CHAPTER IV.

BIOGRAPHY OF LUCAN—INSCRIPTION TO HIS MEMORY—SENTIMENTS EXPRESSED IN THE PHARSALIA—LUCAN AN UNEQUAL POET—FAULTS AND MERITS OF THE PHARSALIA—CHARACTERISTICS OF HIS AGE—DIFFICULTIES OF HISTORICAL POETRY—LUCAN A DESCRIPTIVE POET—SPECIMENS OF HIS POETRY—BIOGRAPHY OF SILIUS ITALICUS—HIS CHARACTER BY PLINY—HIS POEM DULL AND TEDIOUS—HIS DESCRIPTION OF THE ALPS.

M. ANNÆUS LUCANUS (BORN A. D. 39.)

At the head of the epic poets who flourished during the silver age stands Lucan. He was a member of the same family as the Senecas, for the same rhetorician of that name was his grandfather, and the Stoic philosopher his uncle. Another of his uncles, also, L. Junius Gallio, is mentioned in the Eusebian Chronicle as a celebrated rhetorician. This Gallio derived his surname from being the adopted son of Jun. Gallio, who, by some, is supposed to have been the proconsul of Achaia, mentioned in the Acts of the Apostles.[1097]

The father of Lucan, M. Annæus Mela, was a Roman knight, who made a large fortune as a collector of the imperial revenue. He is supposed by some to have been identical with the geographer Pomponius Mela, who was the author of a brief description, in three books, of the coasts of Europe, Asia, and Africa. The style of this writer is concise, as is suitable to a mere sketch or abridgment; and his matter, although derived from other sources, and not from personal observation, is accurate and interesting. The poet was born at Corduba (Cordova,) on the beautiful banks of the Bætis (Guadalquiver.) His birthplace is thus elegantly alluded to by Statius, in a poem addressed to his widow, on the anniversary of his birth:—

Vatis Apollinei magno memorabilis ortu Lux redit, Aonidum turba favete sacris. Hæc meruit, cum te terris Lucane dedisset Mixtus Castaliæ Bætis ut esset aquæ. _Stat. Genethl._

Pliny tells us that on his infant lips, as on those of Hesiod, a swarm of bees settled, and thus gave presage of his poetical career; a tale which owes its origin entirely to the Greek tradition. Much which rests upon no foundation has been mixed up with the extant lives of Lucan; for example, the favour shown to him, whilst a child, by Nero; his consequent elevation in his boyhood to the rank of a senator; and his defeat of the emperor in a poetical contest at the quinquennial games, instituted by the latter, in which no one entered with any other view than that their royal antagonist might have the credit of a mock victory.[1098] The enmity of the jealous emperor can be accounted for without having recourse to so insane a competition.

It is probable that Lucan was very young when he came to Rome; that his literary reputation was soon established; and that Nero, who could not bear the idea of a rival, forbade him to recite his poems, which was now the common mode of publication. Nor was he content with silencing him as a poet, but also would not allow him to plead as an advocate.[1099] Smarting under this provocation he hastily joined a conspiracy against the emperor’s life, and signalized himself by the bitterness of his hatred against his powerful enemy. The ringleader of this plot was Piso,[1100] a tragic poet of some talent, a skilful orator, and a munificent man. But he was deficient in decision and infirm of purpose: the plot therefore failed. When Lucan’s passion cooled he as quickly repented, and was pardoned on condition of pointing out his confederates. In the vain hope of saving himself from the monster’s vengeance, he actually impeached his mother. The upright historian contrasts this stain on the poet’s character with the courage which Epicharis displayed. This noble woman was incapable of treason. Tacitus describes the resolution with which she scorned the question.[1101] “The scourge, the flames, the rage of the executioners, who tortured her the more savagely, lest they should be scorned by a woman, were powerless to extort a false confession.” Lucan never received the reward which he purchased by treachery. The warrant for his death was issued, and he caused his veins to be cut asunder. As the stream of his life’s blood flowed away, he repeated from his own poem the description of a soldier expiring from his wounds.[1102] He died in the twenty-seventh year of his age; and the following inscription to his memory has been attributed to Nero:—

