Chapter 6
This is the character that Seneca gives of this hyperbolical fop, whom we stand amazed at, and yet there are very few men who are not, in some things, and to some degree, grandios. Is anything more common than to see our ladies of quality wear such high shoes as they cannot walk in without one to lead them? and a gown as long again as their body, so that they cannot stir to the next room without a page or two to hold it up? I may safely say that all the ostentation of our grandees is just like a train, of no use in the world, but horribly cumbersome and incommodious. What is all this but spice of _grandio_? How tedious would this be if we were always bound to it? I do believe there is no king who would not rather be deposed than endure every day of his reign all the ceremonies of his coronation. The mightiest princes are glad to fly often from these majestic pleasures (which is, methinks, no small disparagement to them), as it were for refuge, to the most contemptible divertisements and meanest recreations of the vulgar, nay, even of children. One of the most powerful and fortunate princes of the world of late, could find out no delight so satisfactory as the keeping of little singing birds, and hearing of them and whistling to them. What did the emperors of the whole world? If ever any men had the free and full enjoyment of all human greatness (nay, that would not suffice, for they would be gods too) they certainly possessed it; and yet one of them, who styled himself “Lord and God of the Earth,” could not tell how to pass his whole day pleasantly, without spending constant two or three hours in catching of flies, and killing them with a bodkin, as if his godship had been Beelzebub. One of his predecessors, Nero (who never put any bounds, nor met with any stop to his appetite), could divert himself with no pastime more agreeable than to run about the streets all night in a disguise, and abuse the women and affront the men whom he met, and sometimes to beat them, and sometimes to be beaten by them. This was one of his imperial nocturnal pleasures; his chiefest in the day was to sing and play upon a fiddle, in the habit of a minstrel, upon the public stage; he was prouder of the garlands that were given to his divine voice (as they called it then) in those kind of prizes, than all his forefathers were of their triumphs over nations. He did not at his death complain that so mighty an emperor, and the last of all the Cæsarian race of deities, should be brought to so shameful and miserable an end, but only cried out, “Alas! what pity it is that so excellent a musician should perish in this manner!” His uncle Claudius spent half his time at playing at dice; that was the main fruit of his sovereignty. I omit the madnesses of Caligula’s delights, and the execrable sordidness of those of Tiberius. Would one think that Augustus himself, the highest and most fortunate of mankind, a person endowed too with many excellent parts of nature, should be so hard put to it sometimes for want of recreations, as to be found playing at nuts and bounding-stones with little Syrian and Moorish boys, whose company he took delight in, for their prating and their wantonness?
Was it for this, that Rome’s best blood he spilt, With so much falsehood, so much guilt? Was it for this that his ambition strove To equal Cæsar first, and after Jove? Greatness is barren sure of solid joys; Her merchandise, I fear, is all in toys; She could not else sure so uncivil be, To treat his universal majesty, His new created Deity, With nuts and bounding-stones and boys.
But we must excuse her for this meagre entertainment; she has not really wherewithal to make such feasts as we imagine; her guests must be contented sometimes with but slender cates, and with the same cold meats served over and over again, even till they become nauseous. When you have pared away all the vanity, what solid and natural contentment does there remain which may not be had with five hundred pounds a year? not so many servants or horses, but a few good ones, which will do all the business as well; not so many choice dishes at every meal; but at several meals all of them, which makes them both the more healthy and dine more pleasant; not so rich garments nor so frequent changes, but as warm and as comely, and so frequent change, too, as is every jot as good for the master, though not for the tailor or valet-de-chambre; not such a stately palace, nor gilt rooms, nor the costlier sorts of tapestry, but a convenient brick house, with decent wainscot and pretty forest-work hangings. Lastly (for I omit all other particulars, and will end with that which I love most in both conditions), not whole woods cut in walks, nor vast parks, nor fountain or cascade gardens, but herb and flower and fruit gardens, which are more useful, and the water every whit as clear and wholesome as if it darted from the breasts of a marble nymph or the urn of a river-god. If for all this you like better the substance of that former estate of life, do but consider the inseparable accidents of both: servitude, disquiet, danger, and most commonly guilt, inherent in the one; in the other, liberty, tranquillity, security, and innocence: and when you have thought upon this, you will confess that to be a truth which appeared to you before but a ridiculous paradox, that a low fortune is better guarded and attended than a high one. If indeed, we look only upon the flourishing head of the tree, it appears a most beautiful object.
—_Sed quantum vertice ad auras_ _Ætherias_, _tantum radice ad Tartara tendit_.
As far up towards heaven the branches grow, So far the root sinks down to hell below.
