No More Learning

Our own notion is that that
smoke is a quiet, domestic affair; that it even has the flavor of
some sociable cookery, and is legitimately issued from a grateful
and pleasant fire; and that if we should go into the house we
should find the family as usual there: a suggestion which, as
the storm begins to renew itself, we shall do well to take the
opportunity to verify.
Flourishing in the midst of snowbanks, unmoved amid the
fiercest onsets of the storm, comfortable in the extremity of
winter, the family are all gathered in the kitchen, and occupied
as may be. In the cavernous fireplace burns a great fire, com-
posed of a huge green backlog and forestick, and a high cobwork
of crooked and knotty refuse wood. The flame is as bright and
golden as in Windsor Palace, or Fifth Avenue, New York,
smoke goes off out-doors with no more hesitancy than if it was
summer-time. The wood sings, the sap drops on the hot coals,
and explodes as if it was Independence Day. Great red coals
roll out on the hearth, sparkle a semibrief, lose their grosser
XIV-526


## p. 8402 (#614) ###########################################

8402
SYLVESTER JUDD
substance, indicate a more ethereal essence in prototypal forms
of white down-like cinders, and then dissolve into brown ashes.
To a stranger the room has a sombre aspect, rather heightened
than relieved by the light of the fire burning so brightly at mid-
day. The only connection with the external world is by a rude
aperture through the sides of the building; — yet when the outer
light is so obscured by a storm, the bright fire within must
anywhere be pleasant. In one corner of the room is Pluck, in a
red flannel shirt and leather apron, at work on his kit mending
shoes; with long and patient vibration and equipoise he draws
the threads, and interludes the strokes with snatches of songs,
banter, and laughter. The apartment seems converted into a
workshop, for next the shoemaker stands the shingle-maker,
Hash, who with froe in one hand and mallet in the other, by
dint of smart percussion is endeavoring to rive a three-cornered
billet of hemlock, In the centre sits Brown Moll, with bristling
and grizzly hair, and her inseparable pipe, winding yarn from a
swift. Nearer the fire are Chilion and Margaret: the latter with
the 'Orbis Pictus,' or World Displayed, a book of Latin and Eng-
lish, adorned with cuts, which the Master lent her; the former
with his violin, endeavoring to describe the notes in Dr. Byles's
Collection of Sacred Music,' also a loan of the Master's, and at
intervals trailing on the lead of his father in some popular air.
We shall also see that one of Chilion's feet is raised on a stool,
bandaged, and apparently disabled. Bull, the dog, lies rounded
on the hearth, his nose between his paws, fast asleep. Dick, the
gray squirrel, sits swinging listlessly in his wire wheel, like a
duck on a wave. Robin, the bird, in its cage, shrugs and folds
itself into its feathers, as if it were night. Over the fireplace, on
the rough stones of the chimney, which day and night through
all the long winter never cease to be warm, are Margaret's
flowers: a blood-root, in the marble pot Rufus Palmer gave her,
and in wooden moss-covered boxes, pinks, violets, and buttercups,
green and flowering. Here also, as a sort of mantel-tree orna-
ment, sits the marble kitten that Rufus made, under a cedar
twig. At one end of the crane, in the vacant side of the fire-
place, hang rings of pumpkin-rinds drying for beer. On the
walls, in addition to what was there last summer, are strings of
dried apples. There is also a draw-horse, on which Hash smooths
and squares his shingles; and a pile of fresh, sweet-scented white
shavings and splinters. Through the yawns of the back door,


## p. 8403 (#615) ###########################################

SYLVESTER JUDD
8403
and sundry rents in the logs of the house, filter in unweariedly
fine particles of snow; and thus along the sides of the rooms
rise little cone-shaped, marble-like pilasters.
Within doors is a mixed noise of miscellaneous operations;
without is the rushing of the storm. Pluck snip-snaps with his
wife, cracks on Hash, shows his white teeth to Margaret; Chilion
asks his sister to sing; Hash orders her to bring a coal to light
his pipe; her mother gets her to pick a snarl out of the yarn.
She climbs upon a stool and looks out of the window. The
scene is obscured by the storm; the thick driving fakes throw
a brownish mizzly shade over all things,-air, trees, hills, and
every avenue the eye has been wont to traverse.
The light
tufts hiss like arrows as they shoot by. The leafless butternut,
whereon the whippoorwill used to sing and the yellow warbler
make its nest, sprawls its naked arms and moans pitifully in the
blast; the snow that for a moment is amassed upon it falls to
the ground like a harvest of alabaster fruit. The peach-tree that
bears Margaret's own name, and is of her own age, seems to be
drowning in the snow. Water drops from the eaves, occasioned
by the snow melting about the chimney.
«I shouldn't wonder if we had a
snow-storm before it's
over, Molly,” said Pluck, strapping his knife on the edge of the
kit.
"And you are getting ready for it fast,” rejoined his wife.
"I should be thankful for those shoes any time before next July.
I can't step out without wetting my feet. ”
«Wetting is not so bad after all,” answered Pluck.
part I keep too dry. — Who did the Master tell you was the god
of shoemakers ? ” he asked, addressing Margaret.
«St. Crispin,” replied the child.
“Guess I'll pay him a little attention," said the man, going to
the rum bottle that stood by the chimney. "I feel some interest
in these things, and I think I have some reason to indulge a
hope that I am among the elect. ”
«He wouldn't own you,” said his wife, tartly.
“Why, dear? ”
“Because you are not a man; you are not the thrum of one.
Scrape you all up, and we shouldn't get lint enough to put on
Chilion's foot. ”
«Look at that,” said her husband, exposing his bare arm,
flabby and swollen; "what do you think now? ”
« For my
»


