SATIRE V.

EGRESSUM MAGNA.

Leaving great Rome, my journey I begin, And reach Aricia, where a moderate inn (With me was Heliodorus, who knows more Of rhetoric than e'er did Greek before): Next Appii Forum, filled, e'en, nigh to choke, With knavish publicans and boatmen folk.

This portion of our route, which most get through At one good stretch, we chose to split in two, Taking it leisurely: for those who go The Appian road are jolted less when slow.

I find the water villanous, decline My stomach's overtures, refuse to dine, And sit and sit with temper less than sweet Watching my fellow-travellers while they eat.

Now Night prepared o'er all the earth to spread Her veil, and light the stars up overhead: Boatmen and slaves a slanging-match begin: "Ho! put in here! What! take three hundred in?

You'll swamp us all:" so, while our fares we pay, And the mule's tied, a whole hour slips away.

No hope of sleep: the tenants of the marsh, Hoa.r.s.e frogs and shrill mosquitos, sing so harsh, While pa.s.senger and boatman chant the praise Of their true-loves in amoebean lays, Each fairly drunk: the pa.s.senger at last Tires of the game, and soon his eyes are fast: Then to a stone his mule the boatman moors, Leaves her to pasture, lays him down, and snores.

And now 'twas near the dawning of the day, When 'tis discovered that we make no way: Out leaps a hair-brained fellow and attacks With a stout cudgel mule's and boatman's backs: And so at length, thanks to this vigorous friend, By ten o'clock we reach our boating's end.

Tired with the voyage, face and hands we lave In pure Feronia's hospitable wave.

We take some food, then creep three miles or so To Anxur, built on cliffs that gleam like snow; There rest awhile, for there our mates were due, Maecenas and Cocceius, good and true, Sent on a weighty business, to compose A feud, and make them friends who late were foes.

I seize on the occasion, and apply A touch of ointment to an ailing eye.

Meanwhile Maecenas with Cocceius came, And Capito, whose errand was the same, A man of men, accomplished and refined, Who knew, as few have known, Antonius' mind.

Along by Fundi next we take our way For all its praetor sought to make us stay, Not without laughter at the foolish soul, His senatorial stripe and pan of coal.

Then at Mamurra's city we pull up, Lodge with Murena, with Fonteius sup.

Next morn the sun arises, O how sweet!

At Sinnessa we with Plotius meet, Varius and Virgil; men than whom on earth I know none dearer, none of purer worth.

O what a hand-shaking! while sense abides, A friend to me is worth the world besides.

Campania's border-bridge next day we crossed, There housed and victualled at the public cost.

The next, we turn off early from the road At Capua, and the mules lay down their load; There, while Maecenas goes to fives, we creep, Virgil and I, to bed, and so to sleep: For, though the game's a pleasant one to play, Weak stomachs and weak eyes are in the way.

Then to Cocceius' country-house we come, Beyond the Caudian inns, a sumptuous home.

Now, Muse, recount the memorable fight 'Twixt valiant Messius and Sarmentus wight, And tell me first from what proud lineage sprung The champions joined in battle, tongue with tongue.

From Oscan blood great Messius' sires derive: Sarmentus has a mistress yet alive.

Such was their parentage: they meet in force: Sarmentus starts: "You're just like a wild horse."

We burst into a laugh. The other said, "Well, here's a horse's trick:" and tossed his head.

"O, were your horn yet growing, how your foe Would rue it, sure, when maimed you threaten so!"

Sarmentus cries: for Messius' brow was marred By a deep wound, which left it foully scarred.

Then, joking still at his grim countenance, He begged him just to dance the Cyclop dance: No buskin, mask, nor other aid of art Would be required to make him look his part.

Messius had much to answer: "Was his chain Suspended duly in the Lares' fane?

Though now a notary, he might yet be seized And given up to his mistress, if she pleased.

Nay, more," he asked, "why had he run away, When e'en a single pound of corn a day Had filled a maw so slender?" So we spent Our time at table, to our high content.