Another horrible disgrace to greatness is, that it is for the most part in pitiful want and distress. What a wonderful thing is this, unless it degenerate into avarice, and so cease to be greatness. It falls perpetually into such necessities as drive it into all the meanest and most sordid ways of borrowing, cozenage, and robbery, _Mancipiis locopules_, _eget aris Cappadocum Rex_. This is the case of almost all great men, as well as of the poor King of Cappadocia. They abound with slaves, but are indigent of money. The ancient Roman emperors, who had the riches of the whole world for their revenue, had wherewithal to live, one would have thought, pretty well at ease, and to have been exempt from the pressures of extreme poverty. But yet with most of them it was much otherwise, and they fell perpetually into such miserable penury, that they were forced to devour or squeeze most of their friends and servants, to cheat with infamous projects, to ransack and pillage all their provinces. This fashion of imperial grandeur is imitated by all inferior and subordinate sorts of it, as if it were a point of honour. They must be cheated of a third part of their estates, two other thirds they must expend in vanity, so that they remain debtors for all the necessary provisions of life, and have no way to satisfy those debts but out of the succours and supplies of rapine; “as riches increase,” says Solomon, “so do the mouths that devour it.” The master mouth has no more than before; the owner, methinks, is like Genus in the fable, who is perpetually winding a rope of hay and an ass at the end perpetually eating it. Out of these inconveniences arises naturally one more, which is, that no greatness can be satisfied or contented with itself: still, if it could mount up a little higher, it would be happy; if it could but gain that point, it would obtain all its desires; but yet at last, when it is got up to the very top of the peak of Teneriffe, it is in very great danger of breaking its neck downwards, but in no possibility of ascending upwards into the seat of tranquillity above the moon. The first ambitious men in the world, the old giants, are said to have made an heroical attempt of scaling Heaven in despite of the gods, and they cast Ossa upon Olympus and Pelion upon Ossa, two or three mountains more they thought would have done their business, but the thunder spoiled all the work when they were come up to the third storey;
And what a noble plot was crossed, And what a brave design was lost.
A famous person of their offspring, the late giant of our nation, when, from the condition of a very inconsiderable captain, he had made himself lieutenant-general of an army of little Titans, which was his first mountain; and afterwards general, which was his second; and after that absolute tyrant of three kingdoms, which was the third, and almost touched the heaven which he affected; is believed to have died with grief and discontent because he could not attain to the honest name of a king, and the old formality of a crown, though he had before exceeded the power by a wicked usurpation. If he could have compassed that, he would perhaps have wanted something else that is necessary to felicity, and pined away for the want of the title of an emperor or a god. The reason of this is, that greatness has no reality in nature, but is a creature of the fancy—a notion that consists only in relation and comparison. It is indeed an idol; but St. Paul teaches us that an idol is nothing in the world. There is in truth no rising or meridian of the sun, but only in respect to several places: there is no right or left, no upper hand in nature; everything is little and everything is great according as it is diversely compared. There may be perhaps some villages in Scotland or Ireland where I might be a great man; and in that case I should be like Cæsar—you would wonder how Cæsar and I should be like one another in anything—and choose rather to be the first man of the village than second at Rome. Our Country is called Great Britain, in regard only of a lesser of the same name; it would be but a ridiculous epithet for it when we consider it together with the kingdom of China. That, too, is but a pitiful rood of ground in comparison of the whole earth besides; and this whole globe of earth, which we account so immense a body, is but one point or atom in relation to those numberless worlds that are scattered up and down in the infinite space of the sky which we behold. The other many inconveniences of grandeur I have spoken of dispersedly in several chapters, and shall end this with an ode of Horace, not exactly copied but rudely imitated.
HORACE. LIB. 3. ODE 1.
_Odi profanum vulgus_, _etc._
I.
HENCE, ye profane; I hate ye all; Both the great vulgar, and the small. To virgin minds, which yet their native whiteness hold, Not yet discoloured with the love of gold (That jaundice of the soul, Which makes it look so gilded and so foul), To you, ye very few, these truths I tell; The muse inspires my song, hark, and observe it well.
II.
We look on men, and wonder at such odds ’Twixt things that were the same by birth; We look on kings as giants of the earth, These giants are but pigmies to the gods. The humblest bush and proudest oak Are but of equal proof against the thunder-stroke. Beauty and strength, and wit, and wealth, and power Have their short flourishing hour, And love to see themselves, and smile, And joy in their pre-eminence a while; Even so in the same land, Poor weeds, rich corn, gay flowers together stand; Alas, death mows down all with an impartial hand.
III.
And all you men, whom greatness does so please, Ye feast, I fear, like Damocles. If you your eyes could upwards move, (But you, I fear, think nothing is above) You would perceive by what a little thread The sword still hangs over your head. No tide of wine would drown your cares, No mirth or music over-noise your fears; The fear of death would you so watchful keep, As not to admit the image of it, sleep.