M. Annæo Lucano Cordubensi Poetæ Beneficio Neronis. Fama servata.

The sentiments contained in the Pharsalia, so far as he dared express them, breathe a love of freedom, and an attachment to the old Roman republicanism. Although the imperial patronage which he at first enjoyed, and, perhaps, the better promise of the commencement of Nero’s reign, tempted him to indulge in courtly flattery; still, even at that time, his praises of liberty evidently came from the heart. As the poem proceeds his sentiments become more exalted; his virtuous indignation gradually rises, until it pours forth a torrent of burning satire on the inhuman tyrant. This poem, the only one of his works which survives, is an epic in ten books; its subject, the civil war between Cæsar and Pompey. It bears evident marks of having been left unfinished, and of not having received the last touches from the hand of the author. It was preceded by four other shorter poems—the first on the Death of Hector; the second on the Visit of Orpheus to the Infernal Regions; the third, on the Burning of Rome; the fourth addressed to his wife Polla Argentaria. He also wrote some prose works; and Martial attributes to him some poems on lighter subjects.[1103]

Lucan is an unequal poet: his Pharsalia is defaced with great faults and blemishes; but at the same time it possesses peculiar beauties. Its subject is a noble one and full of historic interest, and is treated with spirit, brilliance, and animation. Its arrangement is that of annals, and therefore it wants the unity of an epic poem: it has not the connectedness of history, because the poet naturally selected only the most striking and romantic incidents; and yet, notwithstanding these defects in the plan, the historical pictures themselves are beautifully drawn. The characters of Cæsar and Pompey, for example, are master-pieces. Again, some passages have neither the dignity of prose nor the melody of poetry; whilst others are scarcely inferior to any written by the best Latin poets. This inequality has caused the great diversity of opinions which have been held by critics respecting the merits of Lucan. Some have unjustly depreciated him; others, as groundlessly, have lauded him to the skies. Quintilian commended his ardent enthusiasm and lucidity of expression,[1104] but qualified his praise by adding, that he would be admired by orators rather than by poets. Corneille preferred him to Virgil, of whom he was obviously a warm admirer. His poem furnishes materials and reason for this diversity of judgment; but it may safely be asserted that his faults are due to the age in which he lived, whilst his beauties were the fruits and developments of his own native genius. His principal merit is originality: although he was not great enough to lead the taste of the age, and to rise superior to its false principles, he did not condescend to be a servile imitator even of those poets whose reputation was firmly established. There are many parallelisms between his poetry and that of Virgil, but they are the parallelisms of a student, not of a plagiarist.

Without adopting the unauthorized assumptions, found in some of his biographies, that he was educated under the immediate superintendence of his uncle Seneca, that Remmius Palæmon taught him grammar, Virginius Flaccus rhetoric, and Cornutus philosophy, it is clear that his taste was formed and his talents drawn out in an age, the characteristics of which were pedantic erudition, inflated rhetoric, and dogmatic philosophy. It is clear, also, that even though Seneca was not his tutor, still the conceit and affectation which dimmed the transcendent abilities of the philosopher, exercised a baneful influence over the literary taste of his contemporaries. In the midst of these influences Lucan was educated, and for that reason his poem is disfigured by commonplace maxims, pompous diction, an affectation of learning, a rhetorical exuberance which outstripped its subjects, and therefore produces the effect of frigidity. In a poem, the characters and events of which are historical, the real is in too strong contrast to the ideal, hence the effect of both is marred. The fidelity expected of the historian circumscribes the creative power of the poet. To the poet who constructs his work out of the materials of epochs which are beyond the reach of history, the whole field of the past is open. The only limits within which he must restrain his genius are those of the probable: within these bounds he may conjure up the most magnificent ideal forms; he may use the most gorgeous imagery, the most supernatural machinery: the whole wears an air of historic truth; as there are no realities with which his ideal can be compared and tested, truth never appears to be violated.

But in history, almost contemporaneous with the age of the poet, every circumstance is recorded, every character well known and estimated. If an act of bravery is exaggerated into one of superhuman heroism, or one who is known to have been a man, although a great man, recast in the heroic mould, we are struck at once with the falsehood: and therefore the poet cannot venture on such efforts of genius. In a train of events, which the page of history enables us to trace from the beginning to the end, no difficulties can occur deserving of supernatural machinery, no _dignus vindice nodus_; and thus, in the place of the Olympian Pantheon of Homer and Virgil, Lucan can only deify the popular but unpoetical principle of chance, and personify Fortune.