Then on to Beneventum, where our host, As some lean thrushes he essayed to roast, Was all but burnt: for up the chimney came The blaze, and well nigh set the house on flame: The guests and servants s.n.a.t.c.h the meat, and fall Upon the fire with buckets, one and all.

Next rise to view Apulia's well-known heights, Which keen Atabulus so sorely bites: And there perchance we might be wandering yet, But shelter in Trivic.u.m's town we get, Where green damp branches in the fireplace spread Make our poor eyes to water in our head.

Then four and twenty miles, a good long way, Our coaches take us, in a town to stay Whose name no art can squeeze into a line, Though otherwise 'tis easy to define: For water there, the cheapest thing on earth, Is sold for money: but the bread is worth A fancy price, and travellers who know Their business take it with them when they go: For at Ca.n.u.sium, town of Diomed, The drink's as bad, and grits are in the bread.

Here to our sorrow Varius takes his leave, And, grieved himself, compels his friends to grieve.

Fatigued, we come to Rubi: for the way Was long, and rain had made it sodden clay.

Next day, with better weather, o'er worse ground We get to Barium's town, where fish abound.

Then Gnatia, built in water-nymphs' despite, Made us cut jokes and laugh, as well we might, Listening to tales of incense, wondrous feat, That melts in temples without fire to heat.

Tell the crazed Jews such miracles as these!

I hold the G.o.ds live lives of careless ease, And, if a wonder happens, don't a.s.sume 'Tis sent in anger from the upstairs room.

Last comes Brundusium: there the lines I penned, The leagues I travelled, find alike their end.

SATIRE VI.

NON QUIA, MAECENAS.

What if, Maecenas, none, though ne'er so blue His Tusco-Lydian blood, surpa.s.ses you?

What if your grandfathers, on either hand, Father's and mother's, were in high command?

Not therefore do you curl the lip of scorn At n.o.bodies, like me, of freedman born: Far other rule is yours, of rank or birth To raise no question, so there be but worth, Convinced, and truly too, that wights unknown, Ere Servius' rise set freedmen on the throne, Despite their ancestors, not seldom came To high employment, honours, and fair fame, While great Laevinus, scion of the race That pulled down Tarquin from his pride of place, Has ne'er been valued at a poor half-crown E'en in the eyes of that wise judge, the town, That muddy source of dignity, which sees No virtue but in busts and lineal trees.

Well, but for us; what thoughts should ours be, say, Removed from vulgar judgments miles away?

Grant that Laevinus yet would be preferred To low-born Decius by the common herd, That censor Appius, just because I came From freedman's loins, would obelize my name-- And serve me right; for 'twas my restless pride Kept me from sleeping in my own poor hide.

But Glory, like a conqueror, drags behind Her glittering car the souls of all mankind; Nor less the lowly than the n.o.ble feels The onward roll of those victorious wheels.

Come, tell me, Tillius, have you cause to thank The stars that gave you power, restored you rank?

Ill-will, scarce audible in low estate, Gives tongue, and opens loudly, now you're great.

Poor fools! they take the stripe, draw on the shoe, And hear folks asking, "Who's that fellow? who?"

Just as a man with Barrus's disease, His one sole care a lady's eye to please, Whene'er he walks abroad, sets on the fair To con him over, leg, face, teeth, and hair; So he that undertakes to hold in charge Town, country, temples, all the realm at large, Gives all the world a t.i.tle to enquire The antecedents of his dam or sire.

"What? you to twist men's necks or scourge them, you, The son of Syrus, Dama, none knows who?"

"Aye, but I sit before my colleague; he Ranks with my worthy father, not with me."

And think you, on the strength of this, to rise A Paullus or Messala in our eyes?

Talk of your colleague! he's a man of parts: Suppose three funerals jostle with ten carts All in the forum, still you'll hear his voice Through horn and clarion: that commends our choice.

Now on myself, the freedman's son, I touch, The freedman's son, by all contemned as such, Once, when a legion followed my command, Now, when Maecenas takes me by the hand.

But this and that are different: some stern judge My military rank with cause might grudge, But not your friendship, studious as you've been To choose good men, not pushing, base, or mean.