IV.
Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces; And yet so humble, too, as not to scorn The meanest country cottages; His poppy grows among the corn. The halcyon sleep will never build his nest In any stormy breast. ’Tis not enough that he does find Clouds and darkness in their mind; Darkness but half his work will do, ’Tis not enough; he must find quiet too.
V.
The man who, in all wishes he does make, Does only Nature’s counsel take, That wise and happy man will never fear The evil aspects of the year, Nor tremble, though two comets should appear. He does not look in almanacks to see, Whether he fortunate shall be; Let Mars and Saturn in the heavens conjoin, And what they please against the world design, So Jupiter within him shine.
VII.
If of their pleasures and desires no end be found; God to their cares and fears will set no bound. What would content you? Who can tell? Ye fear so much to lose what you have got As if ye liked it well. Ye strive for more, as if ye liked it not. Go, level hills, and fill up seas, Spare nought that may your wanton fancy please; But trust me, when you have done all this, Much will be missing still, and much will be amiss.
OF AVARICE.
THERE are two sorts of avarice; the one is but of a bastard kind; and that is, the rapacious appetite of gain, not for its own sake, but for the pleasure of refunding it immediately through all the channels of pride and luxury. The other is the true kind, and properly so called; which is a restless and unsatiable desire of riches, not for any further end of use, but only to hoard, and preserve, and perpetually increase them. The covetous man of the first kind is like a greedy ostrich, which devours any metal, but it is with an intent to feed upon it, and in effect it makes a shift to digest and excern it. The second is like the foolish chough, which loves to steal money only to hide it. The first does much harm to mankind, and a little good too, to some few. The second does good to none; no, not to himself. The first can make no excuse to God, or angels, or rational men for his actions. The second can give no reason or colour, not to the devil himself, for what he does: he is a slave to Mammon without wages. The first makes a shift to be beloved; aye, and envied, too, by some people. The second is the universal object of hatred and contempt. There is no vice has been so pelted with good sentences, and especially by the poets, who have pursued it with stories and fables, and allegories and allusions; and moved, as we say, every stone to fling at it, among all which, I do not remember a more fine and gentlemen-like correction than that which was given it by one line of Ovid’s.
_Desunt luxuriæ malta_, _avaritiæ omnia_.
Much is wanting to luxury; all to avarice
To which saying I have a mind to add one member and render it thus:—
Poverty wants some, luxury many, avarice all things.
Somebody says of a virtuous and wise man, that having nothing, he has all. This is just his antipode, who, having all things, yet has nothing. He is a guardian eunuch to his beloved gold: _Audivi eos amatores esse maximos sed nil potesse_. They are the fondest lovers, but impotent to enjoy.
And, oh, what man’s condition can be worse Than his, whom plenty starves, and blessings curse? The beggars but a common fate deplore, The rich poor man’s emphatically poor.
I wonder how it comes to pass that there has never been any law made against him. Against him, do I say? I mean for him, as there is a public provision made for all other madmen. It is very reasonable that the king should appoint some persons (and I think the courtiers would not be against this proposition) to manage his estate during his life (for his heirs commonly need not that care), and out of it to make it their business to see that he should not want alimony befitting his condition, which he could never get out of his own cruel fingers. We relieve idle vagrants and counterfeit beggars, but have no care at all of these really poor men, who are, methinks, to be respectfully treated in regard of their quality. I might be endless against them, but I am almost choked with the superabundance of the matter. Too much plenty impoverishes me as it does them. I will conclude this odious subject with part of Horace’s first Satire, which take in his own familiar style:—
I admire, Mæcenas, how it comes to pass, That no man ever yet contented was, Nor is, nor perhaps will be, with that state In which his own choice plants him, or his fate. Happy the merchant! the old soldier cries. The merchant, beaten with tempestuous skies Happy the soldier! one half-hour to thee Gives speedy death or glorious victory. The lawyer, knocked up early from his rest By restless clients, calls the peasant blest. The peasant, when his labours ill succeed, Envies the mouth which only talk does feed. ’Tis not, I think you’ll say, that I want store Of instances, if here I add no more, They are enough to reach at least a mile Beyond long Orator Fabius his style. But hold, you whom no fortune e’er endears, Gentlemen, malcontents, and mutineers, Who bounteous Jove so often cruel call, Behold, Jove’s now resolved to please you all. Thou, soldier, be a merchant; merchant, thou A soldier be; and lawyer to the plough. Change all your stations straight. Why do they stay? The devil a man will change now when he may. Were I in General Jove’s abusèd case, By Jove, I’d cudgel this rebellious race; But he’s too good; be all, then, as you were; However, make