Part 3 (1/2)
T_hy wiser heir will soon drain to their lees_ T_he casks now kept beneath a hundred keys_; T_he proud old Caecuban will stain the floor_, M_ore fit at pontiffs' solemn feasts to pour_.
Nor is there a beyond filled with brightness for the victim of fate to look to. Orcus is unpitying. Mercury's flock of souls is of sable hue, and Proserpina's realm is the hue of the dusk. Black Care clings to poor souls even beyond the grave. Dull and persistent, it is the only substantial feature of the insubstantial world of shades. Sappho still sighs there for love of her maiden companions, the plectrum of Alcaeus sounds its chords only to songs of earthly hards.h.i.+ps by land and sea, Prometheus and Tantalus find no surcease from the pangs of torture, Sisyphus ever rolls the returning stone, and the Danaids fill the ever-emptying jars.
_ii_. THE PLEASURES OF THIS WORLD
The picture is dark with shadow, and must be relieved with light and color. The hasty conclusion should not be drawn that this is the philosophy of gloom. The tone of Horace is neither that of the cheerless skeptic nor that of the despairing pessimist. He does not rise from his contemplation with the words or the feeling of Lucretius:
O miserable minds of men, O blind hearts! In what obscurity and in what dangers is pa.s.sed this uncertain little existence of yours!
He would have agreed with the philosophy of pessimism that life contains striving and pain, but he would not have shared in the gloom of a Schopenhauer, who in all will sees action, in all action want, in all want pain, who looks upon pain as the essential condition of will, and sees no end of suffering except in the surrender of the will to live.
The vanity of human wishes is no secret to Horace, but life is not to him ”a soap-bubble which we blow out as long and as large as possible, though each of us knows perfectly well it must sooner or later burst.”
No, life may have its inevitable pains and its inevitable end, but it is far more substantial in composition than a bubble. For those who possess the secret of detecting and enjoying them, it contains solid goods in abundance.
What is the secret?
The first step toward enjoyment of the human lot is acquiescence. Of course existence has its evils and bitter end, but these are minimized for the man who frankly faces them, and recognizes the futility of struggling against the fact. How much better to endure whatever our lot shall impose. Quintilius is dead: it is hard; but patience makes lighter the ill that fate will not suffer us to correct.
And then, when we have once yielded, and have ceased to look upon perfect happiness as a possibility, or upon any measure of happiness as a right to be demanded, we are in position to take the second step; namely, to make wise use of life's advantages:
M_id all thy hopes and all thy cares, mid all thy wraths and fears_, T_hink every s.h.i.+ning day that dawns the period to thy years_.
T_he hour that comes unlooked for is the hour that doubly cheers_.
Because there are many things to make life a pleasure. There is the solace of literature; Black Care is lessened by song. There are the riches of philosophy, there is the diversion of moving among men. There are the delights of the country and the town. Above all, there are friends with whom to share the joy of mere living in Italy. For what purpose, if not to enjoy, are the rose, the pine, and the poplar, the gus.h.i.+ng fountain, the generous wine of Formian hill and Ma.s.sic slope, the villa by the Tiber, the peaceful and healthful seclusion of the Sabines, the pleasing change from the sharp winter to the soft zephyrs of spring, the apple-bearing autumn,--”season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”? What need to be unhappy in the midst of such a world?
And the man who is wise will not only recognize the abounding possibilities about him, but will seize upon them before they vanish.
Who knows whether the G.o.ds above will add a tomorrow to the to-day? Be glad, and lay hand upon the gifts of the pa.s.sing hour! Take advantage of the day, and have no silly faith in the morrow. It is as if Omar were translating Horace:
”W_aste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit_ 0_f This and That endeavor and dispute;_ B_etter be jocund with the fruitful Grape_ T_han sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit._
”A_h! fill the Cup: what boots it to repeat_ H_ow Time is slipping underneath our Feet:_ U_nborn tomorrow, and dead yesterday,_ W_hy fret about them if today be sweet!”_
The goods of existence must be enjoyed here and now, or never, for all must be left behind. What once is enjoyed is forever our very own. Happy is the man who can say, at each day's close, ”I have lived!” The day is his, and cannot be recalled. Let Jove overcast with black cloud the heavens of to-morrow, or let him make it bright with clear suns.h.i.+ne,--as he pleases; what the flying hour of to-day has already given us he never can revoke. Life is a stream, now gliding peacefully onward in mid-channel to the Tuscan sea, now tumbling upon its swirling bosom the wreckage of flood and storm. The pitiful human being on its banks, ever looking with greedy expectation up the stream, or with vain regret at what is past, is left at last with nothing at all. The part of wisdom and of happiness is to keep eyes on that part of the stream directly before us, the only part which is ever really seen.
Y_ou see how, deep with gleaming snow,_ S_oracte stands, and, bending low,_ Y_on branches droop beneath their burden,_ A_nd streams o'erfrozen have ceased their flow._
A_way with cold! the hearth pile high_ W_ith blazing logs; the goblet ply_ W_ith cheering Sabine, Thaliarchus;_ D_raw from the cask of long years gone by._
A_ll else the G.o.ds entrust to keep,_ W_hose nod can lull the winds to sleep,_ V_exing the ash and cypress aged,_ O_r battling over the boiling deep._
S_eek not to pierce the morrow's haze,_ B_ut for the moment render praise;_ N_or spurn the dance, nor love's sweet pa.s.sion,_ E_re age draws on with its joyless days._
N_ow should the campus be your joy,_ A_nd whispered loves your lips employ,_ W_hat time the twilight shadows gather,_ A_nd tryst you keep with the maiden coy._
F_rom near-by nook her laugh makes plain_ W_here she had meant to hide, in vain!_ H_ow arch her struggles o'er the token_ F_rom yielding which she can scarce refrain!_
_iii_. LIFE AND MORALITY