Satire VII (Gifford)

Yes, all the hopes of learning, 'tis confess'd,
And all the patronage, on CÆSAR rest:
For he alone the drooping Nine regards--
When, now, our best, and most illustrious bards,
Quit their ungrateful studies, and retire,
Bagnios and bakehouses, for bread, to hire;
With humbled views, a life of toil embrace,
And deem a crier's business no disgrace;
Since Clio, driven by hunger from the shade,
Mixes in crowds, and bustles for a trade.
And truly, if (the bard's too frequent curse)
No coin be found in your Pierian purse,
'Twere not ill done to copy, for the nonce,
Machæra, and turn auctioneer at once.
Hie, my poetic friend; in accents loud,
Commend your precious lumber to the crowd,
Old tubs, stools, presses, wrecks of many a chest,
Paccius' damned plays, Thebes, Tereus, and the rest.--
And better so--than haunt the courts of law,
And swear, for hire, to what you never saw:
Leave this resource to Cappadocian knights,
To Gallogreeks, and such new-fangled wights,
As want, or infamy, has chased from home,
And driven, in barefoot multitudes, to Rome.
Come, my brave youths!--the genuine sons of rhyme,
Who, in sweet numbers, couch the true sublime,
Shall, from this hour, no more their fate accuse,
Or stoop to pains unworthy of the Muse.
Come, my brave youths! your tuneful labors ply,
Secure of favor; lo! the imperial eye
Looks round, attentive, on each rising bard,
For worth to praise, for genius to reward!
But if for other patronage you look,
And therefore write, and therefore swell your book,
Quick, call for wood, and let the flames devour
The hapless produce of the studious hour;
Or lock it up, to moths and worms a prey,
And break your pens, and fling your ink away:--
Or pour it rather o'er your epic flights,
Your battles, sieges (fruit of sleepless nights),
Pour it, mistaken men, who rack your brains
In dungeons, cocklofts, for heroic strains;
Who toil and sweat to purchase mere renown,
A meagre statue, and an ivy crown!
Here bound your expectations: for the great,
Grown, wisely, covetous, have learned, of late,
To praise, and ONLY praise, the high-wrought strain,
As boys, the bird of Juno's glittering train.
Meanwhile those vigorous years, so fit to bear
The toils of agriculture, commerce, war,
Spent in this idle trade, decline apace,
And age, unthought of, stares you in the face:--
O then, appalled to find your better days
Have earned you naught but poverty and praise,
At all your barren glories you repine,
And curse, too late, the unavailing Nine!
Hear, now, what sneaking ways your patrons find,
To save their darling gold:--they pay in kind!
Verses, composed in every Muse's spite,
To the starved bard, they, in their turn, recite;
And, if they yield to Homer, let him know,
'Tis--that he lived a thousand years ago!
But if, inspired with genuine love of fame,
A dry rehearsal only be your aim,
The miser's breast with sudden warmth dilates,
And lo! he opes his triple-bolted gates;
Nay, sends his clients to support your cause,
And rouse the tardy audience to applause:
But will not spare one farthing to defray
The numerous charges of this glorious day,
The desk where, throned in conscious pride, you sit,
The joists and beams, the orchestra and the pit.
Still we persist; plow the light sand, and sow
Seed after seed, where none can ever grow:
Nay, should we, conscious of our fruitless pain,
Strive to escape, we strive, alas! in vain;
Long habit and the thirst of praise beset,
And close us in the inextricable net.
The insatiate itch of scribbling, hateful pest,
Creeps like a tetter, through the human breast,
Nor knows, nor hopes a cure; since years, which chill
All other passions, but inflame the ill!
But HE, the bard of every age and clime,
Of genius fruitful, ardent and sublime,
Who, from the glowing mint of fancy, pours
No spurious metal, fused from common ores,
But gold, to matchless purity refined,
And stamped with all the godhead in his mind;
He whom I feel, but want the power to paint,
Springs from a soul impatient of restraint,
And free from every care; a soul that loves
The Muse's haunts, clear founts and shady groves.
