Let us take leave of these illustrations of the dynamic power of Horace
in letters, and consider in conclusion his power as shown directly in
the living of men.
First of all, we may include in the dynamic working of the poet his
stirring of the heart by pure delight. If this is not the highest and
the ultimate effect of poetry, it is after all the first and the
essential effect. Without the giving of pleasure, no art becomes really
the possession of men and the instrument of good. As a matter of fact,
many of the most frequently and best translated _Odes_ are devoid both
of moral intent, and, in the ordinary sense, of moral effect. _To
Pyrrha_, _Soracte Covered with Snow_, _Carpe Diem_, _To Glycera_,
_Integer Vitae_, _To Chloe_, _Horace and Lydia_, _The Bandusian Spring_,
_Faunus_, _To an Old Wine-Jar_, _The End of Love_, and _Beatus Ille_ are
merely _jeux-d'esprit_ of the sort that for the moment lighten and clear
the spirit. The same may be said of _The Bore_ and the _Journey to
Brundisium_ among the _Satires_, and of many of the _Epistles_.
But these trifles light as air are nevertheless of the sort for which
mankind is eternally grateful, because men are convinced, without
process of reason, that by them the fibre of life is rested and refined
and strengthened. We may call this familiar effect by the less familiar
name of re-creative. What lover of Horace has not felt his inmost being
cleansed and refreshed by the simple and exquisite art of _The Bandusian
Spring_, whose cameo of sixty-eight Latin words in four stanzas is an
unapproachable model of vividness, elegance, purity, and restraint:
O_ crystal-bright Bandusian Spring_,
W_orthy thou of the mellow wine_
A_nd flowers I give to thy pure depths_:
A_ kid the morrow shall be thine_.
T_he day of lustful strife draws on_,
T_he starting horn begins to gleam_;
I_n vain! His red blood soon shall tinge_
T_he waters of thy clear, cold stream_.
T_he dog-star's fiercely blazing hour_
N_e'er with its heat doth change thy pool_;
T_o wandering flock and ploughworn steer_
T_hou givest waters fresh and cool_.
T_hee, too, 'mong storied founts I'll place_,
S_inging the oak that slants the steep_,
A_bove the hollowed home of rock_
F_rom which thy prattling streamlets leap_.
Or who does not live more abundant life at reading the _Chloe Ode_, with
its breath of the mountain air and its sense of the brooding forest
solitude, and its exquisite suggestion of timid and charming girlhood?
"Y_ou shun me, Chloe, wild and shy_
A_s some stray fawn that seeks its mother_
T_hrough trackless woods. If spring-winds sigh_,
I_t vainly strives its fears to smother_;--
"I_ts trembling knees assail each other_
W_hen lizards stir the bramble dry_;--
Y_ou shun me, Chloe, wild and shy_
A_s some stray fawn that seeks its mother_.
"A_nd yet no Libyan lion I_,--
N_o ravening thing to rend another_;
L_ay by your tears, your tremors by_,--
A_ husband's better than a brother_;
N_or shun me, Chloe, wild and shy_
A_s some stray fawn that seeks its mother_."
But there are those who demand of poetry a usefulness more easily
measurable than that of recreation. In their opinion, it is improvement
rather than pleasure which is the end of art, or at least improvement as
well as pleasure. In this, indeed, the poet himself is inclined to
agree: "He who mingles the useful with the pleasant by delighting and
likewise improving the reader, will get every vote."
Let us look for these more concrete results, and see how Horace the
person still lives in the character of men, as well as Horace the poet
in the character of literature.
To appreciate this better, we must return to the theme of Horace's
personal quality. We have already seen that in no other poet so fully as
in Horace is the reality of personal contact to be felt. The lyrics, as
well as the _Epistles_ and _Satires_, are almost without exception
addressed to actual persons. So successful is this attempt of the poet
to speak from the page that it needs but the slightest touch of
imagination to create the illusion that we ourselves are addressed. We
feel, as if at first hand, all the qualities that went to make up
Horace's character,--his good will, good faith, and good-nature, the
depth and constancy of his friendship, his glow of admiration for the
brave deed, the pure heart, and the steadfast purpose, his patient
endurance of ill, his delight in men and things, his affection for what
is simple and sincere, his charity for human weakness, his mildly
ironical mood, as of one who is aware that he himself is not undeserving
of the good-humored censure he passes on others, his clear vision of the
sources of happiness, his reposeful acquiescence, and his elusive humor,
which never bursts into laughter and yet is never far away from it. We
are taken into his confidence, like old friends. He describes himself
and his ways; he lets us share in his own vision of himself and in his
amusement at the bustling and self-deluded world, and subtly conciliates
us by making us feel ourselves partakers with him in the criticism of
life. There is no better example in literature of personal magnetism.
