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Letters of Pliny

by the Younger Pliny · English · Gutenberg #2811 · 541,883 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Letters of Pliny

Author: the Younger Pliny

Editor: F. C. T. Bosanquet

Translator: William Melmoth


        
Release date: September 1, 2001 [eBook #2811]
                Most recently updated: November 11, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2811

Credits: Produced by David Reed and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS OF PLINY ***



Produced by David Reed and David Widger



LETTERS OF PLINY

By Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus

Translated by William Melmoth


Revised by F. C. T. Bosanquet



GAIUS PLINIUS CAECILIUS SECUNDUS, usually known as Pliny the Younger,
was born at Como in 62 A. D. He was only eight years old when his father
Caecilius died, and he was adopted by his uncle, the elder Pliny, author
of the Natural History. He was carefully educated, studying rhetoric
under Quintilian and other famous teachers, and he became the most
eloquent pleader of his time. In this and in much else he imitated
Cicero, who had by this time come to be the recognized master of Latin
style. While still young he served as military tribune in Syria, but he
does not seem to have taken zealously to a soldier's life. On his return
he entered politics under the Emperor Domitian; and in the year 100 A.
D. was appointed consul by Trajan and admitted to confidential
intercourse with that emperor. Later while he was governor of Bithynia,
he was in the habit of submitting every point of policy to his master,
and the correspondence between Trajan and him, which forms the last part
of the present selection, is of a high degree of interest, both on
account of the subjects discussed and for the light thrown on the
characters of the two men. He is supposed to have died about 113 A. D.
Pliny's speeches are now lost, with the exception of one, a panegyric on
Trajan delivered in thanksgiving for the consulate. This, though diffuse
and somewhat too complimentary for modern taste, became a model for this
kind of composition. The others were mostly of two classes, forensic and
political, many of the latter being, like Cicero's speech against
Verres, impeachments of provincial governors for cruelty and extortion
toward their subjects. In these, as in his public activities in general,
he appears as a man of public spirit and integrity; and in his relations
with his native town he was a thoughtful and munificent benefactor.

The letters, on which to-day his fame mainly rests, were largely written
with a view to publication, and were arranged by Pliny himself. They
thus lack the spontaneity of Cicero's impulsive utterances, but to most
modern readers who are not special students of Roman history they are
even more interesting. They deal with a great variety of subjects: the
description of a Roman villa; the charms of country life; the reluctance
of people to attend author's readings and to listen when they were
present; a dinner party; legacy-hunting in ancient Rome; the acquisition
of a piece of statuary; his love for his young wife; ghost stories;
floating islands, a tame dolphin, and other marvels. But by far the best
known are those describing the great eruption of Vesuvius in which his
uncle perished, a martyr to scientific curiosity, and the letter to
Trajan on his attempts to suppress Christianity in Bithynia, with
Trajan's reply approving his policy. Taken altogether, these letters
give an absorbingly vivid picture of the days of the early empire, and
of the interests of a cultivated Roman gentleman of wealth.
Occasionally, as in the last letters referred to, they deal with
important historical events; but their chief value is in bringing before
us, in somewhat the same manner as "The Spectator" pictures the England
of the age of Anne, the life of a time which is not so unlike our own as
its distance in years might indicate. And in this time by no means the
least interesting figure is that of the letter-writer himself, with his
vanity and self-importance, his sensibility and generous affection, his
pedantry and his loyalty.



