Juvenal

Front matter

EDWARD WALFORD, M.A.

LATE SCHOLAR OF BALLIOL COLL., OXFORD; AUTHOR OF 'THE HANDBOOK OF THE GREEK DRAMA.' ETC.

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS

Chapter 1

CHAPTER I.

Life of Juvenal.

If the saying be true, that the greater the poet is, the less are we likely to know of him from his own writings, Juvenal ought certainly to occupy a very high place among the poets of Rome. In this respect he offers a most complete contrast to Horace, who has left us in his various poems an account of himself—his character, habits, and pursuits, his successes and his failures—almost as complete as, and far more instructive than, many a professed biography. Juvenal, on the other hand, never allows the personality of the poet to obtrude itself in any way on the reader's notice. In reading Horace, we can never lose sight of the cultivated, genial man of the world, who indeed makes his puppets play before us, but allows them to speak only with his own voice, to utter his own words. In Juvenal, the subject entirely overshadows the iden- tity of the poet; we read him, but we no more think of the writer as we read, than we should allow a vision of the blind old bard to roam on the plain of the Scamander, and preside at the death of Hector or at the games around the tomb of Patroclus.

All that we know of Juvenal, beyond those allusions to himself, or to contemporary history, which may be found scattered up and down throughout his writings, is contained in the volume of memoirs attributed to Suetonius. The sum and substance of what we read in his pages is as follows:—

"Junius Juvenalis, the son or the alumnus (it is uncertain which) of a rich freedman, practised declamation till near middle life, more for amusement than by way of preparing himself for school or forum. Afterwards, having written a clever Satire of a few verses on Paris the pantomime, and a poet of his time, who was puffed up with his paltry six months' military rank, he took pains to perfect himself in this kind of writing. And yet for a very long time he did not venture to trust anything even to a small audience. But after a while he was heard by great crowds, and with great success, several times; so that he was led to insert in his first writings those verses which he had written first:—

'What! will you still on Camerinus wait, And Barcas? will you still frequent the great? Ah! rather to the player your labours take, And at one lucky stroke your fortunes make!' >>>—Sat. vii. 90.

"The player was at that time one of the favourites at court, and many of his supporters were daily promoted. Juvenal, therefore, fell under suspicion as one who had covertly censured the times; and forthwith, under colour of military promotion, though he was eighty years of age, he was removed from the city, and sent to take command of a cohort which was stationed in the furthest part of Egypt. That sort of punishment was determined upon as being suited to a light and jocular offence. Within a very short time he died of vexation and disgust."

This notice, meagre as it is, and probably not original, is yet more authentic and fuller than any other account we can find in the literature of the period. The facts which can be gleaned and the inferences which can be drawn from Juvenal's writings with regard to his personal career, are if possible more scanty and less to be depended upon. To such an extent is this the case, that even such questions as whether the poet ever visited Egypt, and if so, at what period of his lifetime, and in what capacity, are left in complete uncertainty. The dates of his birth and of his death are alike disputed; events to which he is supposed to allude are ascribed by different authorities to the reigns of the different Emperors from Nero to Trajan; and the very text of the author has been interpolated and revised to suit one or other of the views from time to time in vogue to such an extent, that the authenticity of well-nigh half the work has been disputed by some one commentator or more.

The upshot of all this is, that the only facts with regard to Juvenal on which we can implicitly rely are, that he flourished towards the close of the first century; that Aquinum, if not the place of his nativity, was at least his chosen residence; and that he is in all probability the friend whom Martial addresses in three epigrams.

There is, however, a far more interesting question, to which we may yet be enabled to give an answer by a careful study of the Satires of Juvenal, and that consists in the consideration of the gradual development of the high moral qualities with which our poet was endowed. We have elsewhere endeavoured to point out how we may trace the fierce and almost truculent satire of his youth gradually softening down to the gentler temper of his mature years. In these he is not indeed blind to the vices of mankind; but, taking a larger and more philosophic view of human life, he is more anxious to point out how those vices may be remedied, by an earnest pursuit after virtue; and how God seldom fails in the end to reward the good for their righteous dealings, and to punish the wicked for their sins.

"Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all."

We can also see how his whole life was one continued protest against the encroachments of foreign and especially of Grecian customs; against the influx of those wealthy but low-born, low-bred foreigners who, by dint of their huge fortunes, and supported by court favour, were successfully disputing with the ancient Roman families the few privileges which were still left them. "Must I," he exclaims with indignant scorn,

Let hit seat first, and on the chief couch lie At feasts, whom to our Rome the same wind brought That brought us figs and prunes? goes it for nought That we Aventine air first breathed, and, bred In Rome, were with the Sabine olive fed? >>—Sat. iii. 81.

Yet even in this respect there is a material change in the tone which he adopts in his more advanced age. The diatribes against foreigners are less frequent, and their place is taken by earnest and lofty moral precepts, weighty alike with the experience of a long life, and with the disinterested zeal of a philanthropist and philosopher. Of his æsthetic tastes, though little disposed to speak much of himself, Juvenal has allowed pretty frequent traces to appear in his writings. From these we may gather that he had, in greater measure than most Romans, a love of the country, a "romantic" sympathy with and longing for nature and the picturesque, which we may add to the other hints we find in his works of tastes and feelings that are generally considered to be distinctive marks of a modern as opposed to a classical tone of thought: traces of a love of country scenery and quietude for its own sake, and not only as a refuge from the turmoil and vices of an overgrown capital. It is with heartfelt joy, then, that Juvenal shakes the dust of Rome from off his feet, and escapes from the profligacy and hollowness of the imperial city, in which even the face of nature cannot avoid the sophisticating touch of an artificial æstheticism. A notable example of this fact we have at the very gates of Rome:—

"Here we view The Egerian grots—ah, how unlike the true! Nymph of the spring, more honoured hadst thou been If, free from art, an edge of living green Thy bubbling fount had circumscribed alone, And marble ne'er profaned the native stone." >>—Ibid., 17.

Far better than all this parade, in the poet's eyes, is the beauty of simple Gabii:—

"Bleak Præneste's seat, Volsinium's craggy heights, embowered in wood, Or Tibur, beetling o'er prone Anio's flood!" >>>—Ibid., 191.

There the true farmer's life may yet be enjoyed by the husbandman; blessed, indeed, if he only had eyes to see the real happiness of his lot!

There wells by nature formed, which need no rope, No labouring arm, to crane their waters up, Around your lawn their facile streams shall shower, And cheer the springing plant and opening flower, There live delighted with the rustic's lot, And till with your own hands the little spot— The little spot which yields you large amends, And glad with many a feast your Samian friends." >>—Ibid., 226.

To such a quiet home as this Juvenal would gladly retire with a friend of congenial tastes, and recall for a short space the mode of life that once was led by all the citizens of Rome. Let us then accompany Persicus as he goes to accept the poet's invitation, and with him make our way from the din of the Suburra to the quiet country homestead, hidden behind the oak-clad hills of Latium. The bridges over the Tiber, with their throng of beggars, seated each on his woven mat of rushes, is left behind; the roar of the street traffic, the hoarse voices of the drovers and waggoners, the hum of the circus and of the crowded theatre, grow indistinct; and we no longer hear the prancing of the train of the rich man's mules, or the ringing of their iron hoofs in his paved and shady portico. We pass together through the Capene gate, dripping with the waters of the conduit that passes overhead, bringing a supply of water from the distant hills into the imperial city:

Here Numa erst his nightly visits paid, And held high converse with the Egerian maid: Now the once-hallowed fountain, grove, and fane, Are let to Jews, a wretched, wandering train, Whose furniture's a basket filled with hay,— For every tree is forced a tax to pay; And while the heaven-born Nine in exile rove, The beggar rents their consecrated grove." >>—Ibid., 12.

