Living

Epistles 1.6 (Fairclough)

by Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) 65–8 BC

Translated by H. Rushton Fairclough (Loeb, 1926) · From Epistles, Book I (Fairclough, 1926)

Living

“Marvel at nothing”—that is perhaps the one and only thing, Numicius, that can make a man happy and keep him so. Yon sun, the stars and seasons that pass in fixed courses—some can gaze upon these with no strain of fear: what think you of the gifts of earth, or what of the sea’s, which makes rich far distant Arabs and Indians—what of the shows, the plaudits and the favours of the friendly Roman—in what wise, with what feelings and eyes think you they should be viewed?

And he who fears their opposites “marvels” in much the same way as the man who desires: in either case ’tis the excitement that annoys, the moment some unexpected appearance startles either. Whether a man feel joy or grief, desire or fear, what matters it if, when he has seen aught better or worse than he expected, his eyes are fast riveted, and mind and body are benumbed? Let the wise man bear the name of madman, the just of unjust, should he pursue Virtue herself beyond due bounds.

Go now, gaze with rapture on silver plate, antique marble, bronzes and works of art; “marvel” at gems and Tyrian dyes; rejoice that a thousand eyes survey you as you speak; in your diligence get you to the Forum early, to your home late, lest Mutus reap more grain from the lands of his wife’s dower, and (oh the shame, for he sprang from meaner stock!) lest you “marvel” at him rather than he at you. Time will bring into the light whatever is under the earth; it will bury deep and hide what now shines bright. When Agrippa’s colonnade, when Appius’s way has looked upon your well-known form, still it remains for you to go where Numa and Ancus have gone down before.

If your chest or reins are assailed by a sharp disease, seek a remedy for the disease. You wish to live aright (and who does not?); if then Virtue alone can confer this boon, boldly drop trifles and set to work!

Do you think Virtue but words, and a forest but firewood? Take care lest your rival make harbour first, lest you lose your ventures from Cibyra and Bithynia. Suppose you round off a thousand talents; as many in a second lot; then add a third thousand, and enough to square the heap. Of course a wife and dowry, credit and friends, birth and beauty, are the gift of Queen Cash, and the goddesses Persuasion and Venus grace the man who is well-to-do. The Cappadocian king is rich in slaves, but lacks coin: be not like him. Lucullus, ’tis said, was asked if he could lend a hundred cloaks for the stage. “How can I so many?” he answers, “yet I’ll look and send as many as I have.” A little later he writes: “I have five thousand cloaks at home; take some or all.” Poor is the house where there’s not much to spare, much that escapes the master and profits his knaves. So if wealth alone can make you happy and keep you so, be the first to go back to this task, the last to leave it off.

If pomp and popularity make the fortunate man, let us buy a slave to call off names, to nudge our left side, and make us stretch out the hand across the streets. “This man has much influence in the Fabian tribe; that in the Veline. This man will give the fasces to whom he will, or, if churlish, will snatch the curule ivory from whom he pleases.” Throw in “Brother!” “Father!”—politely adopt each one according to his age.

If he who dines well, lives well, then—’tis daybreak, let’s be off, whither the palate guides us. Let us fish, let us hunt, like Gargilius in the story. At dawn of day he would bid his slaves with hunting-nets and spears pass through the throng in the crowded Forum, that in the sight of that same throng one mule of all the train might bring home a boar he had purchased. While gorged with undigested food, let us bathe, forgetful of what is or is not seemly, deserving to have our place in the Caere class, like the wicked crew of Ulysses of Ithaca, to whom forbidden pleasure was dearer than fatherland. If, as Mimnermus holds, without love and jests there is no joy, live amid love and jests.

Live long, farewell. If you know something better than these precepts, pass it on, my good fellow. If not, join me in following these.

This translation is printed as prose in its source edition.

MLA

Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus). “Epistles 1.6 (Fairclough).” Translated by H. Rushton Fairclough. Poetry Codex, poetrycodex.com/poem/horace/327/.

Chicago

Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus). “Epistles 1.6 (Fairclough).” Translated by H. Rushton Fairclough. Poetry Codex. https://poetrycodex.com/poem/horace/327/.

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