And he is more than merely personal. He is sincere and unreserved. Were
he otherwise, the delight of intimate acquaintance with him would be
impossible. It is the real Horace whom we meet,--not a person on the
literary stage, with buskins, pallium, and mask. Horace holds the mirror
up to himself; rather, not to himself, but to nature in himself. Every
side of his personality appears: the artist, and the man; the formalist,
and the skeptic; the spectator, and the critic; the gentleman in
society, and the son of the collector; the landlord of five hearths, and
the poet at court; the stern moralist, and the occasional voluptuary;
the vagabond, and the conventionalist. He is independent and unhampered
in his expression. He has no exalted social position to maintain, and
blushes neither for parentage nor companions. His philosophy is not
School-made, and the fear of inconsistency never haunts him. His
religion requires no subscription to dogma; he does not even take the
trouble to define it. Politically, his duties have come to be also his
desires. He will accept the favors of the Emperor and his ministers if
they do not compromise his liberty or happiness. If they withdraw their
gifts, he knows how to do without them, because he has already done
without them. He conceals nothing, pretends to nothing, makes no
excuses, suffers from no self-consciousness, exercises no reserve. There
are few expressions of self in all literature so spontaneous and so
complete. Horace has left us a portrait of his soul much more perfect
than that of his person. It is a truthful portrait, with both shadow and
light.
And there is a corollary to Horace's frankness that constitutes another
element in the charm of his personality. His very unreserve is the proof
of an open and kindly heart. To call him a satirist at all is to
necessitate his own definition of satire, "smilingly to tell the truth."
At least in his riper work, there is no trace of bitterness. He laughs
with some purpose and to some purpose, but his laughter is not sardonic.
Sane judgment and generous experience tell him that the foibles of
mankind are his own as well as theirs, and are not to be changed by so
slight a means as a railing tongue. He reflects that what in himself has
produced no very disastrous results may without great danger be forgiven
also in them.
It is this intimate and warming quality in Horace that prompts Hagedorn
to call him "my friend, my teacher, my companion," and to take the poet
with him on country walks as if he were a living person:
Horaz, mein Freund, mein Lehrer, mein Begleiter,
Wir gehen aufs Land. Die Tage sind so heiter;
and Nietzsche to compare the atmosphere of the _Satires_ and _Epistles_
to the "geniality of a warm winter day"; and Wordsworth to be attracted
by his appreciation of "the value of companionable friendship"; and
Andrew Lang to address to him the most personal of literary letters; and
Austin Dobson to give his Horatian poems the form of personal address;
and countless students and scholars and men out of school and immersed
in the cares of life to carry Horace with them in leisure hours. _Circum
praecordia ludit_, "he plays about the heartstrings," said Persius, long
before any of these, when the actual Horace was still fresh in the
memory of men.
If we were to take detailed account of certain qualities missed in
Horace by the modern reader, we should be even more deeply convinced of
his power of personal attraction. He is not a Christian poet, but a
pagan. Faith in immortality and Providence, penitence and penance, and
humanitarian sentiment, are hardly to be found in his pages. He is
sometimes too unrestrained in expression. The unsympathetic or
unintelligent critic might charge him with being commonplace.
Yet these defects are more apparent than real, and have never been an
obstacle to souls attracted by Horace. His pages are charged with
sympathy for men. His lapses in taste are not numerous, and are, after
all, less offensive than those of European letters today, after the
coming of sin with the law. And he is not commonplace, but universal.
His content is familiar matter of today as well as of his own time. His
delightful natural settings are never novel, romantic, or forced; we
have seen them all, in experience or in literature, again and again, and
they make familiar and intimate appeal. Phidyle is neither ancient nor
modern, Latin nor Teuton; she is all of them at once. The exquisite
expressions of friendship in the odes to a Virgil, or a Septimius, are
applicable to any age or nationality, or any person. The story of the
town mouse and country mouse is always old and always new, and always
true. _Mutato nomine de te_ may be said of it, and of all Horace's other
stories; alter the names, and the story is about you. Their application
and appeal are universal.
"Without sustained inspiration, without profundity of thought, without
impassioned song," writes Duff, "he yet pierces to the universal
heart.... His secret lies in sanity rather than impetus. Kindly and
shrewd observer of the manifold activities of life, he draws vignettes
therefrom and passes judgments thereon which awaken undying interest.
_Non omnis moriar_--he remains fresh because he is human."
Horace's philosophy of life may be imperfect for the militant
humanitarian and the Christian, but, as a matter of fact, it is a
complete and perfect thing in itself. Horace does not fret or fume. He
is not morbid or unpleasantly melancholy. It is true that "his tempered
and polished expression of common experience, free from transports and
free from despairs, speaks more forcibly to ripe middle age than to
youth," but it is not without its appeal also to youth. Horace sums up
an attitude toward existence which all men, of whatever nation or time,
can easily understand, and which all, at some moment or other,
sympathize with. Whether they believe in his philosophy of life or not,
whether they put it into practice or not, it is always and everywhere
attractive,--attractive because founded on clear and sympathetic vision
of the joys and sorrows that are the common lot of men, attractive
because of its frankness and manly courage, and, above all, attractive
because of its object. So long as the one great object of human longing
is peace of mind and heart, no philosophy which recognizes it will be
without followers. The Christian is naturally unwilling to adopt the
Horatian philosophy as a whole, but with its _summum bonum_, and with
many of its recommendations, he is in perfect accord. Add Christian
faith to it, or add it, so far as is consonant, to Christian faith, and
either is enriched.