## p. 8404 (#616) ###########################################

8404
SYLVESTER JUDD
are
(C
“Mutton fat! Try you out, run you into cakes, make a pres-
ent of you to your divinity to grease his boots with. — The fire is
getting low, Meg: can't you bring in some wood ? »
"You are a woman really! ” retorted Pluck, “to send the child
out in such a storm, when it would take three men to hold one's
head on. ”
“Ha, ha! » laughed out his spouse. “You must have stitched
your own on; I don't wonder you afraid. That is the
way you lost your ear, trying to hold on your head in a storm,
ha, ha! ”
“Well,” rejoined Pluck, "you think you are equal to three
men in wit, learning, providing, don't you ? ”
“Mayhaps so. "
"And weaving, spinning, coloring, reeling, twisting, cooking,
clinching, henpecking, I guess you are. Can you tell, dearest
Maria, what is Latin for the Widow's Obed's red hair ?
"I can for the maggot that makes powder-post of our whole
family, Didymus Hart. ”
Pluck laughed, and staggered towards his bench.
“I knew we should have a storm," said his wife, "after such
a cold spell: I saw a Bull's Eye towards night; my corns have
been pricking more than usual; a flight of snow-birds went by
day before yesterday. And it won't hold up till after the full,
and that's to-night. ”
"I thought as much too,” answered Pluck.
« Bottle has emp-
tied fast, glums been growing darker in the face, windle spun
faster, cold potatoes for dinner, hot tongue for supper. ”
“You shall fetch the wood, Meg, or I'll warm your back with
a shingle,” said her mother, flinging out a threat which she had
no intention of executing. “Hash is good for something, that
he is. ”
“Yes, Maharshalalhash baz, my second born,” interjected Pluck,
“sell your shingles to the women: they'll give you more than
Deacon Penrose; it is such a nice thing for heating a family
with. We shan't need any more roofs to our houses — always
excepting, of course, your dear and much-honored mother, who is
a warming-pan in herself, good as a Bath stove. ”
Hash, spurred on by this double shot, plied his mallet the
harder, and declared with an oath that he would not get the wood,
- they might freeze first; adding that he hauled and cut it, and
that was his part.
(
(C
((


## p. 8405 (#617) ###########################################

SYLVESTER JUDD
8405
Chilion whispered to his sister, and she went out for the pur-
pose in question. It was not excessively cold, since the weather
moderated as the storm increased; and she might have taken
some interest in that tempestuous outer world. The wind blazed
and racketed through the narrow space between the house and
the hill. The flakes shaded and mottled the sky, and fell twirl-
ing, pitching, skimble-scamble, and anon slowly and more regu-
larly, as in a minuet; and as they came nearer the ground, they
were caught up by the current and borne in a horizontal line,
like long, quick-spun silver threads, afar across the landscape.
There was but little snow in the shed, although entirely open on
the south side; the storm seeming to devote itself to building up
a drift in front. This drift had now reached a height of seven
or eight feet. It sloped up like the roof of a pyramid, and on
the top was an appendage like a horn, or a plume, or a marble
jet d'eau, or a frozen flame of fire; and the elements in all their
violence, the eddies that veered about the corner of the house,
the occasional side blasts, still dallied, and stopped to mold it
and finish it; and it became thinner, and more tapering and
spiral, each singular flake adjusting itself to the very tip with
instinctive nicety, till at last it broke off by its own weight,
then a new one went on to be formed. Under this drift lay the
wood Margaret was after, and she hesitated to demolish the pretty
structure. The cistern was overrun with ice; the water fell from
the spout in an ice tube; the half-barrel was rimmed about with
a broad round molding of similar stuff, and where the water
flowed off it had formed a solid wavy cascade, and under the
cold snows the clear cold water could be heard babbling and
singing as if it no whit cared for the weather. From the corner
of the house the snow fretted and spurted in continuous shower.
A flock of snow-birds suddenly flashed before the eyes of the
child, borne on by the wind; they endeavored to tack about and
run in under the lee of the shed, but the remorseless elements
drifted them on, and they were apparently dashed against the
woods beyond. Seeing one of the little creatures drop, Margaret
darted out through the snow, caught the luckless or lucky wan-
derer, and amid the butting winds, sharp rack, and smothering
sheets of spray, carried it into the house. In her “Book of Birds'
she found it to be a snow-bunting; that it was hatched in a nest
of reindeer's hair near the North Pole; that it had sported among
eternal solitudes of rocks and ice, and come thousands of miles.


## p. 8406 (#618) ###########################################

8406
SYLVESTER JUDD
It was purely white, while others of the species are rendered in
darker shades. She put it in the cage with Robin, who received
the traveled stranger with due respect.
Night came on, and Margaret went to bed. The wind puffed,
hissed, whistled, shrieked, thundered, sighed, howled, by turns.
The house jarred and creaked, her bed rocked under her, loose
boards on the roof clappered and rattled, snow pelted the window
shutter. In such a din and tussle of the elements lay the child.
She had no sister to nestle with her and snug her up; no gentle
mother to fold the sheets about her neck and tuck in the bed;
no watchful father to come with a light and see that all was
safe.
In the fearfulness of that night she sung or said to herself
some words of the Master's, which he however must have given
her for a different purpose; - for of needs must a stark child's
nature in such a crisis appeal to something above and superior
to itself, and she had taken a floating impression that the Higher
Agencies, whatever they might be, existed in Latin:-
“O sanctissima, O purissima,
Dulcis Virgo Maria,
Mater amata, intemerata!
Ora, ora, pro nobis ! »
As she slept amid the passion of the storm, softly did the
snow from the roof distill upon her feet, and sweetly did dreams
from heaven descend into her soul. In her dream she was walk-
ing in a large, high, self-illuminated hall, with Aowers, statues,
and columns on either side. Above, it seemed to vanish into
a sort of opaline-colored invisibility. The statues of clear white
marble, large as life, and the flowers in marble vases, alternated
with each other between the columns, whose ornamented capitals
merged in the shadows above. There was no distinct articulate
voice, but a low murmuring of the air, or sort of musical puls-
ation, that filled the place. The statues seemed to be for the
most part marble embodiments of pictures she had seen in the
Master's books. There were the Venus de' Medici; Diana, with
her golden bow; Ceres, with poppies and ears of corn; Humanity,
« with sweet and lovely countenance"; Temperance, pouring water
from a pitcher; Diligence, with a sickle and sheaf; Peace, and
her crown of olives; Truth, with her looks serene, pleasant,
courteous, cheerful, and yet modest. ” The flowers were such as