CONTENTS



LETTERS GAIUS PLINIUS CAECILIUS SECUNDUS

I -- To SEPTITTUS

II -- To ARRIANUS

III -- To VOCONIUS ROMANUS

IV -- To CORNELIUS TACITUS

V -- To POMPEIUS SATURNINUS

VI -- To ATRIUS CLEMENS

VII -- To FABIUS JUSTUS

VIII -- To CALESTRIUS TIRO

IX -- To SOCIUS SENECIO

X -- To JUNSUS MAURICUS

XI -- To SEPTITIUS CLARUS

XII -- To SUETONIUS TRANQUILLUS

XIII -- To ROMANUS FIRMUS

XIV -- TO CORNELIUS TACITUS

XV -- To PATERNUS

XVI -- To CATILIUS SEVERUS [27]

XVII -- To VOCONIUS ROMANUS

XVIII -- To NEPOS

XIX -- To AVITUS

XX -- To MACRINUS

XXI -- To PAISCUS

XXII -- To MAIMUS

XXIII -- To GALLUS

XXIV -- To CEREALIS

XXV -- To CALVISIUS

XXVI -- To CALVISIUS

XXVII -- To BAEBIUS MACER

XXVIII -- To ANNIUS SEVERUS

XXIX -- To CANINIUS RUFUS

XXX -- To SPURINNA AND COTTIA[53]

XXXI -- To JULIUS GENITOR

XXXII -- To CATILIUS SEVERUS

XXXIII -- To ACILIUS

XXXIV -- To NEPOS

XXXV -- To SEVERUS

XXXVI -- To CALVISIUS RUFUS

XXXVII -- To CORNELIUS PRISCUS

XXXVIII -- To FABATUS (HIS WIFE'S GRANDFATHER)

XXXIX -- To ATTIUS CLEMENS

XL -- To CATIUS LEPIDUS

XLI -- To MATURUS ARRIANUS

XLII -- To STATIUS SABINUS

XLIII -- To CORNELIUS MINICIANUS

XLV -- To ASINIUS

XLVI -- To HISPULLA

XLVII -- To ROMATIUS FIASIUS

XLVIII -- To LICINIUS SURA

XLIX -- To ANNIUS SEVERUS

L -- To TITIUS ARISTO

LI -- To NONIUS MAXIMUS

LII -- To DOMITIUS APOLLINARIS

LIII -- To CALVISIUS

LIV -- To MARCELLINUS

LV -- To SPURINNA

LVI -- To PAULINUS

LVII -- To RUFUS

LVIII -- To ARRIANUS

LIX -- To CALPURNIA[88]

LX -- To CALPURNIA

LXI -- To PRISCUS

LXII -- To ALBINUS

LXIII -- To MAXIMUS

LXIV -- To ROMANUS

LXV -- To TACITUS

LXVI -- To CORNELIUS TACITUS

LX VII -- To MACER

LXVIII -- To SERVIANUS

LXIX -- To SEVERUS

LXX -- To FABATUS

LXXI -- To CORNELIANUS

LXXII -- To MAXIMUS

LXXIII -- To RESTITUTUS

LXXIV -- To CALPURNIA[111]

LXXV -- To MACRINUS

LXXVI -- To TUSCUS

LXX VII -- To FABATUS (HIS WIFE'S GRANDFATHER)

LXXVIII -- To CORELLIA

LXXIX -- To CELER

LXXX -- To PRISCUS

LXXXI -- To GEMINIUS

LXXXII -- To MAXIMUS

LXXXIII -- To SURA

LXXXIV -- To SEPTITIUS

LXXXV -- To TACITUS

LXXX VI -- To SEPTITIUS

LXXXVII -- To CALVISIUS

LXXX VIII -- To ROMANUS

LXXXIX -- To ARISTO

XC -- To PATERNUS

XCI -- To MACRINUS

XCII -- To RUFINUS

XCIII -- To GALLUS

XCIV -- To ARRIANUS

XCV -- To MAXIMUS

XCVI -- To PAULINUS

XCVII -- To CALVISIUS

XCVIII -- To ROMANUS

XCIX -- To GEMINUS

C -- To JUNIOR

CI -- To QUADRATUS

CII -- To GENITOR

CIII -- To SABINIANUS

CIV -- To MAXIMUS

CV -- To SABINIANUS

CVI -- To LUPERCUS

CVII -- To CANINIUS

CVIII -- To Fuscus

CIX -- To PAULINUS

CX -- To FUSCUS

FOOTNOTES TO THE LETTERS OF PLINY]



CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

I -- TO THE EMPEROR TRAJAN[1001]

II -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

III -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

IV -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

V -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

VI -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

VII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

VIII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

X -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XI -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XIII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XIV -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XV -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XVI -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XVII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XVIII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XIX -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XX -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXI -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXIII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXIV -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXV -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXVI -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXVII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXVIII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXIX -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXX -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXXI -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XXXII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXXIII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XXXIV -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXXV -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XXXVI -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXX VII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XXXVIII To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XXXIX -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XL -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XLI -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XLII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XLIII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XLIV -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XLV -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XLVI -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XLVII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XLVIII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XLIX -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

L -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LI -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LIII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LIV -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LV -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LVI -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LVII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LVIII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LIX -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LX -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LXI -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LXII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LXIII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LXIV -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LXV -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LXVI -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LXVII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LX VIII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LXIX -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LXX -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LXXI -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LXXII TRAJAN TO PLINY

LXXIII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LXX IV -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LXXV -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LXXVI -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LXXVII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LXXVIII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LXXIX -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LXXX -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LXXXI -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LXXXII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LXXXIII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LXXXIV -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LXXXV -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LXXXVI -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LXXXVII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

LXXXVIII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

LXXXIX -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XC -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XCI -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XCII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XCIII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XCIV -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XCV -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XCVI -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XCVII To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

XCVIII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

XCIX -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

C -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

CI To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

CII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

CIII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

CIV -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

CV -- To TIlE EMPEROR TRAJAN

CVI -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

CVII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

CVIII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

CIX -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

CX -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

CXI -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

CXII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

CXIII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

CXIV -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

CXV -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

CXVI -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

CXVII -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

CXVIII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

CXIX -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

CXX -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

CXXI -- To THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

CXXII -- TRAJAN TO PLINY

FOOTNOTES TO THE CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE EMPEROR TRAJAN



LETTERS GAIUS PLINIUS CAECILIUS SECUNDUS



I -- To SEPTITTUS

YOU have frequently pressed me to make a select collection of my Letters
(if there really be any deserving of a special preference) and give them
to the public. I have selected them accordingly; not, indeed, in their
proper order of time, for I was not compiling a history; but just as
each came to hand. And now I have only to wish that you may have no
reason to repent of your advice, nor I of my compliance: in that case, I
may probably enquire after the rest, which at present be neglected, and
preserve those I shall hereafter write. Farewell.



II -- To ARRIANUS

I FORESEE your journey in my direction is likely to be delayed, and
therefore send you the speech which I promised in my former; requesting
you, as usual, to revise and correct it. I desire this the more
earnestly as I never, I think, wrote with the same empressment in any of
my former speeches; for I have endeavoured to imitate your old favourite
Demosthenes and Calvus, who is lately become mine, at least in the
rhetorical forms of the speech; for to catch their sublime spirit, is
given, alone, to the "inspired few." My subject, indeed, seemed
naturally to lend itself to this (may I venture to call it?) emulation;
consisting, as it did, almost entirely in a vehement style of address,
even to a degree sufficient to have awakened me (if only I am capable of
being awakened) out of that indolence in which I have long reposed. I
have not however altogether neglected the flowers of rhetoric of my
favourite Marc-Tully, wherever I could with propriety step out of my
direct road, to enjoy a more flowery path: for it was energy, not
austerity, at which I aimed. I would not have you imagine by this that I
am bespeaking your indulgence: on the contrary, to make your correcting
pen more vigorous, I will confess that neither my friends nor myself are
averse from the publication of this piece, if only you should join in
the approval of what is perhaps my folly. The truth is, as I must
publish something, I wish it might be this performance rather than any
other, because it is already finished: (you hear the wish of laziness.)
At all events, however, something I must publish, and for many reasons;
chiefly because of the tracts which I have already sent in to the world,
though they have long since lost all their recommendation from novelty,
are still, I am told, in request; if, after all, the booksellers are not
tickling my ears. And let them; since, by that innocent deceit, I am
encouraged to pursue my studies. Farewell.



