Horace, the Philosopher of Life

Grant Showerman

Horace the Philosopher of Life

The Classical Journal , Apr., 1911, Vol. 6, No. 7 (Apr., 1911),

I

A great source of the richness of personality which constitutes Horace's chief appeal lies in his contemplative disposition. His attitude toward the universal drama is that of the onlooker. He is not without vivid interests in the piece, as we shall see; but his principal mood is one of mild amusement. He has, in time past, assumed several of the roles himself, he has known personally a great many of the actors, and he is perfectly well aware that there is a great deal of the mask and buskin, and that each man in his time plays many parts. Experience has begotten reflection, and reflection has contributed to experience, until contemplation has passed from amusement to habit.

Except that his "meddling with any practical part in life" has not been so slight, Horace is another Spectator:

"Thus I live in the world rather as a Spectator of mankind than as one of the species, by which means I have made myself a speculative states- man, soldier, merchant, and artisan, without ever meddling with any practical part in life. I am very well versed in the theory of a husband, or a father, and can discern the errors in the economy, business, and diversion of others, better than those who are engaged in them: as standers-by discover blots which are apt to escape those who are in the game."

Joseph Addison - The Spectator (1 March 1711)

And Horace is not only a stander-by contemplating the game in which objective mankind is engaged; he is also a spectator of self. Horace the poet-philosopher contemplates Horace the man with the same quiet amusement with which he looks down the human society of which he is an inseparable yet detachable part. It is the universal aspect of Horace which is the object his contemplation - Horace playing a part together with the of mankind in the infinitely diverting comedie humaine. He himself for illustrative purposes, so to speak - to point the of the genuine; to demonstrate the indispensability of hard work as well as genius; to afford concrete proof of the possibility happiness without wealth. wealth. He is almost as objective to himself as the landscape of the Sabine farm.

The clear-cut elegance of his miniatures of Italian scenery is not due to their individual interest, but to their connection with the universal life of man. Description for its own sake is scarcely to be found in Horace; and in the same way, the vivid glimpses he affords of his own life, person, and character almost never prompt the thought of egotism. The most personal of poets, his expres- sion of self is nowhere selfish expression.

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II

What is it that Horace sees as he sits apart upon his philosophic hill retired, and what are his reflections ? The great factor in the personality of Horace is his philosophy of life; to define it is to give the meaning of the term "Horatian" as far as content is concerned, and to trace the thread which more than any other unifies his work. I Horace looks forth upon a world of discontented and restless humanity. The soldier, the lawyer, the farmer, the trader, swept over the earth in the passion for gain like dust in the whirlwind - choose any one you will - all are dissatisfied.

Some are dazzled by silver, others lose their senses over bronze; some are ever reaching after political prizes; many are insane with love; most are engaged in a mad race for money, whether to assure themselves of retirement and ease in old age, or out of mere desire to outstrip their rivals in the course.

And over and about all men, by reason of their bondage avarice, ambition, and passion, hovers Black Care: flitting their sleepless eyes in the paneled ceiling of the darkened palace, sitting behind them on the courser as they rush into battle, dogging them as they enjoy the pleasures of the bronze-trimmed yacht - pursuing them everywhere, swifter than the deer, swifter than wind that drives on the storm-cloud. Not even those who are most happy are wholly so, for perfect happiness is unattainable ; Tithonus wasted away in undying old age, Achilles had to perish in youth. Not even the richest are satisfied: there is always something lacking even in their abundance, and desire more than keeps pace with satisfaction.

Nor are the multitude less enslaved to their wants than the few: Glory drags bound to her glittering chariot wheels the nameless as well as the nobly born; the poor are as inconstant as the rich. And not only are all men the victims of insatiable desire, but all are subject to the uncertainties of fate. Insolent Fortune shakes her swift wings and leaves them; friends are faithless, once the cask is drained to the lees. Death, unexpected and unforeseen, lurks in ambush for them in a thousand places: some are swallowed up by the greedy sea; some the Furies give to destruction in the grim spectacle of war.

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2

And yet, let no one hasten to conclude that this is the philosophy of a pessimist.

The tone of Horace is neither that of the cheerless skeptic nor that of the despairing philosopher. He may agree with the pessimistic philosophy that life contains pain and striving, but he never shares in the gloom of a Schopenhauer, who in all will sees action, in all action want, in all want pain, who regards pain 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 to him no "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 end, but it is far more substantial in its composition than a soap-bubble. It contains solid goods in abundance for those who possess the secret of enjoying them. And what is the secret ? The first step toward enjoyment of the human lot is the general attitude of acquiescence.

Of course existence has its evils and its bitter end; but all are minimized for the man who faces them frankly, and recognizes the futility of struggling against the fact:

Durum: sed levius fit patientia

Quicquid corrigere est nefas!

"This is cruel: but endurance makes lighter

that which it is forbidden to improve !"

And, once a man yields, and ceases to look upon perfect happi- ness as a possibility, or upon any measure of happiness as a right to be demanded by him, he is in position to take the second step- to make wise use of the advantages of life.

For there are many things to make life pleasant. There the solace of literature and song - there are the riches of philosophy, the diversion of moving among men, the delights of the country and the city, and, above all, there are friends with whom to share all the physical joy of mere living in Italy. For what purpose the rose, the pine, and the poplar, the gushing fountain, the generous wine of Formian hill and Massic 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, pomifer autumnus - Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness - if not to enjoy ? What need to be unhappy in the midst of such a world ?

And not only will the wise man recognize the abounding possibilities about him, but will seize upon them before they vanish.

