And from the cloud withdraws all is obscured,

And plucks from brow to brow the diadem.

-M. JOURDAIN.

LITERARY CRITICISM

APOLOGY FOR SATIRE

[From the Satires I, 4]

Satire as a distinct branch of poetry is the only one claimed by the Romans as their own invention. As they developed it, it was a running commentary, mainly ethical in spirit, on the common vices, great and trivial, of contemporary society. Its weapon was ridicule. Horace defines it as "telling the truth in jest." In his hands it is not mere destructive criticism, but it advocates constructively better standards and points ways of attaining them. Horace is usually gentle, though at times he can be quite stinging, and laughs with us as well as at us. He often includes himself among those at whom his shafts are aimed. In the following passage, he lays no claim to the name of poetry for his satires; he regards them only as metrical "talks." The writing of satire is justified by social conditions which call for criticism.

Cratinus, Aristophanes, and all

The elder comic poets, great and small, If e'er a worthy in those ancient times Deserved peculiar notice for his crimes, Adulterer, cut-throat, ne'er-do-well, or thief,

Portrayed him without fear in strong relief.

From these, as lineal heir, Lucilius springs,

The same in all points save the tune he sings,

A shrewd keen satirist, yet somewhat

hard

And rugged, if you view him as a bard. For this was his mistake: he liked to

stand,

One leg before him, leaning on one hand, Pour forth two hundred verses in an hour, And think such readiness a proof of power.

When like a torrent he bore down, you'd find

He left a load of refuse still behind: Fluent, yet indolent, he would rebel Against the toil of writing, writing well, Not writing much; for that I grant you. See,

Here comes Crispinus, wants to bet with me,

And offers odds: "A meeting, if you please:

Take we our tablets each, you those, I these:

Name place, and time, and umpires: let us try

Who can compose the faster, you or I." Thank Heaven, that formed me of unfertile mind,

My speech not copious, and my thoughts confined!

But you, be like the bellows, if you choose,

Still puffing, puffing, till the metal fuse, And vent your windy nothings with a sound

That makes the depth they come from

From distant east to furthest western shore, Driving along like dust-cloud through the air

To increase his capital or not impair: These, one and all, the clink of metre fly,

And look on poets with a dragon's eye. "Beware! he's vicious: so he gains his end,

A selfish laugh, he will not spare a friend: Whate'er he scrawls, the mean malignant rogue

Is all alive to get it into vogue:

Give him a handle, and your tale is known

To every giggling boy and maundering

crone."

A weighty accusation! now, permit Some few brief words, and I will answer it:

First, be it understood, I make no claim To rank with those who bear a poet's

name:

'Tis not enough to turn out lines complete,

Each with its proper quantum of five feet;

Colloquial verse a man may write like me,
But (trust an author) 'tis not poetry.
No; keep that name for genius, for a soul
Of Heaven's own fire, for words that
grandly roll.

Hence some have questioned if the Muse we call

The Comic Muse be really one at all: Her subject ne'er aspires, her style ne'er glows,

And, save that she talks metre, she talks prose.

"Aye, but the angry father shakes the stage,

When on his graceless son he pours his rage,

Who, smitten with the mistress of the hour,

Gets drunk, and (worst of all) in public sight

Reels with a blazing flambeau while 'tis light."

Well, could Pomponius' sire to life return, Think you he'd rate his son in tones less stern?

So then 'tis not sufficient to combine Well-chosen words in a well-ordered line, When, take away the rhythm, the selfsame words

Would suit an angry father off the boards.

Strip what I write, or what Lucilius wrote,

Of cadence and succession, time and note, Reverse the order, put those words

behind

That went before, no poetry you'll find: But break up this, "When Battle's brazen door

Blood boltered Discord from its fastenings tore,"

'Tis Orpheus mangled by the Mænads: still

The bard remains, unlimb him as you will.

Enough of this: some other time we'll

see

If Satire is or is not poetry:

To-day I take the question, if 'tis just That men like you should view it with distrust.

Sulcius and Caprius promenade in force, Each with his papers, virulently hoarse, Bugbears to robbers both: but he that's

true

And decent living may defy the two. Say, you're first cousin to that goodly pair

Cælius and Birrus, and their foibles share:

No Sulcius nor yet Caprius here you see In your unworthy servant: why fear me? No books of mine on stall or counter stand,

Nor read I save to friends, and that when pressed,

Not to chance auditor or casual guest. Others are less fastidious; some will air Their last production in the public square:

Some choose the bath-room, for the walls all round

Make the voice sweeter and improve the sound:

Weak brains, to whom the question ne'er occurred

If what they do be vain, ill-timed, absurd. "But you give pain: your habit is to bite,"

Rejoins the foe, "of set deliberate spite." Who broached that slander? of the men

I know,

With whom I live, have any told you so? He who maligns an absent friend's fair

fame,

Who says no word for him when others blame,

Who courts a reckless laugh by random hits,

Just for the sake of ranking among wits, Who feigns what he ne'er saw, a secret blabs,

Beware him, Roman! that man steals or stabs!