III -- To VOCONIUS ROMANUS

DID YOU ever meet with a more abject and mean-spirited creature than
Marcus Regulus since the death of Domitian, during whose reign his
conduct was no less infamous, though more concealed, than under Nero's?
He began to be afraid I was angry with him, and his apprehensions were
perfectly correct; I was angry. He had not only done his best to
increase the peril of the position in which Rusticus Arulenus[1] stood,
but had exulted in his death; insomuch that he actually recited and
published a libel upon his memory, in which he styles him "The Stoics'
Ape": adding, "stigmated[2] with the Vitellian scar."[3] You recognize
Regulus' eloquent strain! He fell with such fury upon the
character of Herennius Senecio that Metius Carus said to him, one day,
"What business have you with my dead? Did I ever interfere in the affair
of Crassus[4] or Camerinus?"[5] Victims, you know, to Regulus, in Nero's
time. For these reasons he imagined I was highly exasperated, and so at
the recitation of his last piece, I got no invitation. Besides, he had
not forgotten, it seems, with what deadly purpose he had once attacked
me in the Court of the Hundred.[6] Rusticus had desired me to act as
counsel for Arionilla, Titnon's wife: Regulus was engaged against me. In
one part of the case I was strongly insisting upon a particular judgment
given by Metius Modestus, an excellent man, at that time in banishment
by Domitian's order. Now then for Regulus. "Pray," says he, "what is
your opinion of Modestus?" You see what a risk I should have run had I
answered that I had a high opinion of him, how I should have disgraced
myself on the other hand if I had replied that I had a bad opinion of
him. But some guardian power, I am persuaded, must have stood by me to
assist me in this emergency. "I will tell you my opinion," I said, "if
that is a matter to be brought before the court." "I ask you," he
repeated, "what is your opinion of Modestus?" I replied that it was
customary to examine witnesses to the character of an accused man, not
to the character of one on whom sentence had already been passed. He
pressed me a third time. "I do not now enquire," said he, "your opinion
of Modestus in general, I only ask your opinion of his loyalty." "Since
you will have my opinion then," I rejoined, "I think it illegal even to
ask a question concerning a person who stands convicted." He sat down at
this, completely silenced; and I received applause and congratulation on
all sides, that without injuring my reputation by an advantageous,
perhaps, though ungenerous answer, I had not entangled myself in the
toils of so insidious a catch-question. Thoroughly frightened upon this
then, he first seizes upon Caecilius Celer, next he goes and begs of
Fabius Justus, that they would use their joint interest to bring about a
reconciliation between us. And lest this should not be sufficient, he
sets off to Spurinna as well; to whom he came in the humblest way (for
he is the most abject creature alive, where he has anything to be afraid
of) and says to him, "Do, I entreat of you, call on Pliny to-morrow
morning, certainly in the morning, no later (for I cannot endure this
anxiety of mind longer), and endeavour by any means in your power to
soften his resentment." I was already up, the next day, when a message
arrived from Spurinna, "I am coming to call on you." I sent word back,
"Nay, I will wait upon you;" however, both of us setting out to pay this
visit, we met under Livia's portico. He acquainted me with the
commission he had received from Regulus, and interceded for him as
became so worthy a man in behalf of one so totally dissimilar, without
greatly pressing the thing. "I will leave it to you," was my reply, "to
consider what answer to return Regulus; you ought not to be deceived by
me. I am waiting for Mauricus'[7] return" (for he had not yet come back
out of exile), "so that I cannot give you any definite answer either
way, as I mean to be guided entirely by his decision, for he ought to be
my leader here, and I simply to do as he says." Well, a few days after
this, Regulus met me as I was at the praetor's; he kept close to me
there and begged a word in private, when he said he was afraid I deeply
resented an expression he had once made use of in his reply to Satrius
and myself, before the Court of the Hundred, to this effect, "Satrius
Rufus, who does not endeavour to rival Cicero, and who is content with
the eloquence of our own day." I answered, now I perceived indeed, upon
his own confession, that he had meant it ill-naturedly; otherwise it
might have passed for a compliment. "For I am free to own," I said,
"that I do endeavour to rival Cicero, and am not content with the
eloquence of our own day. For I consider it the very height of folly not
to copy the best models of every kind. But, how happens it that you, who
have so good a recollection of what passed upon this occasion, should
have forgotten that other, when you asked me my opinion of the loyalty
of Modestus?" Pale as he always is, he turned simply pallid at this, and
stammered out, "I did not intend to hurt you when I asked this question,
but Modestus." Observe the vindictive cruelty of the fellow, who made no
concealment of his willingness to injure a banished man. But the reason
he alleged in justification of his conduct is pleasant. Modestus, he
explained, in a letter of his, which was read to Domitian, had used the
following expression, "Regulus, the biggest rascal that walks upon two
feet:" and what Modestus had written was the simple truth, beyond all
manner of controversy. Here, about, our conversation came to an end, for
I did not wish to proceed further, being desirous to keep matters open
until Mauricus returns. It is no easy matter, I am well aware of that,
to destroy Regulus; he is rich, and at the head of a party; courted[8]
by many, feared by more: a passion that will sometimes prevail even
beyond friendship itself. But, after all, ties of this sort are not so
strong but they may be loosened; for a bad man's credit is as shifty as
himself. However (to repeat), I am waiting until Mauricus comes back. He
is a man of sound judgment and great sagacity formed upon long
experience, and who, from his observations of the past, well knows how
to judge of the future. I shall talk the matter over with him, and
consider myself justified either in pursuing or dropping this affair, as
he shall advise. Meanwhile I thought I owed this account to our mutual
friendship, which gives you an undoubted right to know about not only
all my actions but all my plans as well. Farewell.