Dona praesentis cape laetus horae!

“Take the Gifts of This Hour. Put Serious Things Aside.”

Who knows whether the gods above will add a tomorrow to the today ?

Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero!

Seek not to pierce the morrow's haze,

But for the moment render praise;

Nor spurn the dance, nor love's sweet passion,

Ere age draws on with its joyless days.

The goods of existence must be enjoyed here and now, or All must be left - lands, home, beloved wife -

All left behind when we have done with life;

One tree alone, of all thou holdest dear,

Shall follow thee-the cypress-on thy bier!

What is once enjoyed is forever your very own. Happy who can say, at each day's close: "I have lived !" The day is his: let Jove overcast with black cloud the morrow's heaven, or illuminate it with clear sunshine - as he pleases; what the flying hour has taken with it he can never recall. Life is a stream, now gliding peacefully onward in mid channel to the Tuscan sea, now rolling along on its swirling bosom the wreckage of flood and storm.

The pitiful human being on its banks who ever looks with greedy expectation up the stream, or with vain regret downstream, is left at last with nothing at all. The part of wisdom and happiness is to keep eyes on that part of the stream directly before you-the only part which may be seen.

Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit

Of This and That endeavor and dispute;

Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape

Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

Ah! fill the Cup: What boots it to repeat

How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:

Unborn TOMORROW and dead YESTERDAY,

Why fret about them if TODAY be sweet.

But Horace's Epicureanism does not go the length of Omar's. He would have shrunk from the philosophy of the Persian as extreme:

YESTERDAY This Day's Madness did prepare;

TOMORROW's Silence, Triumph, or Despair;

Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:

Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

Horace's Epicureanism is more nearly that of Epicurus himself, the saintly recluse who taught that "to whom little is not enough, nothing is enough," and regarded plain living as at the same time a duty and a happiness. With degenerate Epicureans, whose philosophy led them "To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty", he had little in common. The extraction from life of the of enjoyment was indeed the highest aim; but the aim could never be realized without the exercise of moderation, discrimination, and the attainment of a measure of spiritual culture. Life was art - unified, symmetrical, reposeful - like the poem of perfect or the statue, or the temple.

Here we have arrived at the essential feature of Horace's philosophy of life. In actual life, at least, mankind storm the citadels of happiness - as if it were something external, to be taken by violent hands. Horace locates the citadel of happiness in his own breast. Keep thine heart with all diligence, for out of it are the issues of life. It is the heart which is the source of all joy and all sorrow, of all wealth and all poverty. Happiness is to be sought not outside, but inside. Man does not create his world: he is his world.

Men are madly chasing after peace of heart in a thousand wrong ways, all the while overlooking the right one, which is nearest at hand. To observe their feverish eagerness, one might be led to think happiness identical with wealth. And yet wealth and happiness are neither the same nor equivalent. They may have nothing to do with each other. Money, indeed, is not wrong in itself, but it is not essential except as a mere means to life. Poor men may be happy, and the wealthy may be poor.

A man's wealth consisteth not in the abundance of the things he possesseth. Real happiness consists in peace of mind and heart. Everyone desires it, and prays for it-the sailor caught in the stormy Aegean, the furious Thracian, the Mede with quiver at his back. But it is purchasable neither with gems or purple or gold, nor by preferment. Nor is it to be pursued and taken, or discovered in some other clime. Of what avail to fly to lands warmed by other suns ? What exile ever escaped himself ?

The happiness men seek for is in themselves, to be found at little Ulubrae as easily as in the cities of the gorgeous East, if only they have the proper attitude of heart. But how insure oneself this peace of mind ? In the first place, the searcher after happiness will recognize that unhappiness is the result of slavery of some sort, and that slavery is begotten of desire. The man who is overfond of anything will be unwilling to give it up. The only safety lies in refusing the rein to passion.

He who lives either in desire or in fear is incapable of enjoying what he possesses. He who desires, will fear also; and he who fears can never be a free man. The wise man will not allow his desires to become his tyrants. Money will be his servant, not his master. He will attain to wealth by curbing his wants.

As with the passion of greed, so with anger, love, ambition for office, and all the other forms of desire which lodge in the human heart. Make them your slaves, or they will make you theirs. Like wrath, they are all forms of madness. He who once submits to the domination of desire of any unworthy kind will find himself in the case of the horse that called in man to help him drive out the stag from their common feeding-ground, and received the bit and rein forever.

So Horace will enter into no entangling alliances with financial, political, or social ambitions, or with the more personal passions. He is content with his home in the Sabines -

Satis beatus unicis Sabinis.

This is what he always prayed for-a patch of ground, not so very large, with a spring of ever-flowing water, a garden, and a little timber land above. He asks for nothing more, except that a kindly fate will make these beloved possessions forever his own. He will go to the ant (nam exemplo est), and consider her ways and be wise, and be content with what he has as soon as it is enough. He will not enter the field of public life because it would mean the sacrifice of his peace: he would have to keep open house, submit to the attentions of a body-guard of servants, keep horses and a carriage and coachman, be the target for shafts of malice and envy - in a word, lose his freedom.

The price is too great, the privilege none to his liking. His prayer is rather to be free from the cares of empty ambition, from the fear of death and the passion of anger, to laugh at superstition, to enjoy the happy return of his birthday, to be forgiving of his friends, to grow more gentle and better as old age draws on, to recognize the proper limit in all things:

Health to enjoy the blessings sent

From heaven; a mind unclouded, strong;

A cheerful heart; a wise content;

An honored age; and song.