## p. 8407 (#619) ###########################################

SYLVESTER JUDD
8407
ens.
she had sometimes seen about houses in the village, but of rare
size and beauty: cactuses, dahlias, carnations, large pink hydran-
geas, white japonicas, calla lilies, and others. Their shadows
waved on the white walls, and it seemed to her as if the music
she heard issued from their cups.
Sauntering along, she came to a marble arch or doorway,
handsomely sculptured, and supported on caryatides. This opened
to a large rotunda, where she saw nine beautiful female figures
swimming in a circle in the air. These strewed on her as she
passed, leaves and flowers of amaranth, angelica, myrtle, white
jasmin, white poppy, and eglantine; and spun round and round
silently as swallows. By a similar arch, she went into another
rotunda, where was a marble monument or sarcophagus, from
which two marble children with wings were represented as rising,
and above them futtered two iris-colored butterflies. Through
another doorway she entered a larger space opening to the heav-
In this she saw a woman, the same woman she had before
seen in her dreams, with long black hair, and a pale, beautiful
face, who stood silently pointing to a figure far off on the rose-
colored clouds. This figure was Christ, whom she recognized.
Near him, on the round top of a purple cloud, having the blue
distant sky for a background, was the milk-white Cross, twined
with evergreens; about it, hand in hand, she saw moving as in a
distance four beautiful female figures, clothed in white robes.
These she remembered as the ones she saw in her dream at the
Still, and she now knew them to be Faith, Hope, Love, and their
sister — who was yet of their own creation — Beauty. Then in
her dream she returned, and at the door where she entered this
mysterious place she found a large green bullfrog, with great
goggle eyes, having a pond-lily saddled to his back. Seating her-
self in the cup, she held on by the golden pistils as the pommel
of a saddle, and the frog leaped with her clear into the next
morning, in her own little dark chamber.
When she awoke, the wind and noise without had ceased. A
perfect cone of pure white snow lay piled up over her feet, and
she attributed her dream partly to that. She opened the window
shutter; it was even then snowing in large, quiet, moist flakes,
which showed that the storm was nearly at an end; and in the
east, near the sun-rising, she saw the clouds bundling up, ready
to go away.
She descended to the kitchen, where a dim, dreary
light entered from the window. Chilion, who, unable to go up


## p. 8408 (#620) ###########################################

8408
SYLVESTER JUDD
the ladder to his chamber, had a bunk of pelts of wild beasts
near the fire, still lay there. Under a bank of ashes and cinders
smoked and sweltered the remains of the great backlog.
Pluck opened the ashes and drew forward the charred stick,
which cracked and crumbled into large, deep-crimson, fine-
grained, glowing coals, throwing a ruddy glare over the room.
He dug a trench for the new log, deep as if he were laying a
cellar wall.
After breakfast Margaret opened the front door to look out.
Here rose a straight and sheer breastwork of snow, five feet or
more in height, nicely scarfing the door and lintels. Pluck could
just see over it, but for this purpose Margaret was obliged to use
a chair,
The old gentleman, in a fit of we shall not say uncom-
mon good feeling, declared he would dig through it. So, seizing
a shovel, he went by the back door to the front of the house,
at a spot where the whiffling winds had left the earth nearly
bare, and commenced his subnivean work. Margaret, standing in
the chair, saw him disappear under the snow, which he threw
behind him like a rabbit. She awaited in great excitement his
reappearance under the drift, hallooed to him, and threatened to
set the dog on him as a thief. Pluck made some gruff unusual
sound, beat the earth with his shovel; the dog bow-wowed at the
snow; Margaret laughed. Soon this mole of a man poked his
shovel through, and straightway followed with himself, all in a
sweat, and the snow melting like wax from his hot, red face.
Thus was opened a snow tunnel, as good to Margaret as the
Thames, two or three rods long and three or four feet high; and
through it she went.
The storm had died away; the sun was struggling through
the clouds as if itself in search of warmth from what looked like
the hot, glowing face of the earth; there were blue breaks in
the sky overhead; and far off, above the frigid western hills, lay
violet-fringed cloud drifts. A bank of snow, reaching in some
places quite to the eaves of the house, buried many feet deep the
mallows, dandelions, rose-bushes, and hencoops.
The chestnuts shone in the new radiance with their polished,
shivering, cragged limbs, a spectacle both to pity and admire.
The evergreens drooped under their burdens like full-blown
sunflowers. The dark, leafless spray of the beeches looked like
bold delicate netting or linear embroidery on the blue sky; or as
if the trees, interrupted in their usual method of growth, were