Never, no never, did He wildly rave,
And shake his thyrsus in the Aonian cave,
Whom poverty kept sober, and the cries
Of a lean stomach, clamorous for supplies:
No; the wine circled briskly through the veins,
When Horace poured his dithyrambic strains!--
What room for fancy, say, unless the mind,
And all its thoughts, to poesy resigned,
Be hurried with resistless force along,
By the two kindred Powers of Wine and Song!
O! 'tis the exclusive business of a breast
Impetuous, uncontrolled--not one distress'd
With household cares, to view the bright abodes,
The steeds, the chariots, and the forms of gods:
And the fierce Fury, as her snakes she shook,
And withered the Rutulian with a look!
Those snakes, had Virgil no Mæcenas found,
Had dropp'd, in listless length, upon the ground;
And the still slumbering trump, groaned with no mortal sound.
Yet we expect, from Lappa's tragic rage,
Such scenes as graced, of old, the Athenian stage;
Though he, poor man, from hand to mouth be fed,
And driven to pawn his furniture for bread!
When Numitor is asked to serve a friend,
"He can not; he is poor." Yet he can send
Rich presents to his mistress! he can buy
Tame lions, and find means to keep them high!
What then? the beasts are still the lightest charge;
For your starved bards have maws so devilish large!
Stretched in his marble palace, at his ease,
Lucan may write, and only ask to please;
But what is this, if this be all you give,
To Bassus and Serranus? They must live!
When Statius fixed a morning, to recite
His Thebaid to the town, with what delight
They flocked to hear! with what fond rapture hung
On the sweet strains, made sweeter by his tongue!
Yet, while the seats rung with a general peal
Of boisterous praise, the bard had lacked a meal,
Unless with Paris he had better sped,
And trucked a virgin tragedy for bread.
Mirror of men! he showers, with liberal hands,
On needy poets, honors and commands:--
An actor's patronage a peer's outgoes,
And what the last withholds, the first bestows!
--And will you still on Camerinus wait,
And Bareas? will you still frequent the great?
Ah, rather to the player your labors take,
And at one lucky stroke your fortune make!
Yet envy not the man who earns hard bread
By tragedy: the Muses' friends are fled!--
Mæcenas, Proculeius, Fabius, gone,
And Lentulus, and Cotta--every one!
THEN worth was cherished, then the bard might toil,
Secure of favor, o'er the midnight oil;
Then all December's revelries refuse,
And give the festive moments to the Muse.
So fare the tuneful race: but ampler gains
Await, no doubt, the grave HISTORIANS' pains!
More time, more study they require, and pile
Page upon page, heedless of bulk the while,
Till, fact conjoined to fact with thought intense,
The work is closed, at many a ream's expense!
Say now, what harvest was there ever found,
What golden crop, from this long-labored ground?
'Tis barren all; and one poor plodding scribe
Gets more by framing pleas than all the tribe.
True:--'tis a slothful breed, that, nursed in ease,
Soft beds, and whispering shades, alone can please.
Say then, what gain the LAWYER'S toil affords,
His sacks of papers, and his war of words?
Heavens! how he bellows in our tortured ears;
But then, then chiefly, when the client hears,
Or one prepared, with vouchers, to attest
Some desperate debt, more anxious than the rest,
Twitches his elbow: then, his passions rise!
Then, forth he puffs the immeasurable lies
From his swollen lungs! then, the white foam appears,
And, driveling down his beard, his vest besmears!
Ask you the profit of this painful race?
'Tis quickly summed: Here, the joint fortunes place
Of five-score lawyers; there, Lacerta's sole--
And that one charioteer's, shall poise the whole!
The Generals take their seats in regal wise.
You, my pale Ajax, watch the hour, and rise,
In act to plead a trembling client's cause,
Before Judge Jolthead--learned in the laws.
Now stretch your throat, unhappy man! now raise
Your clamors, that, when hoarse, a bunch of bays,
Stuck in your garret window, may declare,
That some victorious pleader nestles there!
O glorious hour! but what your fee, the while?
