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The "well-languaged Daniel," of whom Ben Jonson said that he was "a good honest man, but no poet," wrote, however, one fine meditative piece, his Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland, a sermon apparently on the text of the Roman poet Lucretius's famous passage in praise of philosophy, Suave, mari magno, turbantibus æquora ventis, E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem.
And to say truth, it is not easy, when such a matter passed between two, to make it appear from which of them it first moved and began. It is a way that some men have, to glance and dart at others, by justifying themselves by negatives; as to say, This I do not; as Tigellinus did towards Burrhus, Se non diversas spes, sed incolumitatem imperatoris simpliciter spectare.
For the Emperor, says Suetonius, perraro praesidere, ceterum accubans, parvis primum foraminibus, deinde toto podio adaperto, spectare consuerat. So I believed that on the stage of this world men agonised for the delight of one cruel intelligence which watched from behind the curtain of a private box.
Suave mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem; Non quia vexari quenquam eat jucunda voluptas, Sed quibus ipse malls caress qula cernere sauv' est. All this is easily applied to the present subject.
'Suave mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem . . . Protestants, who look at creeds as things to be changed like coats, whenever they seem not to fit them, little know what we Catholic-hearted ones suffer. . . . If they did, they would be more merciful and more chary in the requirements of us, just as we are in the very throe of a new-born existence.
Nor will the argument be at all impeached by observing, that one Being may be made to feel the pleasure of ease and security by seeing others subjected to suffering and distress; for that assumes the infliction of misery on those others; it is "alterius spectare laborem" that we are supposing to be sweet; and this is still partial evil.
In Scotland, nobody but a Scotchman believes in fine weather, and consequently there is no disappointment; in England the Lake District is, perhaps, the most unfortunate spot for folks to be caught in by rain, because if there is no landscape there is nothing. Spectare veniunt, and when there are only the ribs and lining of their umbrellas to look at, their lot is hard indeed.
When I come home I look out of the small window; the landscape is magnificent: about twenty yards of virgin soil with Spring grass on it and the barn on the horizon. Behind the fence, over which I see the tops of the heads of passers-by. "Suave mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis spectare laborem...." I forget how it runs further! My latin gets weak.
And for the next fifteen years a large part of his time was passed at Foxholes, where, in the most delightful climate known in this country, surrounded by beautiful scenery and with a commanding view of the sea, amid the comforts of home and in the company of his books and his chosen friends, he could say, from both the material and moral point of view: Suave, mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis, E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem.
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