No More Learning

But to come to the point, from which we started: poetry, to which
my friend Maternus wishes to dedicate all his time, has none of these
advantages. It confers no dignity, nor does it serve any useful
purpose. It is attended with some pleasure, but it is the pleasure of
a moment, springing from vain applause, and bringing with it no solid
advantage. What I have said, and am going to add, may probably, my
good friend Maternus, be unwelcome to your ear; and yet I must take
the liberty to ask you, if Agamemnon [a] or Jason speaks in your piece
with dignity of language, what useful consequence follows from it?
What client has been defended? Who confesses an obligation? In that
whole audience, who returns to his own house with a grateful heart?
Our friend Saleius Bassus [b] is, beyond all question, a poet of
eminence, or, to use a warmer expression, he has the god within him:
but who attends his levee? who seeks his patronage, or follows in his
train? Should he himself, or his intimate friend, or his near
relation, happen to be involved in a troublesome litigation, what
course do you imagine he would take? He would, most probably, apply to
his friend, Secundus; or to you, Maternus; not because you are a poet,
nor yet to obtain a copy of verses from you; of those he has a
sufficient stock at home, elegant, it must be owned, and exquisite in
the kind. But after all his labour and waste of genius, what is his
reward?

When in the course of a year, after toiling day and night, he has
brought a single poem to perfection, he is obliged to solicit his
friends and exert his interest, in order to bring together an audience
[c], so obliging as to hear a recital of the piece. Nor can this be
done without expence. A room must be hired, a stage or pulpit must be
erected; benches must be arranged, and hand-bills distributed
throughout the city.
What if the reading succeeds to the height of his
wishes? Pass but a day or two, and the whole harvest of praise and
admiration fades away, like a flower that withers in its bloom, and
never ripens into fruit. By the event, however flattering, he gains no
friend, he obtains no patronage, nor does a single person go away
impressed with the idea of an obligation conferred upon him. The poet
has been heard with applause; he has been received with acclamations;
and he has enjoyed a short-lived transport.

Bassus, it is true, has lately received from Vespasian a present of
fifty thousand sesterces. Upon that occasion, we all admired the
generosity of the prince. To deserve so distinguished a proof of the
sovereign's esteem is, no doubt, highly honourable; but is it not
still more honourable, if your circumstances require it, to serve
yourself by your talents? to cultivate your genius, for your own
advantage? and to owe every thing to your own industry, indebted to
the bounty of no man whatever? It must not be forgotten, that the
poet, who would produce any thing truly excellent in the kind, must
bid farewell to the conversation of his friends; he must renounce, not
only the pleasures of Rome, but also the duties of social life; he
must retire from the world; as the poets say, "to groves and grottos
every muse's son. " In other words, he must condemn himself to a
sequestered life in the gloom of solitude.


X. The love of fame, it seems, is the passion that inspires the poet's
genius: but even in this respect, is he so amply paid as to rival in
any degree the professors of the persuasive arts? As to the
indifferent poet, men leave him to his own [a] mediocrity: the real
genius moves in a narrow circle. Let there be a reading of a poem by
the ablest master of his art: will the fame of his performance reach
all quarters, I will not say of the empire, but of Rome only? Among
the strangers who arrive from Spain, from Asia, or from Gaul, who
enquires [b] after Saleius Bassus?