IV -- To CORNELIUS TACITUS

You will laugh (and you are quite welcome) when I tell you that your old
acquaintance is turned sportsman, and has taken three noble boars.
"What!" you exclaim, "Pliny!"--Even he. However, I indulged at the same
time my beloved inactivity; and, whilst I sat at my nets, you would have
found me, not with boar spear or javelin, but pencil and tablet, by my
side. I mused and wrote, being determined to return, if with all my
hands empty, at least with my memorandums full. Believe me, this way of
studying is not to be despised: it is wonderful how the mind is stirred
and quickened into activity by brisk bodily exercise. There is
something, too, in the solemnity of the venerable woods with which one
is surrounded, together with that profound silence which is observed on
these occasions, that forcibly disposes the mind to meditation. So for
the future, let me advise you, whenever you hunt, to take your tablets
along with you, as well as your basket and bottle, for be assured you
will find Minerva no less fond of traversing the hills than Diana.
Farewell.



V -- To POMPEIUS SATURNINUS

NOTHING could be more seasonable than the letter which I received from
you, in which you so earnestly beg me to send you some of my literary
efforts: the very thing I was intending to do. So you have only put
spurs into a willing horse and at once saved yourself the excuse of
refusing the trouble, and me the awkwardness of asking the favour.
Without hesitation then I avail myself of your offer; as you must now
take the consequence of it without reluctance. But you are not to expect
anything new from a lazy fellow, for I am going to ask you to revise
again the speech I made to my fellow-townsmen when I dedicated the
public library to their use. You have already, I remember, obliged me
with some annotations upon this piece, but only in a general way; and so
I now beg of you not only to take a general view of the whole speech,
but, as you usually do, to go over it in detail. When you have corrected
it, I shall still be at liberty to publish or suppress it: and the delay
in the meantime will be attended with one of these alternatives; for,
while we are deliberating whether it is fit for publishing, a frequent
revision will either make it so, or convince me that it is not. Though
indeed my principal difficulty respecting the publication of this
harangue arises not so much from the composition as out of the subject
itself, which has something in it, I am afraid, that will look too like
ostentation and self-conceit. For, be the style ever so plain and
unassuming, yet, as the occasion necessarily led me to speak not only of
the munificence of my ancestors, but of my own as well, my modesty will
be seriously embarrassed. A dangerous and slippery situation this, even
when one is led into it by plea of necessity! For, if mankind are not
very favourable to panegyric, even when bestowed upon others, how much
more difficult is it to reconcile them to it when it is a tribute which
we pay to ourselves or to our ancestors? Virtue, by herself, is
generally the object of envy, but particularly so when glory and
distinction attend her; and the world is never so little disposed to
detract from the rectitude of your conduct as when it passes unobserved
and unapplauded. For these reasons, I frequently ask myself whether I
composed this harangue, such as it is, merely from a personal
consideration, or with a view to the public as well; and I am sensible
that what may be exceedingly useful and proper in the prosecution of any
affair may lose all its grace and fitness the moment the business is
completed: for instance, in the case before us, what could be more to my
purpose than to explain at large the motives of my intended bounty? For,
first, it engaged my mind in good and ennobling thoughts; next, it
enabled me, by frequent dwelling upon them, to receive a perfect
impression of their loveliness, while it guarded at the same time
against that repentance which is sure to follow on an impulsive act of