## p. 8409 (#621) ###########################################

SYLVESTER JUDD
8409
taking root in midwinter up among the warm transparent
heavens.
Pluck sported with Margaret, throwing great armfuls of snow
that burst and scattered over her like rocks of down, then suf-
fering himself to be fired at in turn. He set her astride the dog,
who romped and flounced, and pitched her into a drift, whence
her father drew her by her ankles. As he was going in through
the tunnel, a pile of snow that lay on the roof of the house fell
and broke the frail arch, burying the old man in chilly ruins.
He gasped, floundered, and thrust up his arms through the super-
incumbent mass, like a drowning man. Margaret leaped with
laughter; and Brown Moll herself, coming to the door, was so
moved by the drollery of the scene as to be obliged to withdraw
her pipe to laugh also. Bull was ordered to the rescue; who
doing the best he could under the circumstances, wallowing belly-
deep in the snow, seized the woolen shirt-sleeve of his master,
and tugged at it till he raised its owner's head to the surface.
Pluck, unmoved in humor by the coolness of the drench, stood
sunk to his chin in the snow, and laughed as heartily as any of
them, his shining bald pate and whelky red face streaming with
moisture and shaking with merriment. At length both father and
child got into the house and dried themselves by the fire.
Chilion demanded attention; his foot pained him; it
grew
swollen and inflamed. Margaret bathed and poulticed it; she
held it in her lap and soothed it with her hand. A preparation
of the Widow's was suggested. Hash would not go for it, Pluck
and his wife could not, and Margaret must go. Bull could not
go with her, and she must go alone. She was equipped with a
warm hood, marten-skin tippet, and a pair of snow-shoes. She
mounted the high, white, fuffy plain and went on with a soft,
yielding, yet light step, almost as noiseless as if she were walk-
ing the clouds. There was no guide but the trees; ditches by
the wayside, knolls, stones, were all a uniform level.
She saw
a slightly raised mound, indicating a large rock she clambered
over in summer. Black spikes and seed-heads of dead golden-
rods and mulleins dotted the way.
Here was a grape-vine that
seemed to have had a skirmish with the storm, and both to have
conquered, for the vine was crushed, and the snow lay in tatters
upon it. About the trunk of some of the large trees was a hol-
low pit reaching quite to the ground, where the snow had waltzed
round and round till it grew tired, and left. Wherever there


## p. 8410 (#622) ###########################################

8410
SYLVESTER JUDD
was a fence, thither had the storm betaken itself, and planted
alongside mountain-like embankments, impenetrable dikes, and
inaccessible bluffs.
Entering thicker woods, Margaret saw the deep, unalloyed
beauty of the season: the large moist Aakes that fell in the
morning had furred and mossed every limb and twig, each
minute process and filament, each aglet and thread, as if the
pure spirits of the air had undertaken to frost the trees for the
marriage festival of their Prince. The slender white birches,
with silver bark and ebon boughs, that grew along the path, were
bent over; their arms met intertwiningly; and thus was formed
a perfect arch, voluptuous, dream-like, glittering, under which she
went. All was silent as the moon; there was no sound of birds
or cows, sheep, dinner-horns, axes, or wind. There was no life,
but only this white, shining still-life wrought in boreal ivory.
No life? From the dusky woods darted out those birds that bide
a New England winter: dove-colored nut-hatches quank-quanked
among the hemlocks; a whole troop of titmice and woodpeckers
came bustling and whirring across the way, shaking a shower of
fine tiny raylets of snow on the child's head; she saw the grace-
ful snow-birds, our common bird, with ivory bill, slate-colored back
and white breast, perched on the top of the mulleins and picking
out the seeds. Above all, far above the forest and the snow-capped
hills, caw-cawed the great black crow. All at once, too, darted
up from the middle of a snow-drift by the side of the road a little
red squirrel, who sat bolt upright on his hind legs, gravely folded
his paws and surveyed her for a moment, as much as to say,
"How do you do? ” then in a trice, with a squeak, he dove back
into his hole.


## p. 8411 (#623) ###########################################

8411
JUVENAL
(60 A. D. ? -140 A. D. ? )
BY THOMAS BOND LINDSAY
HE permanent value of any literary work may be due to the
fact that it appeals to those common emotions which vary
no
and ambition differ in the objects towards which they are directed,
and in the methods of their manifestation; but as primary emotions
they exist unchanged in the modern as in the ancient world. The
writer who knows how to depict them directly, with little or
reference to the changing conditions under which they appear, is sure
of an audience for all time. The rhythmic heart-beats of Catullus
find their echoes everywhere. On the other hand, there are writers
whose abiding interest springs from a different source. In them
there is less emphasis on the emotion, more on the object upon which
the emotion is exercised, -on the complex and constantly shifting
circumstances under which it reveals itself. Thus the two factors
of history — the individual and the environment - are presented with
varying degrees of prominence.
In writers of the former class, we prize chiefly depth of feeling,
breadth of sympathy, and that quick responsiveness to indefinable
spiritual influences that marks the poet and the genius. In the latter,
we look for the more strictly intellectual qualities of keen insight,
clear judgment, and power of pictorial representation. It makes very
little difference when and where such a poet as Catullus lived. With
the writer of the latter class, however, the condition of the society
with which he is surrounded is all-important.
It is to this latter class that Juvenal belongs. As a great poet he
is undoubtedly inferior to Catullus or Lucretius. As a depicter of
morals and manners he is far beyond them. They appeal to the
student of poetry; Juvenal appeals to the student of history. No-
where, not even in the histories (satires themselves) of Tacitus, can
we find so distinct a picture of the seething tumult of that com-
plex Roman civilization which was rapidly moving on to destruction.
To the modern reader the value of this picture is enhanced by the
fact that it represents a state of society which in many respects
closely resembles that of our own time.