A rope of shriveled onions from the Nile,
A rusty ham, a jar of broken sprats,
And wine, the refuse of our country vats;
Five flagons for four causes! if you hold,
Though this indeed be rare, a piece of gold;
The brethren, as per contract, on you fall,
And share the prize, solicitors and all!
Whate'er he asks, Æmilius may command,
Though more of law be ours: but lo! there stand
Before his gate, conspicuous from afar,
Four stately steeds, yoked to a brazen car:
And the great pleader, looking wary round,
On a fierce charger that disdains the ground,
Levels his threatening spear, in act to throw,
And seems to meditate no common blow.
Such arts as these, to beggary Matho brought,
And such the ruin of Tongillus wrought,
Who, with his troop of slaves, a draggled train,
Annoyed the baths, of his huge oil-horn vain;
Swept through the Forum, in a chair of state,
To every auction--villas, slaves, or plate;
And, trading on the credit of his dress,
Cheapened whate'er he saw, though penniless!
And some, indeed, have thriven by tricks like these:
Purple and violet swell a lawyer's fees;
Bustle and show above his means conduce
To business, and profusion proves of use.
The vice is universal: Rome confounds
The wealthiest;--prodigal beyond all bounds!
Could our old pleaders visit earth again,
Tully himself would scarce a brief obtain,
Unless his robe were purple, and a stone,
Diamond or ruby, on his finger shone.
The wary plaintiff, ere a fee he gives,
Inquires at what expense his counsel lives;
Has he eight slaves, ten followers? chairs to wait,
And clients to precede his march in state?
This Paulus knows full well, and, therefore, hires
A ring to plead in; therefore, too, acquires
More briefs than Cossus:--preference not unsound,
For how should eloquence in rags be found?
Who gives poor Basilus a cause of state?
When, to avert a trembling culprit's fate,
Shows he a weeping mother? or who heeds
How close he argues, and how well he pleads?
Unhappy Basilus!--but he is wrong:
Would he procure subsistence by his tongue,
Let him renounce the forum, and withdraw
To Gaul, or Afric, the dry-nurse of law.
But Vectius, yet more desperate than the rest,
Has opened (O that adamantine breast!)
A RHETORIC school; where striplings rave and storm
At tyranny, through many a crowded form.--
The exercises lately, sitting, read,
Standing, distract his miserable head,
And every day and every hour affords
The selfsame subjects, in the selfsame words;
Till, like hashed cabbage served for each repast,
The repetition--kills the wretch at last!
Where the main jet of every question lies,
And whence the chief objections may arise,
All wish to know; but none the price will pay.
"The price," retorts the scholar, "do you say!
What have I learned?" There go the master's pains,
Because, forsooth, the Arcadian brute lacks brains!
And yet this oaf, every sixth morn, prepares
To split my head with Hannibal's affairs,
While he debates at large, "Whether 'twere right
To take advantage of the general fright,
And march to Rome; or, by the storm alarmed,
And all the elements against him armed,
The dangerous expedition to delay,
And lead his harassed troops some other way."
--Sick of the theme, which still returns, and still
The exhausted wretch exclaims, Ask what you will,
I'll give it, so you on his sire prevail,
To hear, thus oft, the booby's endless tale!
So Vectius speeds: his brethren, wiser far,
Have shut up school, and hurried to the bar.
Adieu the idle fooleries of Greece,
The soporific drug, the golden fleece,
The faithless husband, and the abandoned wife,
And Æson, coddled to new light and life,
A long adieu! on more productive themes,
On actual crimes, the sophist now declaims:
Thou too, my friend, would'st thou my counsel hear,
Should'st free thyself from this ungrateful care;
Lest all be lost, and thou reduced, poor sage,
To want a tally in thy helpless age!
Bread still the lawyer earns; but tell me yet,
What your Chrysogonus and Pollio get
(The chief of rhetoricians), though they teach
Our youth of quality, THE ART OF SPEECH?
Oh, no! the great pursue a nobler end:--
Five thousand on a bath they freely spend;
More on a portico, where, while it lours,
They ride, and bid defiance to the showers.
Shall they, for brighter skies, at home remain,
Or dash their pampered mules through mud and rain?
No: let them pace beneath the stately roof,
For there no mire can soil the shining hoof.