We are better able now to appreciate the dynamic power of Horace the
person. We may see it at work in the fostering of friendly affection, in
the deepening of love for favorite spots of earth, in the encouragement
of righteous purpose, in the true judging of life's values.
Horace is the poet of friendship. With his address to "Virgil, the half
of my soul," his references to Plotius, Varius, and Virgil as the purest
and whitest souls of earth, his affectionate messages in _Epistle_ and
_Ode_, he sets the heart of the reader aglow with love for his friends.
"Nothing, while in my right mind, would I compare to the delight of a
friend!" What numbers of men have had their hearts stirred to deeper
love by the matchless ode to Septimius:
"S_eptimius, who with me would brave_
F_ar Gades, and Cantabrian land_
U_ntamed by Rome, and Moorish wave_
T_hat whirls the sand_;
"F_air Tibur, town of Argive kings_,
T_here would I end my days serene_,
A_t rest from seas and travelings_,
A_nd service seen_.
"S_hould angry Fate those wishes foil_,
T_hen let me seek Galesus, sweet_
T_o skin-clad sheep, and that rich soil_,
T_he Spartan's seat_.
"O_h, what can match the green recess_,
W_hose honey not to Hybla yields_,
W_hose olives vie with those that bless_
V_enafrum's fields_?
"L_ong springs, mild winters glad that spot_
B_y Jove's good grace, and Aulon, dear_
T_o fruitful Bacchus, envies not_
F_alernian cheer_.
"T_hat spot, those happy heights desire_
O_ur sojourn; there, when life shall end_,
Y_our tear shall dew my yet warm pyre_,
Y_our bard and friend_."
And what numbers of men have taken to their hearts from the same ode the
famous
Ille terrarum mihi praeter omnes
Angulus ridet,--
Y_onder little nook of earth_
B_eyond all others smiles on me_,--
and expressed through its perfect phrase the love they bear their own
beloved nook of earth. "Happy Horace!" writes Sainte-Beuve on the margin
of his edition, "what a fortune has been his! Why, because he once
expressed in a few charming verses his fondness for the life of the
country and described his favorite corner of earth, the lines composed
for his own pleasure and for the friend to whom he addressed them have
laid hold on the memory of all men and have become so firmly lodged
there that one can conceive no others, and finds only those when he
feels the need of praising his own beloved retreat!"
To speak of sterner virtues, what a source of inspiration to
righteousness and constancy men have found in the apt and undying
phrases of Horace! "Cornelius de Witt, when confronting the murderous
mob; Condorcet, perishing in the straw of his filthy cell; Herrick, at
his far-away old British revels; Leo, during his last days at the
Vatican, and a thousand others," strengthened their resolution by
repeating _Iustum et tenacem_:
"T_he man of firm and noble soul_
N_o factious clamors can control_
N_o threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow_
C_an swerve him from his just intent_....
A_y, and the red right arm of Jove_,
H_urtling his lightnings from above_,
W_ith all his terrors then unfurl'd_,
H_e would unmoved, unawed behold_:
T_he flames of an expiring world_
A_gain in crashing chaos roll'd_,
I_n vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd_,
M_ust light his glorious funeral pile_:
S_till dauntless midst the wreck of earth he'd smile_."
Of this passage Stemplinger records thirty-one imitations. How many have
had their patriotism strengthened by _Dulce et decorum est pro patria
mori_, the verse which is aptly found in modern Rome on the monument to
those who fell at Dogali. How many have been supported and comforted in
calamity and sorrow by the poet's immortal words of consolation on the
death of Quintilius:
Durum: sed levius fit patientia
Quicquid corrigere est nefas,--
A_h, hard it is! but patience lends_
S_trength to endure what Heaven sends_.
The motto of Warren Hastings was _Mens aequa in arduis_,--An even temper
in times of trial. Even humorous use of these phrases has served a
purpose. The French minister, compelled to resign, no doubt drew
substantial consolation from _Virtute me involvo_, when he turned it to
fit his case:
I_n the robe of my virtue I wrap me round_
A _solace for loss of all I had_;
B_ut ah! I realize I've found_
W_hat it really means to be lightly clad_!
But the most pronounced effect of Horace's dynamic power is its
inspiration to sane and truthful living. Life seems a simple thing, yet
there are many who miss the paths of happiness and wander in wretched
discontent because they are not bred to distinguish between the false
and the real. We have seen the lesson of Horace: that happiness is not
from without, but from within; that it is not abundance that makes
riches, but attitude; that the acceptation of worldly standards of
getting and having means the life of the slave; that the fraction is
better increased by division of the denominator than by multiplying the
numerator; that unbought riches are better possessions than those the
world displays as the prizes most worthy of striving for. No poet is so
full of inspiration as Horace for those who have glimpsed these simple
and easy yet little known secrets of living. Men of twenty centuries
have been less dependent on the hard-won goods of this world because of
him, and lived fuller and richer lives. Surely, to give our young people
this attractive example of sane solution of the problem of happy living
is to leaven the individual life and the life of the social mass.