## p. 8412 (#624) ###########################################

8412
JUVENAL
At the period which Juvenal describes, Rome was full of unearned
wealth; wealth that had come not as the result of honest effort in
agriculture or commerce, but from the plunder of the East, from
bribery and corruption in public life, from usury and blackmail,
from the prostitution of power to the ends of selfish ambition. At
this time, too, Rome was flooded with a foreign population: all the
refuse of the earlier civilizations of Persia, of Carthage, and of Greece,
had been poured into that powerful stream which seemed destined to
engulf the world; the stream was clogged and spread out into a pool
of corruption.
The old Roman spirit was gone: the simplicity and
directness of purpose, the force of will, the devotion of the individual
to the State, the dignity that marked Rome's earlier struggle to
embody her ideals of law and of order in a great political common-
wealth, — had given place to the complexity of a luxurious society, to
a selfish pursuit of private interest, to that dangerous relaxation which
almost inevitably attends the attainment of an eagerly sought pur-
pose. Rome had become the undisputed mistress of the world, and
resting on her laurels, she grew inert and powerless. The force that
shaped her course was no longer in the hands of the old patricians,
men who, whatever their faults, loved Rome and the Roman ideal
State; it had passed to those whose only claim to precedence was
their ability to pay for it,- and that too, oftentimes, with money
gained by the kindred professions of informer and legacy-hunter.
The severity of the old Roman morality of Cato's time had given
place to a system or lack of system – in which duty, self-denial,
honesty, and uprightness, had little place.
While it may not be claimed that this dark picture has its exact
reflection in our own time, and while the forces which work for social
regeneration are now undoubtedly far more active and far better
organized than in that day, yet the student of social and economic
history cannot fail to be struck by certain marked similarities in the
progress of tendencies in Rome and in our own republic. The rapid
and vast increase of wealth and its accompanying luxury; the changes
in political methods and in the use made of political power; the dis-
placement of the old Puritan ideals of duty by a morality much less
severe in its type, - all these seem to be among the repetitions of
history. Nor is the parallel confined to such general outlines. Juve-
nal describes the mania for building great palaces, the degradation of
the stage, the influence exerted by the worst element of a contempo-
rary foreign people, the increasing frequency of divorce,- and even
the advent of the new woman!
Juvenal appeals to the modern spirit also by his power of clear
presentation. He has none of that vague denunciation of vice which
is like an arrow shot harmlessly into the air, leaving the actual


## p. 8413 (#625) ###########################################

JUVENAL
8413
sinner untouched, and ready to follow its flight with sympathetic
admiration. His description of the cringing parasite, the cowardly
bully, the flattering courtier, the rich upstart, the degenerate patrician,
the conceited patron of literature, all bear the marks of reality. The
same is true where he puts before us a scene rather than a charac-
ter. The departure of Umbricius from Rome, the quarrel in the
street, the jostling crowd that pushes to the rich man's door for its
daily dole, the fortune-hunter hurrying off, dressing as he runs, to
present himself at the rich widow's morning reception, the obsequious
senators gathered at the emperor's villa, — they all stand out with the
same pictorial vividness that marks the more delicate word-painting
of Virgil, and with an even greater clearness of outline and strength
of color.
Although Juvenal may not share with the lyric poets that univer-
sality of interest which has its explanation in the permanent charac-
ter of the emotions, yet the circumstance that he deals with the facts
of conduct which are common to all humanity makes it impossible
for readers in any age to be indifferent to his work. Again, his
method is the method of modern satire: in its impersonality, in its
sustained force, in its systematic arrangement, in its concise adapta-
tion of telling phrases, in its effective use of illustration, and more
than all in its indignant bitterness.
Of the outer life of Juvenal, we know literally almost nothing.
That his name was Decimus Iunius Iuvenalis; that he lived in the
latter part of the first and the early part of the second century after
the birth of Christ, — these two facts comprise all of which we can
claim certain knowledge. We have indeed material for conjectures,
in a life of the poet by an unknown author prefixed to his works, an
inscription supposed to refer to him, two or three epigrams of Mar-
tial, and an occasional hint in his own works. Accepting the more
probable of these statements, we may assume that Juvenal was the
son of a freedman, born at Aquinum about 60 A. D. ; that he spent
most of his life at Rome, where he was especially interested in the
study of rhetoric; and that his satires were written after he reached
middle age, between 96 and 120 A. D. It is probable that he served
in the army, that he was at one time banished to Egypt, and that he
was about eighty years old when he died. The two most striking
things about this dearth of information are --- first, that Martial, the
only classical writer who mentions Juvenal, speaks of him simply as
a friend, with no reference to his literary achievements; and second,
that the poet is so singularly chary of information about his own
life.
Many poets write autobiographies in spite of themselves; from
simplicity rather than egoism they lay before their readers records of


## p. 8414 (#626) ###########################################

8414
JUVENAL
their lives, -as Burns and Horace, for instance, have done. All that
we need to know of the birth of Horace, his education, his friends,
his pleasures, his taste, and his philosophy, we may find written down
by his own hand, either in intentional description or in unintentional
reference. Juvenal's reticence is in the more striking contrast to this
self-revelation, since they both deal with the same general subject, -
the follies and vices of their own contemporaries. It is characteristic
of the two points of view. Horace is not only in the world of which
he writes, but of it. We may fancy him resting at ease in a circle
of his friends, reading aloud to them, while a quiet smile plays about
his lips, the carefully prepared, well-polished, often persuasive, but
rarely convincing arguments in favor - of what? Not of righteous-
ness, not even of good morals,— but of moderation, content, and good
taste. Honesty is the best policy; discontent is very disquieting;
violent emotion is conducive to dyspepsia: even his friends would
hardly resent these pleasant discussions of every-day topics, this
mingling of wit and wisdom, these little thrusts at their follies and
affectations.
“We all have our faults: let us deal gently with each other; and
when we laugh at our friends, let us laugh with them too. The
really foolish man is the one that gives up the calm joy of living,
in the pursuit of some vulgar extreme of wealth or power or philo-
sophic asceticism. ” Such a man, with such a disposition, and in such
an environment as that of the early Empire, was naturally communi-
cative.
If we can imagine Juvenal reading his satires to an audience, it
must be to one that stood with him aloof from the world that he
describes. The man who recognized his own portrait in any one of
these figures, standing out with such startling distinctness from the
background of infamy and degradation furnished by the later Empire,
would be in no mood to take the reader by the hand and thank him
for a very pleasant evening. Juvenal is not resting on a couch talk-
ing things over with his friends: he is standing in the full strength
of an indignant manhood, denouncing with the voice of one of the
old Hebrew prophets the debauchery and the crime which are the
death of all that is great and good. He does not play about his
subject, but attacks it directly and vigorously; and we follow him
with personal sympathetic attention, confident that he means what
he says, and that he will not turn around upon us at the end of the
journey and laugh at us because we are out of breath. Sometimes
indeed we may feel that the pace is rather hot, and we may think
with a touch of envy of our round-bodied good-natured little friend
Horace ambling along in the rear; but on the whole we enjoy the
rush and the whirl of Juvenal's gallop. After all, it is hard to make


