"AEsopus' son took from his lady dear A splendid pearl that glittered in her ear, Then melted it in vinegar, and quaffed (Such was his boast) a thousand at a draught: How say you? had the act been more insane To fling it in a river or a drain?

"Arrius' two sons, twin brothers, of a piece In vice, perverseness, folly, and caprice, Would lunch off nightingales: well, what's their mark?

Shall it be chalk or charcoal, white or dark?

"To ride a stick, to build a paper house, Play odd and even, harness mouse and mouse, If a grown man professed to find delight In things like these, you'd call him mad outright.

"Well now, should reason force you to admit That love is just as childish, every whit; To own that whimpering at your mistress' door Is e'en as weak as building on the floor; Say, will you put conviction into act, And, like young Polemo, at once retract; Take off the signs and trappings of disease, Your leg-bands, tippets, furs, and m.u.f.fatees, As he slipped off his chaplets, when the word Of sober wisdom all his being stirred?

"Give a cross child an apple: 'Take it, pet:'

He sulks and will not: hold it back, he'll fret.

Just so the shut-out lover, who debates And parleys near the door he vows he hates, In doubt, when sent for, to go back or no, Though, if not sent for, he'd be sure to go.

'She calls me: ought I to obey her call, Or end this long infliction once for all?

The door was shut:'tis open: ah, that door!

Go back? I won't, however she implore.'

So he. Now listen while the slave replies, And say if of the two he's not more wise: 'Sir, if a thing is senseless, to bring sense To bear upon it is a mere pretence; Now love is such a thing, the more's the shame; First war, then peace, 'tis never twice the same, For ever heaving, like a sea in storm, And taking every hour some different form.

You think to fix it? why, the job's as bad As if you tried by reason to be mad.'

"When you pick apple-pips, and try to hit The ceiling with them, are you sound of wit?

"When with your withered lips you bill and coo, Is he that builds card-houses worse than you?

Then, too, the blood that's spilt by fond desires, The swords that men will use to poke their fires!

When Marius killed his mistress t'other day And broke his neck, was he demented, say?

Or would you call him criminal instead, And stigmatize his heart to save his head, Following the common fallacy, which founds A different meaning upon different sounds?