generosity. There arose also a further advantage from this method, as it
fixed in me a certain habitual contempt of money. For, while mankind
seem to be universally governed by an innate passion to accumulate
wealth, the cultivation of a more generous affection in my own breast
taught me to emancipate myself from the slavery of so predominant a
principle: and I thought that my honest intentions would be the more
meritorious as they should appear to proceed, not from sudden impulse,
but from the dictates of cool and deliberate reflection. I considered,
besides, that I was not engaging myself to exhibit public games or
gladiatorial combats, but to establish an annual fund for the support
and education of young men of good families but scanty means. The
pleasures of the senses are so far from wanting the oratorical arts to
recommend them that we stand in need of all the powers of eloquence to
moderate and restrain rather than stir up their influence. But the work
of getting anybody to cheerfully undertake the monotony and drudgery of
education must be effected not by pay merely, but by a skilfully worked-
up appeal to the emotions as well. If physicians find it expedient to
use the most insinuating address in recommending to their patients a
wholesome though, perhaps, unpleasant regimen, how much more occasion
had he to exert all the powers of persuasion who, out of regard to the
public welfare, was endeavouring to reconcile it to a most useful though
not equally popular benefaction? Particularly, as my aim was to
recommend an institution, calculated solely for the benefit of those who
were parents to men who, at present, had no children; and to persuade
the greater number to wait patiently until they should be entitled to an
honour of which a few only could immediately partake. But as at that
time, when I attempted to explain and enforce the general design and
benefit of my institution, I considered more the general good of my
countrymen, than any reputation which might result to myself; so I am
apprehensive lest, if I publish that piece, it may perhaps look as if I
had a view rather to my own personal credit than the benefit of others.
Besides, I am very sensible how much nobler it is to place the reward of
virtue in the silent approbation of one's own breast than in the
applause of the world. Glory ought to be the consequence, not the
motive, of our actions; and although it happen not to attend the worthy
deed, yet it is by no means the less fair for having missed the applause
it deserved. But the world is apt to suspect that those who celebrate
their own beneficent acts performed them for no other motive than to
have the pleasure of extolling them. Thus, the splendour of an action
which would have been deemed illustrious if related by another is
totally extinguished when it becomes the subject of one's own applause.
Such is the disposition of mankind, if they cannot blast the action,
they will censure its display; and whether you do what does not deserve
particular notice, or set forth yourself what does, either way you incur
reproach. In my own case there is a peculiar circumstance that weighs
much with me: this speech was delivered not before the people, but the
Decurii;[9] not in the forum, but the senate; I am afraid therefore it
will look inconsistent that I, who, when I delivered it, seemed to avoid
popular applause, should now, by publishing this performance, appear to
court it: that I, who was so scrupulous as not to admit even these
persons to be present when I delivered this speech, who were interested
in my benefaction, lest it might be suspected I was actuated in this
affair by any ambitious views, should now seem to solicit admiration, by
forwardly displaying it to such as have no other concern in my
munificence than the benefit of example. These are the scruples which
have occasioned my delay in giving this piece to the public; but I
submit them entirely to your judgment, which I shall ever esteem as a
sufficient sanction of my conduct. Farewell.