## p. 8415 (#627) ###########################################

JUVENAL
8415
a hero of a philosopher. The man of few ideas, but of single pur-
pose and indomitable will, rouses our enthusiasm, however much in
our moments of calm reflection we may deprecate his violence.
The main source of Juvenal's power is this directness — this honest
recognition of the brute in man: he is like a preacher that believes
in original sin and total depravity. We may gloss it over, and talk
about the educative value of evil, and the refining influences of art
and wealth; we may laugh with Horace, and say «What fools these
mortals be! » — but when Juvenal sweeps away these philosophic com-
promises, we instinctively put out our hands as if to ward off a blow.
The works of Juvenal as they have come down to us consist of
sixteen satires, containing about four thousand lines. The genuine-
ness of several satires, and of passages in others, has been disputed;
but while the two sections into which such critics divide the works
attributed to Juvenal differ decidedly in subject and in style, these
differences are not of such a sort as to lead the best editors to reject
the disputed portions.
Juvenal announces his subject as “The doings of men, their hopes,
their fears, their runnings to and fro. ” It was a topic that found
little or no place in the great body of Greek literature. Quintilian
claimed this field for the Romans when he said, “Satire is wholly our
own;" and Horace speaks of it as a form of verse untouched by the
Greeks. Among the Romans themselves Juvenal's most important
predecessors were Ennius, Lucilius, Horace, and Persius. The frag-
ments of Ennius are so few that the character of his satires is doubt-
ful. We know little more of them than that they were medleys,
sometimes in dialogue form. True satire began with Lucilius. Like
Juvenal he was essentially Roman in spirit, and stood for the old
Roman virtues; but, also like Juvenal, he sometimes rose to a broader
conception, as in his famous definition of virtue: his style was care-
less, but full of force, and sharp with real satiric power. Horace
differs from Juvenal in his whole spirit and tone. He is cosmopolitan
rather than national, his weapon is ridicule rather than invective.
His style is easy and conversational, free from rhetorical exaggera-
tion and systematic elaboration. Persius, a student of books rather
than of inen, is didactic and pseudo-philosophical, full of affectation
and self-consciousness; occasionally, however, he forgets himself and
writes an effective passage, as in his description of the prayers
offered in the temples. Juvenal is more polished and rhetorical than
Lucilius, more vigorous than Horace, more real than Persius.
In the first satire, which is in a way introductory to the whole
series, Juvenal gives his reasons for writing. He is tired of the
fashionable poetry of the day, made up of mythology and common-
place, and proposes to follow in the footsteps of Lucilius. The state


## p. 8416 (#628) ###########################################

8416
JUVENAL
of the times certainly justifies satire. The social order is upside
down, Rome is full of masculine women and effeminate men, rascally
lawyers and malicious informers, rich upstarts and dishonest politi-
cians, gamblers, forgers, poisoners. Here is a field indeed where
<if nature fail, just wrath may fill the line. ”
The third satire shares with the tenth the claim to greatest gen-
eral interest. It was imitated by Johnson in his London’; but the
imitation is not close enough to be a good translation, and is too
close to be a good paraphrase. Here Juvenal's power of vivid word-
painting is at its best. His friend Umbricius feels forced to leave
Rome and go to live in a quiet little country town; and to justify
this resolution he describes the state of the city. There is no
room for honest men, since all success is the reward of wrong-doing.
Rome has become the paradise of the versatile time-serving Greeks,
who are ready to assume any part and do any work, and are equally
unscrupulous in all. Nor is there room in Rome for a poor man: he
is ill treated and despised, and driven to dishonesty by the ostenta-
tion that society forces upon him. Even in the streets deep with
mud, brawny porters, with casks or beams on their shoulders, and
sturdy soldiers with hob-nailed shoes, crowd and jostle him, while he
makes way for the rich man's litter or for the contractor's wagon.
The night is worse than the day; for then the streets are full of
boisterous revelers, who delight to pick a quarrel, and after insults
and blows, finish their frolic by summoning their victim for assault
and battery! His head is not safe from falling tiles and objects of
various sorts thrown from the windows of the tall buildings, — whose
ill-built walls are a danger in themselves, - nor his neck from the
footpads and garroters that infest the town.
The tenth satire, which English readers know through Dr. John-
son's imitation, entitled “The Vanity of Human Wishes,' is perhaps
the least technical, the least Roman, and the least savage of all
Juvenal's works. It is marked by great breadth of view, and rests
more firmly on ground common to humanity. Its instances of the
better that is ever the enemy of the good » teach the wisdom of con-
tent quite as clearly as the more direct maxims of the apostle of
moderation, Horace himself. Sejanus, who sought the imperial crown
and found a felon's death; Hannibal, who fretted within the narrow
limits of a single empire and became an exile and a suicide; Cicero,
anxious to pose a second time as the savior of his country; Priam,
whose length of days brought heaped-up woes: all these and other
examples show — not, as some have thought, the futility of human
effort, but as Juvenal himself says, the blindness of the human heart,
and its inability to distinguish between the good and its opposite.
What wonder that Heraclitus wept, and Democritus laughed, at the