Oft you may see three couches, four on each,

Where all are wincing under one man's speech,

All, save the host: his turn too comes at last,

When wine lets loose the humour shame held fast:

And you, who hate malignity, can see Nought here but pleasant talk, well-bred and free.

I, if I chance in laughing vein to note Rufillus' civet and Gargonius' goat, Must I be toad or scorpion? Look at home:

Suppose Petillius' theft, the talk of Rome, Named in your presence, mark how you defend

In your accustomed strain your absent friend:

"Petillius? yes, I know him well: in truth We have been friends, companions, e'en from youth:

A thousand times he's served me, and I joy

That he can walk the streets without annoy:

Yet 'tis a puzzle, I confess, to me How from that same affair he got off free."

Here is the poison-bag of malice, here The gall of fell detraction, pure and sheer:

And these, I swear, if man such pledge may give,

My pen and heart shall keep from, while I live.

-JOHN CONINGTON.

LUCILIUS

[Satires I, 10]

Horace's great forerunner in satire had been Lucilius (about 180 to 103 B.C.), a brilliant independent critic of men and manners, of literature, politics, and philosophy in the time of Lælius and the younger Scipio. In such universal esteem was he held by Romans of later days that Horace's criticism of his defects of style brought upon him the censure of the critics for having dared to find fault with the Father of Satire.

Yes, I did say that, view him as a bard,
Lucilius is unrhythmic, rugged, hard.
Lives there a partisan so weak of brain
As to join issue on a fact so plain?
But that he had a gift of biting wit,
In the same page I hastened to admit.
Now understand me: that's a point con-
fessed;

But he who grants it grants not all the

rest:

For, were a bard a bard because he's smart,

I toy with trifles such as this, unmeet At Tarpa's grave tribunal to compete, Or, mouthed by well-graced actors, be the rage

Of mobs, and hold possession of the stage.

No hand can match Fundanius at a piece

Where slave and mistress clip an old man's fleece:

Pollio in buskins chants the deeds of kings:

Varius outsoars us all on Homer's wings: The Muse that loves the woodland and the farm

To Virgil lends her gayest, tenderest charm.

For me, this walk of satire, vainly tried
By Atacinus and some few beside,
Best suits my gait: yet readily I yield
To him who first set footstep on that field,
Nor meanly seek to rob him of the bay
That shows so comely on his locks of
grey.

Well, but I called him muddy, said you'd find

More sand than gold in what he leaves behind.

And you, sir Critic, does your finer sense

brain,

Or e'en Lucilius, our good-natured friend,

Sees he in Accius nought he fain would mend?

Does he not laugh at Ennius' halting verse,

Yet own himself no better, if not worse? And what should hinder me, as I peruse Lucilius' works, from asking, if I choose, If fate or chance forbade him to attain A smoother measure, a more finished strain,

Than he (you'll let me fancy such a man) Who anxious only to make sense and scan,

Pours forth two hundred verses ere he

sups,

But looking to fit audience, although few. Say, would you rather have the things you scrawl

Doled out by pedants for their boys to drawl?

Not I like hissed Arbuscula, I slight Your hooting mobs, if I can please a knight.

Shall bug Pantilius vex me? shall I choke

Because Demetrius needs must have his joke

Behind my back, and Fannius, when he dines

With dear Tigellius, vilifies my lines?

In my poor writings these and such as these,

If Plotius, Valgius, Fuscus will commend, And good Octavius, I've achieved my end. You, noble Pollio (let your friend disclaim

All thought of flattery when he names your name),

Messala and his brother, Servius too, And Bibulus, and Furnius kind and true, With others whom, despite their sense

and wit

And friendly hearts, I purposely omit; Such I would have my critics; men to gain

Whose smiles were pleasure, to forego them pain.

Demetrius and Tigellius, off! go pule To the bare benches of your ladies' school!

Hallo there, youngster! take my book,

you rogue,

And write this in, by way of epilogue. -JOHN CONINGTON.

ON THE DRAMA

[From the Art of Poetry]

Horace's purpose is not, like Aristotle's, to inquire into the essential nature of various forms of poetry, but rather to reduce established practice to clearly formu