Passing beneath this vaulted gate, the road led down the world-renowned Appian Way, the well-known burying-place of the mighty dead at Rome. For many miles the broad straight road was lined on the right hand and on the left by huge marble monuments, stretching away in an unbroken series till they grew smaller and smaller, and at length vanished in the distance. Yet even here—in this place, of all others, most sacred to the memories of a departed greatness—modern depravity was not ashamed to obtrude its brazen face of extravagance and vice:—

See, by his great progenitors' remains Fat Damasippus sweeps, with loosened reins: Good consul! he no pride of office feels, But stoops, himself, to clog his headlong wheels, 'But this is all by night,' the hero cries: Yet the moon sees! yet the stars stretch their eyes Full on your shame! A few short moments wait, And Damasippus quits the pomp of state: Then mounts his chariot in the face of day,

Whirls with bold front his grave associate by, And jerks his whip to catch the senior's eye." >>—Sat. viii. 146.

It will hardly be necessary to remark here, that this driving in public was looked on as a gross offence against morality and common decency; indeed, as an act scarcely leas disgraceful than to engage in the fights of the amphitheatre, or to play a low part on the stage. And thus the satirist lashes on the same page the debauchee Matho, or the renegade patrician, and the man

Who spent on horses all his father's land, While, proud the experienced driver to display, His glowing wheel smoked o'er the Appian way."

Meanwhile we follow along the road, and reach Aricia's hill, and its proverbial throng of beggars. These, then no less than in the present day, took advantage of the steep incline to crowd round the passing carriage, and demand, even with threatening words and gestures, the alms that they seemed to consider due to them. At this point we leave the broad Campagna Romana which we have hitherto been traversing, to climb with Juvenal's friend the range of hills among which his secluded farm was situated, shunning the glare and heat of the plain no less than the feverish jealousies and intrigues of the city. But what were the scenes that might there be seen, and what the poet's frugal way of life, he shall himself set forth in his letter of invitation to this rural retreat.

The eleventh satire is written in the form of a letter to a friend, Persicus, inviting him to supper at the poet's farm. The introductory lines are occupied with an attack on the extravagance and luxury of the Romans, and the numerous shameful bankruptcies that were attributable to indulgence of the palate. He then seizes the occasion, and shows the superiority of the good old times, when every man measured his appetite by the simple requirements of nature, nor ever thought to spend more than a small part of his moderate income on the pleasures of the table:—

"Enough: to-day my Persicus shall see Whether my precepts with my life agree; Whether, with feigned austerity, I prize The spare repast, a glutton in disguise, Bawl for coarse pottage, that my friends may hear, But whisper 'sweetmeats!' in my servant's ear. For since, by promise, you are now my guest, Know, I invite you to no sumptuous feast, But to such simple fare, as long, long since, The good Evander bade the Trojan prince.

Come then, my friend, you will not, sure, despise The food that pleased the offspring of the skies; Come, and while fancy brings past times to view, I'll think myself the king, the hero you.

Take now your bill of fare; my simple board Is with no dainties from the market stored, But dishes all my own. From Tibur's stock A kid shall come, the fattest of the flock, The tenderest too, and yet too young to browse The thistle's shoots, the willows watery boughs, With more of milk than blood; and pullets drest With new-laid eggs, yet tepid from the nest, And 'sparage wild, which, from the mountain's side, My housemaid left her spindle to provide; And grapes long kept, yet pulpy still, and fair, And the rich Signian and the Syrian pear; And apples, that in flavour and in smell The boasted Picene equal, or excel:— Nor need you fear, my friend, their liberal use, For age has mellowed and improved their juice.

How homely this! and yet this homely fare A senator would, once, have counted rare; When the good Curius thought it no disgrace O'er a few sticks a little pot to place, With herbs by his small garden-plot supplied— Food, which the squalid wretch would now deride, Who digs in fetters, and, with fond regret, The tavern's savoury dish remembers yet!