This position may appear inconsistent with the charm which confessedly belongs to the modern historical romance; but then it is to be remembered, that the interest we take in the historical portions is purely historical, enlivened by the events grouping themselves round the hero: in fact, the interest of biography is united with that of history. The strictest accuracy, therefore, in matters which fall within the range of history is perfectly compatible. The romantic interest depends on the inner or social life of the characters—which forms no part of history—in which, as there is no standard of comparison, the imagination of the poet is quite free and unfettered. But this is totally different from the plan on which such a poem as the Pharsalia is constructed. The vision of the genius of Rome which appeared to Cæsar at the fatal Rubicon, those which haunt the slumbers of the Cæsareans in the plundered camp of Pompey, and the dream of Pompey, in which the secrets of the infernal regions are laid open by the shade of his departed wife Julia, are the nearest approaches to that invisible world which the imagination of Homer disclosed, and which Virgil reproduced;[1105] but these are only isolated passages.

It is impossible to be at once an historian and a poet: in the one character the author must restrain the flights of his imagination; in the other, he must sacrifice truth. Nor is there any doubt of which character we demand the conservation, when matters of history are concerned. We desiderate truth: we wish moot points to be settled and doubts solved. All imaginative pictures we look upon as interruptions, and cast them aside as warping the judgment and giving prejudiced views. Hence, our admiration of Lucan is called forth, not by considering his poem as an epic, but for the sake of isolated scenes, such as the naval victory off Marseilles; splendid descriptions, such as that of the cruelties of Marius and Sulla; felicitous comparisons, that, for example, of Pompey to an aged oak; and the epigrammatic terseness which gives force, as well as beauty, to his sayings. In a single line, for instance—

Pauperiorque fuit tunc primum Cæsare Roma—

he describes the wealth and avarice of the conqueror, and in the well-known verse—

Victrix causa Diis placuit sed victa Catoni—

he depicts the disinterestedness of Cato. To this may be added, that the subject of the Pharsalia is, although a period of the deepest historical interest, ill adapted to poetry. Events so nearly contemporary were fitter for history and panegyric than for poetry; and although they give scope for descriptive power and bold imagery, they are deficient in that mysterious and romantic character which is required for an epic poem. His imagination was rich—his enthusiasm refused to be curbed. They were such as we might suppose would be nurtured by the warm and sunny climate of Spain. His sentiments often exhibit that chivalrous tone which distinguishes the Spanish poets of modern times. We may discern the nobleness, the liberality, the courage, which once marked the high-born Spanish gentleman; and the grave and thoughtful wisdom which makes Spanish literature so rich in proverbs, and which peeps out even from under the unreal conventionalisms of the contemporary Roman philosophy.

Description forms the principal feature in the poetry of Lucan; it occupies more than one half of the Pharsalia; so that it might almost as appropriately be termed a descriptive as an epic poem. Description, in fact, constitutes one of the characteristic features of Roman literature in its decline, because poetry had more than ever become an art, and the epoch one of erudition; and thus a treasure of imagery was stored up suitable for descriptive embellishment. The finest parts of Persius are descriptive: even Martial, brief though his pieces are, delights in it; and facility in this department is the strong point of Silius Italicus, and the sole merit of Valerius Flaccus. Owing to the enthusiasm with which Lucan throws himself into this kind of writing, he abounds in minute detail. He reminds one of the descriptive talent possessed in so eminent a degree by our own Thomson. Not a feature escapes his notice, whether it suggest ideas of the beautiful, the sublime, or the terrible. He is not content, as Virgil is, with a sketch—with broad lights and shadows; he delights in a finished picture; he possesses the power of placing his subject strongly before the eyes, leaving little or nothing for the imagination to supply. He omits no means of attaining descriptive truth;[1106] the inward state of feeling, the character of each passion, is presented, not so much in its moral and psychical as in its physical developments; that which is internal is exhibited in its external symptoms, with the hand of a painter and the skill of the physiognomist. Virgil sketches, Lucan paints; the latter describes physically—the former philosophically. The following passages, which describe the passage of the Rubicon and the death of Pompey, are noble specimens of Lucan’s style:—

Jam gelidas Cæsar cursu superaverat Alpes, Ingentesque animo motus, bellumque futurum Ceperat. Ut ventum est parvi Rubiconis ad undas, Ingens visa duci patriæ trepidantis imago, Clara per obscuram vultu mœstissima noctem Turrigero canos effundens vertice crines, Cæsarie lacera, nudisque adstare lacertis, Et gemitu permixta loqui! Quo tenditis ultra? Quo fertis mea signa, viri? Si jure venitis, Si cives, huc usque licet. Tunc perculit horror Membra ducis, riguere comæ, gressumque coercens Languor in extrema tenuit vestigia ripa.