See next, on proud Numidian columns rise
An eating-room, that fronts the eastern skies,
And drinks the cooler sun. Expensive these!
But (cost whate'er they may), the times to please,
Sewers for arrangement of the board admired,
And cooks of taste and skill must yet be hired.
Mid this extravagance, which knows no bounds,
Quintilian gets, and hardly gets, ten pounds:--
On education all is grudged as lost,
And sons are still a father's lightest cost.
Whence has Quintilian, then, his vast estate?
Urge not an instance of peculiar fate:
Perhaps, by luck. The lucky, I admit,
Have all advantages; have beauty, wit,
And wisdom, and high blood: the lucky, too,
May take, at will, the senatorial shoe;
Be first-rate speakers, pleaders, every thing;
And, though they croak like frogs, be thought to sing.
O, there's a difference, friend, beneath what sign
We spring to light, or kindly or malign!
FORTUNE IS ALL: She, as the fancy springs,
Makes kings of pedants, and of pedants kings.
For, what were Tullius, and Ventidius, say,
But great examples of the wondrous sway
Of stars, whose mystic influence alone,
Bestows, on captives triumphs, slaves a throne?
He, then, is lucky; and, amid the clan,
Ranks with the milk-white crow, or sable swan:
While all his hapless brethren count their gains,
And execrate, too late, their fruitless pains.
Witness thy end, Thrasymachus! and thine,
Unblest Charinas!--Thou beheld'st him pine,
Thou, Athens! and would'st naught but bane bestow;
The only charity--thou seem'st to know!
Shades of our sires! O, sacred be your rest,
And lightly lie the turf upon your breast!
Flowers round your urns breathe sweets beyond compare,
And spring eternal shed its influence there!
You honored tutors, now a slighted race,
And gave them all a parent's power and place.
Achilles, grown a man, the lyre assayed
On his paternal hills, and, while he played,
With trembling eyed the rod;--and yet, the tail
Of the good Centaur, scarcely, then, could fail
To force a smile: such reverence now is rare,
And boys with bibs strike Rufus on his chair,
Fastidious Rufus, who, with critic rage,
Arraigned the purity of Tully's page!
Enough of these. Let the last wretched band,
The poor GRAMMARIANS, say, what liberal hand
Rewards their toil: let learned Palæmon tell,
Who proffers what his skill deserves so well.
Yet from this pittance, whatsoe'er it be
(Less, surely, than the rhetorician's fee),
The usher snips off something for his pains,
And the purveyor nibbles what remains.
Courage, Palæmon! be not over-nice,
But suffer some abatement in your price;
As those who deal in rugs, will ask you high,
And sink by pence and half-pence, till you buy.
Yes, suffer this; while something's left to pay
Your rising hours before the dawn of day,
When e'en the laboring poor their slumbers take,
And not a weaver, not a smith's awake:
While something's left to pay you for the stench
Of smouldering lamps, thick spread o'er every bench,
Where ropy vapors Virgil's pages soil,
And Horace looks one blot, all soot and oil!
Even then, the stipend thus reduced, thus small,
Without a lawsuit, rarely comes at all.
Add yet, ye parents, add to the disgrace,
And heap new hardships on this wretched race.
Make it a point that all, and every part,
Of their own science, be possessed by heart;
That general history with our own they blend,
And have all authors at their fingers' end:
Still ready to inform you, should you meet,
And ask them at the bath, or in the street,
Who nursed Anchises; from what country came
The step-dame of Archemorus, what her name;
How long Acestes flourished, and what store
Of generous wine the Phrygians from him bore--
Make it a point too, that, like ductile clay,
They mould the tender mind, and day by day
Bring out the form of Virtue; that they prove
A father to the youths, in care and love;
And watch that no obscenities prevail--
And trust me, friend, even Argus' self might fail,
The busy hands of schoolboys to espy,
And the lewd fires which twinkle in their eye.
All this, and more, exact; and, having found
The man you seek, say--When the year comes round,
We'll give thee for thy twelve months' anxious pains,
As much--as, IN AN HOUR, A FENCER GAINS!