In truth, to luck I care not to pretend, For 'twas not luck that mark'd me for your friend: Virgil at first, that faithful heart and true, And Varius after, named my name to you.

Brought to your presence, stammeringly I told (For modesty forbade me to be bold) No vaunting tale of ancestry of pride, Of good broad acres and sleek nags to ride, But simple truth: a few brief words you say, As is your wont, and wish me a good day.

Then, nine months after, graciously you send, Desire my company, and hail me friend.

O, 'tis no common fortune, when one earns A friend's regard, who man from man discerns, Not by mere accident of lofty birth But by unsullied life, and inborn worth!

Yet, if my nature, otherwise correct, But with some few and trifling faults is flecked, Just as a spot or mole might be to blame Upon some body else of comely frame, If none can call me miserly and mean Or tax my life with practices unclean, If I have lived unstained and unreproved (Forgive self-praise), if loving and beloved, I owe it to my father, who, though poor, Pa.s.sed by the village school at his own door, The school where great tall urchins in a row, Sons of great tall centurions, used to go, With slate and satchel on their backs, to pay Their monthly quota punctual to the day, And took his boy to Rome, to learn the arts Which knight or senator to HIS imparts.

Whoe'er had seen me, neat and more than neat, With slaves behind me, in the crowded street, Had surely thought a fortune fair and large, Two generations old, sustained the charge.

Himself the true tried guardian of his son, Whene'er I went to cla.s.s, he still made one.

Why lengthen out the tale? he kept me chaste, Which is the crown of virtue, undisgraced In deed and name: he feared not lest one day The world should talk of money thrown away, If after all I plied some trade for hire, Like him, a tax-collector, or a crier: Nor had I murmured: as it is, the score Of grat.i.tude and praise is all the more.

No: while my head's unturned, I ne'er shall need To blush for that dear father, or to plead As men oft plead, 'tis Nature's fault, not mine, I came not of a better, worthier line.

Not thus I speak, not thus I feel: the plea Might serve another, but 'twere base in me.

Should Fate this moment bid me to go back O'er all my length of years, my life retrack To its first hour, and pick out such descent As man might wish for e'en to pride's content, I should rest satisfied with mine, nor choose New parents, decked with senatorial shoes, Mad, most would think me, sane, as you'll allow, To waive a load ne'er thrust on me till now.

More gear 'twould make me get without delay, More bows there'd be to make, more calls to pay, A friend or two must still be at my side, That all alone I might not drive or ride, More nags would want their corn, more grooms their meat, And waggons must be bought, to save their feet.

Now on my bobtailed mule I jog at ease, As far as e'en Tarentum, if I please, A wallet for my things behind me tied, Which galls his crupper, as I gall his side, And no one rates my meanness, as they rate Yours, n.o.ble Tillius, when you ride in state On the Tiburtine road, five slaves EN SUITE, Wineholder and et-ceteras all complete.

'Tis thus my life is happier, man of pride, Than yours and that of half the world beside.

When the whim leads, I saunter forth alone, Ask how are herbs, and what is flour a stone, Lounge through the Circus with its crowd of liars, Or in the Forum, when the sun retires, Talk to a soothsayer, then go home to seek My frugal meal of fritter, vetch, and leek: Three youngsters serve the food: a slab of white Contains two cups, one ladle, clean and bright: Next, a cheap basin ranges on the shelf, With jug and saucer of Campanian delf: Then off to bed, where I can close my eyes Not thinking how with morning I must rise And face grim Marsyas, who is known to swear Young Novius' looks are what he cannot bear.

I lie a-bed till ten: then stroll a bit, Or read or write, if in a silent fit, And rub myself with oil, not taken whence Natta takes his, at some poor lamp's expense.

So to the field and ball; but when the sun Bids me go bathe, the field and ball I shun: Then eat a temperate luncheon, just to stay A sinking stomach till the close of day, Kill time in-doors, and so forth. Here you see A careless life, from stir and striving free, Happier (O be that flattering unction mine!) Than if three quaestors figured in my line.

SATIRE VII.