* * * * *

Cæsar ut adversam superato gurgite ripam Attigit, Hesperiæ vetitis et constitit arvis, Hic, ait, hic, pacem, temerataque jura relinquo; Te, Fortuna, sequor; procul hinc jam fœdera sunto. Credidimus fatis, utendum est judice bello.

Now Cæsar, marching swift with winged haste, The summits of the frozen Alps had past; With vast events and enterprises fraught, And future wars revolving in his thought. Now near the banks of Rubicon he stood; When lo! as he surveyed the narrow flood, Amidst the dusky horrors of the night, A wondrous vision stood confessed to sight. Her awful head Rome’s reverend image reared, Trembling and sad the matron form appeared; A towering crown her hoary temples bound, And her torn tresses rudely hung around; Her naked arms uplifted ere she spoke, Then, groaning, thus the mournful silence broke: Presumptuous men! oh, whither do you run? Oh, whither bear you these my ensigns on? If friends to right, if citizens of Rome, Here to your utmost barrier are you come. She said; and sunk within the closing shade. Astonishment and dread the chief invade; Stiff rose his starting hair; he stood dismayed, And on the bank his slackening steps were stayed.

* * * * *

The leader now had passed the torrent o’er, And reached fair Italy’s forbidden shore; Then rearing on the hostile bank his head, Here farewell peace and injured laws! he said: Since faith is broke, and leagues are set aside, Henceforth thou, goddess Fortune, art my bride! Let fate and war the great event decide. _Rowe._

Jam venerat horæ Terminus extremæ, Phariamque ablatus in alnum Perdiderat jam jura sui. Tum stringere ferrum Regia monstra parant. Ut vidit cominus enses Involvit vultus; atque indignatus apertum Fortunæ præbere caput, tunc lumina pressit, Continuitque animam, ne quas effundere voces Posset et æternam fletu corrumpere famam. At postquam mucrone latus funestus Achillas Perfodit, nullo gemitu consensit ad ictum.

Now in the boat defenceless Pompey sat, Surrounded and abandoned to his fate. Nor long they hold him in their power aboard, E’en every villain drew his ruthless sword: The chief perceived their purpose soon, and spread His Roman gown, with patience, o’er his head; And when the cursed Achillas pierced his breast, His rising indignation close repressed. No signs, no groans, his dignity profaned, No tear his still unsullied glory stained. Unmoved and firm he fixed him on his seat, And died, as when he lived and conquered, great.

C. SILIUS ITALICUS.

C. Silius Italicus was born in the reign of Tiberius, A. D. 25. The place of his birth is unknown. His surname, Italicus, has led some to suppose that he was a native of Italica, in Spain. But it is not probable that, if this were the case, his friend and fellow-courtier Martial, when he compared his eloquence to that of Cicero, and his poetry to that of Virgil,[1107] called him the glory of the Castalian sisters,[1108] and felicitated him on his political honours, would have forgotten to claim him as a countryman. Others, with somewhat more show of reason, have imagined that his birthplace was the city of Corfinium, in Pelignia, which was called Italica,[1109] because it was the head-quarters of the confederates in the social war; whilst Stephens mentions a little town in Sicily, of the same name, which might have been his native place.[1110]