## p. 8417 (#629) ###########################################

JUVENAL
8417
sane
9
folly of man? Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter. Man
is dearer to the gods than to himself. Let him pray for a
mind in a sound body; for the strength of soul that death cannot
affright; for a heart that bears its burdens patiently, that knows not
anger nor admits inordinate desire. Dr. Johnson's imitation suffers
by comparison with the original. It lacks force and fervor; its pict-
ures are dull beside the brilliant coloring of Juvenal; while Wolsey
is but a poor substitute for Sejanus, and Charles of Sweden a dim
reflection of the man who bade his soldiers scale the Alps, “the walls
of Rome. " Chaucer refers to this satire in Troilus and Creseide):-
“O Juvenall, lord, true is thy sentence,
That little wenen folke what is to yerne,
That they ne finden in hir desire offence,
For cloud of errour ne lette hem discerne
What best is. )
Another satire which appeals rather to humanity than to anything
distinctly Roman is the fourteenth, on the influence of parental
example. The young man learns of his father as the young bird
learns of the old. Men complain of the faults and vices of their
sons, and say, "I never taught him that. ” No; but your example was
stronger than your precepts, and he is only treading your own foot-
steps deeper. In the case of avarice indeed you add precept to exam-
ple; and teach your boy meanness, injustice, and crime, only that he
may be tormented by anxiety to retain what he has been tormented
by anxiety to acquire.
The contrast between the early Roman Senate and the collection
of sycophants that bore the name in Juvenal's day is brought out in
the fourth satire. The Emperor summons his advisers to his Alban
villa to decide on the disposition of a great fish which the poor fish-
erman, making a virtue of necessity, has presented to his imperial
master. The various senators are described, each in a few lines, but
in phrases so carefully chosen and so aptly framed that the individ-
uals stand out like pictures on a canvas, from “kindly old Crispus »
to “Pompeius,” who was “good at slitting throats with a whisper. ”
The degenerate form of the old Roman relation of patron and
client is depicted in the fifth satire. The mean servility that will
submit to all sorts of indignities for the sake of a place at a rich
man's table, where the obsequious guest receives an occasional word,
like a bone thrown to a dog, calls for little pity. The man that will
practice it deserves all the contempt that is his inevitable reward.
The famous chapter in Punch, Advice to Those about to Marry,'
is a condensation into one word of Juvenal's six hundred lines of
warning on the same subject to his friend Postumus, in the sixth
satire. There is probably no chapter in the whole range of literature
XIV-527


## p. 8418 (#630) ###########################################

8418
JUVENAL
that deals so unsparingly with the faults and vices of women as this.
The writer does not confine himself to sex relations, but dilates with
vigor upon their extravagant love of display, silly devotion to actors
and musicians, delight in gossip, cruelty to those weaker than them-
selves, childish literary aspirations, foolish superstitions, imitation of
men's dress, manners, and pursuits. If a woman be free from these
vices of her sex, her self-complacency makes her very virtue distaste-
ful. The chief value of the satire lies in its picture of the times,
set forth with all the unrivaled vigor of Juvenal's denunciation. An
interesting parallel may be found in the third chapter of Isaiah.
The thirteenth satire contains several famous passages.
In one
of them Juvenal describes the different mental attitudes of different
men in the face of wrong-doing, in another the pains of remorse, and
in a third the pettiness of revenge. In breadth of view, strength of
grasp, psychological insight, and evidence of reserve power, the satire
ranks with the masterpieces of literature; and it furnishes the chief
arguments to those critics who have thought that its author was well
acquainted with the ethics of the Christian system.
Juvenal's whole work takes its dominant note from his standard of
morality, which is drawn not from any system of philosophic ethics,
but from a simple recognition of the eternal conflict between right
and wrong.
In many passages indeed he applies this standard in a
conventional Roman way, as when he fings his scorn upon the
Roman noble who drives his own chariot past the very tombs of his
ancestors. In general, however, he is human rather than merely
Roman. It is the same standard that the old Roman character
evolved without the help of Greek philosophy; the same crude but
definite standard that Cato feared to see obscured by the compli-
cation and compromises of Greek culture. It results in that direct
appeal to the individual conscience which marks all earnest reformers,
all great religious movements. This gives to the satires their imme-
diate personal interest.
Juvenal's style is the natural expression of strong feeling tinged
with bitterness. His sentences come out with a rush and a swing
that force the attention. They have the drum and trumpet's din,”
rather than the continuity, the long slow slope and vast curves of
the gradual violin. ” Artistic in the Horatian sense he is not. The
tension is rarely relaxed. There are few lights and shades. His
very strength becomes his weakness. We seem to feel, not the calm
consciousness of power in which the word inevitably follows the
thought, but the tumult of feeling that seizes upon the words and
forces them into the verse: such a style is effective, but by its very
stress and strain it is wearisome. Many critics have accused him of
being a mere rhetorician; failing to see that while his strong phrases
may sometimes cloud his thought, they never take its place.


## p. 8419 (#631) ###########################################

JUVENAL
8419
>
Besides its pictorial quality, instances of which have already been
given, his style is marked by an epigrammatic terseness which puts
an essay into a single line, and has made him one of the best quoted
of Roman writers. “A sane mind in a sound body;" «But who shall
watch the watchers ? ” “All men praise honesty- and let her freeze;"
« The traveler with empty purse will whistle in the footpad's face; »
« To save his life, he gives up all that makes life dear;) Prayers
which the unkindly gods have granted;” “It is the innocence of
youth that most deserves our reverence. ” His works abound in such
summaries of thought, which place a whole situation at the command
of a reader who possesses an imagination, though they may leave the
mere grammarian cold.
A satirist without humor is a literary scold; and while Juvenal's
humor has none of the lightness and delicacy which we usually asso-
ciate with the word, it is present in full measure. Remorseless as
that of Swift, bitter as that of Thackeray, it does not stir to laughter,
but raises at best a grim smile. Scornful rather than contemptuous,
it is the humor of indignation rather than of ridicule. Juvenal can
knock his victim down with the bludgeon of Cato, run him through
with Swift's rapier, and then draw his picture with Hogarth's pencil.
For us, then, Juvenal means a strong, earnest spirit with great
breadth of view and distinctness of vision, depicting with marvelous
power of expression the state of society during one of the most im-
portant periods of human history. He is not only a poet, - he is
preacher and prophet as well.
Thomas Ronde
a hurissang
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE. — The earliest English versions of Juvenal
are those by Holyday and Stapylton in the middle of the seventeenth
century. Gifford, Hodgson, and Badham have made translations in
English verse. There are literal prose translations by Madan, Evans,
and Lewis. Five of the satires here translated by Dryden; and two,
the third and the tenth, were imitated by Dr. Johnson. The best
English editions are those of Macleane and the exhaustive one of
Mayor. There are excellent articles on Juvenal by Professor Ramsay
in Dr. Smith's ' Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography,' by Sellar
in the 'Encyclopædia Britannica,' and in the introductions to Dryden's,
Gifford's, and Lewis's translations.
T. B. L.