Time was when on the rack a man would lay The seasoned flitch against a solemn day; And think the friends who met with decent mirth To celebrate the hour which gave him birth, On this, and what of fresh the altars spared

(For altars then were honoured), nobly fared. Some kinsman, who had camps and senates swayed, Had thrice been consul, once dictator made, From public cares retired, would gaily haste, Before the wonted hour, to such repast, Shouldering the spade, that, with no common toil, Had tamed the genius of the mountain soil.— Yes, when the world was filled with Rome's just fame, And Romans trembled at the Fabian name, The Scauran, and Fabrician; when they saw A censor's rigour e'en, a censor awe, No son of Troy e'er thought it his concern, Or worth a moment's serious care to learn, What land, what sea, the fairest tortoise bred, Whose clouded shell might best adorn his bed.— His bed was small, and did no signs impart Or of the painter's or the sculptor's art, Save where the front, cheaply inlaid with brass, Showed the rude features of a vine-crowned ass; An uncouth brute, round which his children played, And laughed and jested at the face it made! Briefly, his house, his furniture, his food, Were uniformly plain, and simply good.

Then the rough soldier, yet untaught by Greece To hang, enraptured, o'er a finished piece, If haply, 'mid the congregated spoils (Proofs of his power, and guerdon of his toils), Some antique vase of master-hands were found, Would dash the glittering bauble on the ground; That in new forms the molten fragments drest Might blaze illustrious round his courser's chest, Or, flashing from his burnished helmet, show (A dreadful omen to the trembling foe)

The mighty sire, with glittering shield and spear, Hovering, enamoured, o'er the sleeping fair, The wolf, by Rome's high destinies made mild, And, playful at her side, each wondrous child,

Thus, all the wealth those simple times could boast, Small wealth! their horses and their arms engrossed; The rest was homely, and their frugal fare, Cooked without art, was served in earthenware: Yet worthy all our envy, were the breast But with one spark of noble spleen possest. Then shone the fanes with majesty divine, A present god was felt at every shrine! And solemn sounds, heard from the sacred walls, At midnight's solemn hour, announced the Gauls, Now rushing from the main; while, prompt to save, Stood Jove, the prophet of the signs he gave! Yet, when he thus revealed the will of fate, And watched attentive o'er the Latian state, His shrine, his statue, rose of humble mould, Of artless form, and unprofaned with gold.

Those good old times no foreign tables sought; From their own woods the walnut-tree was brought, When withering limbs declared its pith unsound, Or winds uptore and stretched it on the ground, But now, such strange caprice has seized the great, They find no pleasure in the costliest treat, Suspect the flowers a sickly scent exhale, And think the ven'son rank, the turbot stale, Unless wide-yawning panthers, towering high— Enormous pedestals of ivory, Formed of the teeth which Elephantis sends, Which the dark Moor, or darker Indian, vends, Or those which, now, too heavy for the head, The beasts in Nabathea's forest shed—

The spacious orbs support: then they can feed, And every dish is delicate indeed! For silver feet are viewed with equal scorn, As iron rings upon the finger worn.

To me, for ever be the guest unknown, Who, measuring my expenses by his own, Remarks the difference with a scornful leer, And slights my humble house and homely cheer. Look not to me for ivory; I have none: My chess-board and my men are all of bone; Nay, my knife-handles; yet, my friend, for this, My pullets neither cut nor taste amiss.

I boast no artist, tutored in the school Of learned Trypherus, to carve by rule; Where large sow-paps of elm, and boar, and hare, And phœnicopter, and pygargus rare, Getulian oryx, Scythian pheasants, point The nice anatomy of every joint; And dull blunt tools, severing the wooden treat, Clatter around, and deafen all the street. My simple lad, whose highest efforts rise To broil a steak in the plain country guise, Knows no such art; humbly content to serve, And bring the dishes which he cannot kerve. Another lad (for I have two to-day), Clad, like the first, in homespun russet grey, Shall fill our earthen bowls: no Phrygian he, No pampered attribute of luxury, But a rude rustic:—when you want him, speak, And speak in Latin, for he knows not Greek.