Silius was celebrated as an advocate; but in that age of affected and rhetorical display, a high reputation does not prove that his eloquence, although it might have displayed a similar elegance of language, was more lively and stirring than his poetry. He was consul A. D. 68; an office which was also filled by his son,[1111] and by another member of his family.[1112] He was afterwards proconsul of Asia; the duties of which lucrative office he appears to have performed with credit to himself. He was very wealthy; and, as he grew old, retired from the perils of public life to enjoy his affluence, and the retirement of literary ease in his numerous villas. One cannot be surprised that an orator and a poet especially delighted in the house of Virgil, near Naples, and the Academy of Cicero, of both which he was the fortunate possessor. He lived to the age of seventy-five, and then starved himself to death, because he could not bear the pain of disease. “I have just been informed,” writes Pliny the Younger, to his friend Caninius,[1113] “that Silius Italicus has put an end to his existence by starvation, at his Neapolitan villa. He had an incurable carbuncle, from the annoyance of which he took refuge in death, with a firm and irrevocable constancy. He enjoyed happiness and prosperity to his dying day, if we except the loss of the younger of his two sons; but the elder and superior one survived him in the enjoyment of prosperity, and even of consular rank. The belief that he had voluntarily come forward as a public accuser injured his reputation in the reign of Nero; but, as a friend of Vitellius, his conduct was wise and his behaviour courteous. His career in the proconsulate of Asia was an honourable one, for he washed out the stain of his former activity by a praiseworthy abstinence from public affairs. He had no influence with the great; but then he was safe from envy. All courted him, and were assiduous in paying their respects to him; and as ill health confined him to his bed, his chamber was thronged with visitors, beyond what might have been expected from his rank and station. Whenever he could spare time for writing, he passed it in learned conversation. His poems display elaborate care rather than genius: sometimes he invited criticism by recitations. Yielding to the suggestion of advancing years, he at length retired from Rome, and resided in Campania; nor had the accession of a new emperor (Trajan) power to entice him from his retirement. High praise to the monarch under whose rule he was free to act so!—high praise to him who had courage to use that freedom! His love of virtù caused in him a reprehensible passion for buying: he was the possessor of more than one villa in the same localities; and he so delighted in the newest purchase as to neglect that which he inhabited before. He had a vast collection of books, besides statues and busts, which he not only possessed, but almost worshipped. He kept Virgil’s birthday more religiously than his own, and had more busts of him than any one else, especially at Naples, where he was in the habit of visiting his tomb, as if it were a temple. In this tranquil retirement he exceeded his seventy-fifth year, his constitution being delicate rather than weakly. As he was the last consul made by Nero, so he died the last of those whom he had made. It is also worthy of remark that the consul, in whose year of office Nero died, died the last of Nero’s consuls. When I call this to mind, I feel compassion for human frailty: for what is so brief as the longest span of human life!”

Little interest attaches to the biography of one who owed a life of uninterrupted prosperity to his being the favourite and intimate of two emperors; the one, a blood-thirsty tyrant—the other, a gross sensualist.[1114] His ponderous work survives—the dullest and most tedious poem in the Latin language. Its title is “_Punica_:” it consists of seventeen books, and contains a history in heroic verse of the second Punic war. The Æneid of Virgil was his model, and the narrative of Livy furnished his materials. Niebuhr states that he read through the whole of his works with great care, and that he was quite convinced that he had taken every thing from Livy, of whose work his is only a paraphrase.[1115] The criticism of Pliny the Younger is, upon the whole, just: “_Scribebat carmina majori cura quam ingenio_;” for, although it is impossible to read his poem with pleasure as a whole, his versification is harmonious, and will often, in point of smoothness, bear comparison with that of Virgil. The following passage is quoted by C. Barthius as one of the most favourable specimens of his sentiments and style; and Cellarius, whose praise is extravagantly fulsome, gives it the epithet of “Aurea:”—

Ipsa quidem virtus sibimet pulcherrima merces; Dulce tamen venit ad manes quem gloria vitæ Durat apud superos, nec edunt oblivia laudem.

Some of his episodes, if considered as separate pieces, will repay the trouble of perusal; and the following passage, which Addison thought worthy of translation, may be taken as a fair specimen of his descriptive powers:—

THE ALPS.

Cuncta gelu canâque æternum grandine tecta, Atque ævi glaciem cohibent: riget ardua montis Ætherii facies, surgentique obvia Phœbo Duratas nescit flammis mollire pruinas. Quantum Tartareus regni pallentis hiatus Ad manes imos atque atræ stagna paludis A supera tellure patet; tam longa per auras Erigitur tellus et cœlum intercipit umbrà. Nullum ver usquam, nullique æstatis honores; Sola jugis habitat diris sedesque tuetur Perpetuas deformis hyems: illa undique nubes Huc atras agit et mixtos cum grandine nimbos. Nam cuncti flatus ventique furentia regna Alpinâ posuere domo caligat in altis Obtutus saxis, abeuntque in nubila montes.

Stiff with eternal ice, and hid in snow, That fell a thousand centuries ago, The mountain stands; nor can the rising sun Unfix her frosts and teach them how to run: Deep as the dark infernal waters lie From the bright regions of the cheerful sky, So far the proud ascending rocks invade Heaven’s upper realms, and cast a dreadful shade. No spring, no summer, on the mountain seen, Smiles with gay fruits or with delightful green, But hoary winter, unadorned and bare, Dwells in the dire retreat and freezes there, There she assembles all her blackest storms, And the rude hail or rattling tempests forms; Thither the loud tumultuous winds resort, And on the mountain keep their boisterous court, That in thick showers her rocky summit shrouds, And darkens all the broken view with clouds. _Addison._