## p. 8420 (#632) ###########################################

8420
JUVENAL
UMBRICIUS'S FAREWELL TO ROME
From the Third Satire
ST
INCE of honest gains —
By honest arts no hope at Rome remains;
Since from the remnant of my scanty store
Each morrow still wears off some fragment more:
Thither I go where Dædalus, distressed,
Took his tired wings off, and was glad to rest –
In the first freshness of an old man's prime.
What should I do at Rome, untaught to lie,
Who neither praise the stupid book, nor buy?
Who cannot, will not, bid the stars declare
His father's funeral to the greedy heir ?
The bowels of the toad I ne'er inspect,
To bear th' adulterer's gifts none me select;
No public robbers through my aid shall thrive:
Then wherefore with the current longer strive?
No man's confederate, here alone I stand,
Like the maimed owner of a palsied hand.
From that vile race at length behold me free;
Dear to the great, detestable to me!
Scruples, away! What! is it come to this?
Is Rome at last a Greek metropolis ?
Yet of the filth derived from foreign mart,
The feculence of Greece but forms a part:
Full into Tiber's stream 'tis many a day
Since foul Orontes forced its fatal way:
Hence Syrian speech and Syrian manners come,
And Syrian music, and the barbarous drum:
Hie to the circus, ye that set a price
On foreign lures, and exoteric vice!
Into each house the wily strangers crawl,—
Obsequious now, soon to be lords of all.
Prompt to discern, and swift to seize his time,
Your Greek stands forth in impudence sublime.
Torrents of words that might Isæus drown
Rush forth at once, and bear you helpless down.
Hope not to scan that prodigy of parts,
The deep in science, the adept in arts:
Geometer, logician, man of taste,
Versed in all lore, with all acquirements graced,
Medicine and magic swell the ample list,
From augur grave to light funambulist:


## p. 8421 (#633) ###########################################

JUVENAL
8421
Bid an esurient Greek do what you choose,-
The absurd, the impossible,- he'll not refuse!
Was it for nothing, that of Aventine
The freshening gales in infancy were mine?
For nothing that on Roman soil I grew,
And my first strength from Sabine olives drew ?
Go, persevere; and in most prudent strain,
Praise wit in fools and features in the plain;
On lanky, long-necked feebleness confer
The grasp of Hercules — ye cannot err!
Go, praise a voice as mellow as the note
Which the shrill cock pours from exulting throat.
Thus too might we,— but who would be deceived ?
The Greek alone may lie and be believed.
Who at Præneste ever lived in dread
Lest the frail roof should crumble o'er his head ?
At Gabii who? Volsinium's woodland height,
Or Tibur throned upon its mountain site ?
Here props and buttresses the crash suspend,
And loaded with incumbent ruin, bend:
For thus the thrifty steward would conceal
The perils which old flaws anon reveal;
And while the loosened pile yet nods on high,
Bids us sleep on, nor fear the danger nigh.
Oh! let me dwell where no nocturnal screams
Shall break the golden links of blissful dreams!
Hark! where Ucalegon for water cries,
Casts out his chattels, from the peril flies;
Dense smoke is bursting from the floor below,-
Ho! wake thee, man! thy instant perils know.
The basement totters, and thou snor'st the while!
Last to be burnt, all snug beneath the tile
That gives thee shelter from the vernal rain,
Where the fond dove hath pledged her eggs in vain.
Such are our days; let a new theme invite,
And hear the greater perils of the night.
Behold those lofty roofs from which, on high,
The loosened tile oft wounds the passer-by;
Nor seldom, from some lofty casement thrown,
The cracked and broken vase comes thundering down;
See with what force it strikes the Aint below,
Where the flawed pavement tells the frequent blow!
Oh! thoughtless, careless, indolent, or blind,
Sup not abroad before thy will be signed;


## p. 8422 (#634) ###########################################

8422
JUVENAL
Assured, as many dangers thou shalt meet
As there be open windows in the street.
To these, my friend, more reasons yet remain:
Enough! the sun's already on the wane;
The cattle wait — th' impatient driver, see,
Points to the road, and only stays for me.
Farewell! forget me not, and when, oppressed
With cares at Rome, thou seek'st Aquinum's rest,
The much-loved shores of Cuma I'll resign,
At his own Ceres' and Diana's shrine,
To greet my friend; and in his satires there
(If they disdain not) I will gladly bear
What part I may: in country shoes I'll come,
Tread your bleak lands, and share your friendly home.
TERRORS OF CONSCIENCE
From the Thirteenth Satire
THE
HE Spartan rogue who, boldly bent on fraud,
Dared ask the god to sanction and applaud,
And sought for counsel at the Pythian shrine,
Received for answer from the lips divine, -
(That he who doubted to restore his trust,
And reasoned much, reluctant to be just,
Should for those doubts and that reluctance prove
The deepest vengeance of the powers above. "
The tale declares that not pronounced in vain
Came forth the warning from the sacred fane:
Ere long no branch of that devoted race
Could mortal man on soil of Sparta trace!
Thus but intended mischief, stayed in time,
Had all the mortal guilt of finished crime.
If such his fate who yet but darkly dares,
Whose guilty purpose yet no act declares,
What were it, done! Ah!