Both go alike, with close-cropt hair, undrest, But spruced to-day in honour of my guest; And both were born on my estate, and one Is my rough shepherd's, one my neatherd's son. Poor youth! he mourns, with many an artless tear, His long, long absence from his mother dear; Sighs for his little cottage, and would fain Meet his old playfellows, the goats, again. Though humble be his birth, ingenuous grace Beams from his eye, and flushes in his face; Charming suffusion! that would well become The youthful offspring of the chiefs of Rome.— He, Persicus, shall fill us wine which grew Where first the breath of life the stripling drew, On Tibur's hills;—dear hills, that many a day Witnessed the transports of his infant play.

But you, perhaps, expect a wanton throng Of Gaditanian girls, with dance and song, To kindle loose desire; girls, that now bound Aloft with active grace, now, on the ground, Quivering, alight, while peals of praise go round.

My feast, to-day, shall other joys afford: Hushed as we sit around the frugal board, Great Homer shall his deep-toned thunder roll, And mighty Maro elevate the soul; Maro, who, warmed with all the poet's fire, Disputes the palm of victory with his sire: Nor fear my rustic clerks; read as they will, The bard, the bard, shall rise superior still!

Come then, my friend, an hour to pleasure spare, And quit awhile your business and your care; The day is all our own: come, and forget

Bonds, interest, all; the credit and the debt; Nay, e'en your wife:

Yet, at my threshold, tranquillise your breast; There leave the thoughts of home, and what the haste Of heedless slaves may in your absence waste; And, what the generous spirit most offends, Oh, more than all, leave there, ungrateful Friends.

But see! the napkin, waved aloft, proclaims The glad commencement of th' Idæan games, And the proud prætor, in triumphal state, Ascends his car, the arbiter of fate! Ere this, all Rome (if 'tis, for once, allowed, To say all Rome, of so immense a crowd) The Circus throngs, and—Hark! loud shouts arise— From these I guess the Green has won the prize;

For had it lost, all joy had been supprest, And grief and horror seized the public breast; As when dire Carthage forced our arms to yield, And poured our noblest blood on Cannæ's field. Thither let youth, whom it befits, repair, And seat themselves beside some favourite fair, Wrangle, and urge the desperate bet aloud; While we, retired from business and the crowd, Stretch our shrunk limbs by sunny bank or stream, And drink at every pore the vernal beam. Haste, then: for we may use our freedom now, And bathe, an hour ere noon, with fearless brow— Indulge for once:—Yet such delights as these, Tn five short morns, would lose the power to please; For still, the sweetest pleasures soonest cloy, And its best flavour temperance gives to joy. >>—Sat. xi. 56, sqq.

Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.

SATIRES AND SATIRISTS.

