Satires 1.1 (Fairclough)

How comes it, Maecenas, that no man living is content with the lot which either his choice has given him, or chance has thrown in his way, but each has praise for those who follow other paths? “O happy traders!” cries the soldier, as he feels the weight of years, his frame now shattered with hard service. On the other hand, when southern gales toss the ship, the trader cries: “A soldier’s life is better. Do you ask why? There is the battle clash, and in a moment of time comes speedy death or joyous victory.” One learned in law and statutes has praise for the farmer, when towards cockcrow a client comes knocking at his door. The man yonder, who has given surety and is dragged into town from the country cries that they only are happy who live in town. The other instances of this kind—so many are they—could tire out the chatterbox Fabius. To be brief with you, hear the conclusion to which I am coming. If some god were to say: “Here I am! I will grant your prayers forthwith. You, who were but now a soldier, shall be a trader; you, but now a lawyer, shall be a farmer. Change parts; away with you—and with you! Well! Why standing still?” They would refuse. And yet ’tis in their power to be happy. What reason is there why Jove should not, quite properly, puff out both cheeks at them in anger, and say that never again will he be so easy-going as to lend ear to their prayers?

Furthermore, not to skim over the subject with a laugh like a writer of witticisms—and yet what is to prevent one from telling truth as he laughs, even as teachers sometimes give cookies to children to coax them into learning their ABC?—still, putting jesting aside, let us turn to serious thoughts: yon farmer, who with tough plough turns up the heavy soil, our rascally host here, the soldier, the sailors who boldly scour every sea, all say that they bear toil with this in view, that when old they may retire into secure ease, once they have piled up their provisions; even as the tiny, hard-working ant (for she is their mode) drags all she can with her mouth, and adds it to the heap she is building, because she is not unaware and not heedless of the morrow. Yet she, soon as Aquarius saddens the upturned year, stirs out no more but uses the store she gathered beforehand, wise creature that she is; while as for you, neither burning heat, nor winter, fire, sea, sword, can turn you aside from gain—nothing stops you, until no second man be richer than yourself.

What good to you is a vast weight of silver and gold, if in terror you stealthily bury it in a hole in the ground? “But if one splits it up, it would dwindle to a paltry penny.” “Yet if that is not done, what beauty has the piled-up heap? Suppose your threshing-floor has threshed out a hundred thousand bushel of grain; your stomach will not on that account hold more than mine: ’tis as if in the slave-gang you by chance should carry the heavy bread-bag on your shoulder, yet you would receive no more than the slave who carries nothing.

Or, tell me, what odds does it make to the man who lives within Nature’s bounds, whether he ploughs a hundred acres or a thousand? “But what a pleasure to take from a large heap!” So long as you let us take just as much from our little one, why praise your granaries above our bins? It is as if you needed no more than a jug or a cup of water, and were to say, “I’d rather have taken the quantity from a broad river than from this tiny brook.” So it comes about that when any find pleasure in undue abundance, raging Aufidus sweeps them away, bank and all; while the man who craves only so much as he needs, neither draws water thick with mud, nor loses his life in the flood.

But a good many people, misled by blind desire, say, “You cannot have enough: for you get your rating from what you have.” What can you do to a man who talks thus? Bid him be miserable, since that is his whim. He is like a rich miser in Athens who, they say, used thus to scorn the people’s talk: “The people hiss me, but at home I clap my hands for myself, once I gaze on the moneys in my chest.”

Tantalus, thirsty soul, catches at the streams that fly from his lips—why laugh? Change but the name, and the tale is told of you. You sleep with open mouth on money-bags piled up from all sides, and must perforce keep hands off as if they were hallowed, or take delight in them as if painted pictures. Don’t you know what money is for, what end it serves? You may buy bread, greens, a measure of wine, and such other things as would mean pain to our human nature, if withheld. What, to lie awake half-dead with fear, to be in terror night and day of wicked thieves, of fire, of slaves, who may rob you and run away—is this so pleasant? In such blessings I could wish ever to be poorest of the poor.

But if your body is seized with a chill and racked with pain, or some other mishap has pinned you to your bed, have you some one to sit by you, to get lotions ready, to call in the doctor so as to raise you up and restore you to your children and dear kinsmen? “No, your wife does not want you well, nor does your son: every one hates you, neighbours and acquaintances, boys and girls. Can you wonder, when you put money above all else, that nobody pays you the love you do not earn? Or, when Nature gives you kinsfolk without trouble, if you sought to hold and keep their love, would it be as fruitless a waste of effort, as if one were to train an ass to race upon the Campus” obedient to the rein?

In short, set bounds to the quest of wealth, and as you increase your means let your fear of poverty lessen, and when you have won your heart’s desire, begin to bring your toil to an end, lest you fare like a certain Ummidius—’tis a short story—so rich that he measured his money, so miserly that he dressed no better than a slave; up to his last hour he feared he would die of starvation. Yet a freed-woman cleft him in twain with an axe, bravest of the Tyndarid breed.

What, then, would you have me do? Live as a Naevius or a Nomentanus? You go on to set opposites in head to head conflict with each other. When I call on you not to be a miser, I am not bidding you become a worthless prodigal. There is some mean between a Tanais and the father-in-law of Visellius. There is measure in all things. There are, in short, fixed bounds, beyond and short of which right can find no place.

I return to my starting-point, how it comes that no man because of his greed is self-contented, but rather does each praise those who follow other paths, pines away because his neighbour’s goat shows a more distended udder, and, instead of matching himself with the greater crowd of poorer men, strives to surpass first one and then another. In such a race there is ever a richer in your way. ’Tis as when chariots are let loose from the barriers and swept onwards behind the hoofed steeds: hard on the horses that outstrip his own presses the charioteer, caring naught for that other whom he has passed and left in the rear. Thus it comes that seldom can we find one who says he has had a happy life, and who, when his time is sped, will quit life in contentment, like a guest who has had his fill.

Well, ’tis enough. Not a word more will I add, or you will think I have rifled the rolls of blear-eyed Crispinus.