the best of what you are, And in that state be cheerful and rejoice, Which either was your fate or was your choice. No; they must labour yet, and sweat and toil, And very miserable be awhile. But ’tis with a design only to gain What may their age with plenteous ease maintain; The prudent pismire does this lesson teach, And industry to lazy mankind preach. The little drudge does trot about and sweat, Nor does he straight devour all he can get, But in his temperate mouth carries it home, A stock for winter which he knows must come. And when the rolling world to creatures here Turns up the deformed wrong side of the year, And shuts him in with storms and cold and wet, He cheerfully does his past labours eat. Oh, does he so? your wise example, the ant Does not at all times rest, and plenty want. But, weighing justly a mortal ant’s condition, Divides his life ’twixt labour and fruition. Thee neither heat, nor storms, nor wet, nor cold From thy unnatural diligence can withhold, To the Indies thou wouldst run rather than see Another, though a friend, richer than thee. Fond man! what good or beauty can be found In heaps of treasure buried under ground? Which, rather than diminished e’er to see, Thou wouldst thyself, too, buried with them be And what’s the difference is’t not quite as bad Never to use, as never to have had? In thy vast barns millions of quarters store, Thy belly, for all that, will hold no more Than mine does. Every baker makes much bread, What then? He’s with no more than others fed. Do you within the bounds of Nature live, And to augment your own you need not strive; One hundred acres will no less for you Your life’s whole business than ten thousand do. But pleasant ’tis to take from a great store; What, man? though you’re resolved to take no more Than I do from a small one; if your will Be but a pitcher or a pot to fill, To some great river for it must you go, When a clear spring just at your feet does flow? Give me the spring which does to human use, Safe, easy, and untroubled stores produce; He who scorns these, and needs will drink at Nile, Must run the danger of the crocodile; And of the rapid stream itself which may, At unawares bear him perhaps away. In a full flood Tantalus stands, his skin Washed o’er in vain, for ever dry within; He catches at the stream with greedy lips, From his touched mouth the wanton torment slips. You laugh now, and expand your careful brow: ’Tis finely said, but what’s all this to you? Change but the name, this fable is thy story, Thou in a flood of useless wealth dost glory, Which thou canst only touch, but never taste; The abundance still, and still the want does last. The treasures of the gods thou wouldst not spare, But when they’re made thine own, they sacred are, And must be kept with reverence; as if thou No other use of precious gold didst know But that of curious pictures to delight With the fair stamp thy virtuoso sight. The only true and genuine use is this, To buy the things which nature cannot miss Without discomfort, oil, and vital bread. And wine by which the life of life is fed, And all those few things else by which we live All that remains is given for thee to give. If cares and troubles, envy, grief, and fear, The bitter fruits be which fair riches bear, If a new poverty grow out of store, The old plain way, ye gods! let me be poor.
A PARAPHRASE ON AN ODE IN HORACE’S THIRD BOOK, BEGINNING THUS:—
“_Inclusam Danaen turris ahenea_.”
I.
A TOWER of brass, one would have said, And locks, and bolts, and iron bars, And guards as strict as in the heat of wars Might have preserved one innocent maidenhood. The jealous father thought he well might spare All further jealous care; And as he walked, to himself alone he smiled To think how Venus’ arts he had beguiled; And when he slept his rest was deep, But Venus laughed to see and hear him sleep. She taught the amorous Jove A magical receipt in love, Which armed him stronger and which helped him more Than all his thunder did and his almightyship before.
II.
She taught him love’s elixir, by which art His godhead into gold he did convert; No guards did then his passage stay, He passed with ease, gold was the word; Subtle as lightning, bright, and quick, and fierce, Gold through doors and walls did pierce; And as that works sometimes upon the sword, Melted the maiden dread away, Even in the secret scabbard where it lay. The prudent Macedonian king, To blow up towns, a golden mine did spring; He broke through gates with this petar, ’Tis the great art of peace, the engine ’tis of war, And fleets and armies follow it afar; The ensign ’tis at land, and ’tis the seaman’s scar.
III.
Let all the world slave to this tyrant be, Creature to this disguisèd deity, Yet it shall never conquer me. A guard of virtues will not let it pass, And wisdom is a tower of stronger brass. The muses’ laurel, round my temples spread, Does from this lightning’s force secure my head, Nor will I lift it up so high, As in the violent meteor’s way to lie. Wealth for its power do we honour and adore? The things we hate, ill fate, and death, have more.
IV.
From towns and courts, camps of the rich and great, The vast Xerxean army, I retreat, And to the small Laconic forces fly Which hold the straits of poverty. Cellars and granaries in vain we fill With all the bounteous summer’s store: If the mind thirst and hunger still, The poor rich man’s emphatically poor. Slaves to the things we too much prize, We masters grow of all that we despise.
V.