"The true end of satire," says Dryden, "is the amendment of vices by correction." This definition of satire is no doubt too narrow, and by taking up too lofty a stand-point would altogether exclude those writings whose highest aim it is to "shoot folly as it flies," seeking less to expose the crimes or to reform the manners of the age, than to provide amusement for the idle reader, and, while so doing, endeavouring to set up a standard of taste and criticism to be developed by instances of failure where such failure can but provoke a smile, and by more or less cynical epigrams on the gaucheries of our less cultivated neighbours. Nevertheless, the words which we have just quoted, considered from another point of view, draw an excellent distinction between true satire and that spurious branch of satirical writing whose object it is rather to gratify personal pique or lust for revenge by the ridicule or defamation of a private enemy, than to check public foibles by wit and sarcasm. Addison points out with admirable clearness the contrast be- tween the true satirist and the mere writer of lampoons, while explaining the difference between the mode of criticism which he intended to pursue in the 'Spectator,' and that which was only too prevalent among authors of every rank in his time. "If I attack the vicious, I shall only set upon them in a body, and will not be provoked by the worst usage I can receive from others to make an example of any particular criminal. It is not Lais or Silenus but the harlot or the drunkard whom I shall endeavour to expose, and shall consider the crime as it appears in the species, not as it is circumstanced in the individual." In these words we may discover a test that shall enable us to distinguish between the mere scurrilous productions of Grub Street and writings animated by the true fire of genius. The difference is obvious. Yet we frequently find that the satirist is confounded in popular esteem with the common libeller; many people, even among those whose culture might lead one to expect from them a more liberal judgment, being apparently unable to discriminate between the malice of the literary vitriol-thrower and the sarcasm of the poet who seeks to strike a good blow in the war of virtue against vice, of wit against folly, without the slightest wish to hurt the self-esteem or wound the vanity even of those whose many failings lay then most open to the shafts of ridicule. If we were asked what is in our opinion the most distinctive mark by which satire may be separated from lampoon, we should point to the strain of good-natured pleasantry that is never long absent from the best satire—a quality that, by enabling a man to assume a position of superiority similar to that which the physician is enabled to hold towards his patient, gives the satirist an immense advantage over his less even-tempered antagonist, and, whether in attack or defence, may be counted one of the most effective weapons in his armoury. Such an one, by preserving a certain impartiality and frankness in his opinions and conversation, is able far more readily to command the respect and attention of his hearers. In illustration of this we may repeat the old anecdote told by Steele of a humorous fellow at Oxford. When he heard that any one had spoken ill of him, he used to say, "I will not take my revenge of him till I have forgiven him." What he meant was this: that he would not enter the lists until his temper was so thoroughly under his control that there would be no danger of his laying himself open to repartee, by allowing his anger to outrun his judgment. Dryden himself was fully aware of the necessity of keeping all violence in check, and of subjecting all outbursts of pique and animosity to the strictest rule of moderation and good taste. True, he did not always act upon this rule, and sometimes he seems to think that savage undiscriminating invective is the highest aim of the satirist. It is not, however, in such passages that he has been counted most successful, but rather in those in which, with the greatest delicacy of touch, he mocks at the ridiculous pretensions of vanity, or rallies the eccentricities of genius. One of the most exquisite examples of this method is the character of Buckingham in his "Absalom and Achitophel." Dryden himself, in his "Discourse on Satire," selected this as one of the brightest gems of his poems; and he there supports his judgment by the following arguments:—"The character of Zimri, in my Absalom, is, in my opinion, worth the whole poem; it is not bloody, but it is ridiculous enough; and he for whom it was intended was too witty to resent it as an injury. If I had railed, I might have suffered for it justly; but I managed my own work more happily, perhaps more dexterously. I avoided the mention of great crimes, and applied myself to the representing of blind sides and little extravagances, to which, the wittier a man is, he is generally the more obnoxious." We can only regret that Dryden, as well as many other satirists, both ancient and modern, did not more faithfully adhere to the excellent maxims which he here inculcates. It is a failure in this respect that has doomed so much of the satire of the contemporaries of Juvenal, no less than of those of Dryden, to the oblivion it so well deserved. Epigram and sarcasm, however witty, if guided by mere personal spite or party feeling, must of necessity lose their interest when the object against whom they were directed has perished.

It would of course be wholly unfair to reproach any writer who lived in the time of the Roman Empire for not reaching the standard of unprejudiced and goodnatured criticism that is to-day aimed at by the satirist of men and manners—a style with which we are all well acquainted in the writings of Thackeray, an author who, of all others, acted up to his own dictum, that "if fun is good, truth is better, and love is best of all." Other times, they say, other manners. The society of Rome under Domitian was not one to be curbed by a silken thread, and the thicker-skinned Romans could hear without flinching attacks on their lives and conduct that would be unendurable to a man living in these later days. Nor should we forget that in ancient Italy life was very much more public than it is under our own customs, and that thus much which we should now consider an unpardonable breach of confidence and of good manners would hardly be open to objection where every man lived constantly under the eyes of his neighbour, and the privacy necessitated by modern ideas of self-respect and decorum was quite unknown. Juvenal was thus by no means under the same obligation as would now be universally acknowledged and enforced among ourselves, to abstain from criticising the vulgar display that offended him at the dinner-table of Vino, or the unwieldy gait of Matho; the gluttony of Crispinus, or the prosaic epics of Codrus. Where the whole body of citizens divided their day between the bath, the forum, and the circus, the poet could not tear away the curtain that protects family life from the vulgar gaze, for the simple reason, that what we now mean when we speak of family life had really no existence.