VI -- To ATRIUS CLEMENS

IF ever polite literature flourished at Rome, it certainly flourishes
now; and I could give you many eminent instances: I will content myself,
however, with naming only Euphrates[10] the philosopher. I first became
acquainted with this excellent person in my youth, when I served in the
army in Syria. I had an opportunity of conversing with him familiarly,
and took some pains to gain his affection: though that, indeed, was not
very difficult, for he is easy of access, unreserved, and actuated by
those social principles he professes to teach. I should think myself
extremely happy if I had as fully answered the expectations he, at that
time, conceived of me, as he exceeds everything I had imagined of him.
But, perhaps, I admire his excellencies more now than I did then,
because I know better how to appreciate them; not that I sufficiently
appreciate them even now. For as none but those who are skilled in
painting, statuary, or the plastic art, can form a right judgment of any
performance in those respective modes of representation, so a man must,
himself, have made great advances in philosophy before he is capable of
forming a just opinion of a philosopher. However, as far as I am
qualified to determine, Euphrates is possessed of so many shining
talents that he cannot fail to attract and impress the most ordinarily
educated observer. He reasons with much force, acuteness, and elegance;
and frequently rises into all the sublime and luxuriant eloquence of
Plato. His style is varied and flowing, and at the same time so
wonderfully captivating that he forces the reluctant attention of the
most unwilling hearer. For the rest, a fine stature, a comely aspect,
long hair, and a large silver beard; circumstances which, though they
may probably be thought trifling and accidental, contribute, however, to
gain him much reverence. There is no affected negligence in his dress
and appearance; his countenance is grave but not austere; and his
approach commands respect without creating awe. Distinguished as he is
by the perfect blamelessness of his life, he is no less so by the
courtesy and engaging sweetness of his manner. He attacks vices, not
persons, and, without severity, reclaims the wanderer from the paths of
virtue. You follow his exhortations with rapt attention, hanging, as it
were, upon his lips; and even after the heart is convinced, the ear
still wishes to listen to the harmonious reasoner. His family consists
of three children (two of which are sons), whom he educates with the
utmost care. His father-in-law, Pompeius Julianus, as he greatly
distinguished himself in every other part of his life, so particularly
in this, that though he was himself of the highest rank in his province,
yet, among many considerable matches, he preferred Euphrates for his
son-in-law, as first in merit, though not in dignity. But why do I dwell
any longer upon the virtues of a man whose conversation I am so
unfortunate as not to have time sufficiently to enjoy? Is it to increase
my regret and vexation that I cannot enjoy it? My time is wholly taken
up in the execution of a very honourable, indeed, but equally
troublesome, employment; in hearing cases, signing petitions, making up
accounts, and writing a vast amount of the most illiterate literature. I
sometimes complain to Euphrates (for I have leisure at least to
complain) of these unpleasing occupations. He endeavours to console me,
by affirming that, to be engaged in the public service, to hear and
determine cases, to explain the laws, and administer justice, is a part,
and the noblest part, too, of philosophy; as it is reducing to practice
what her professors teach in speculation. But even his rhetoric will
never be able to convince me that it is better to be at this sort of
work than to spend whole days in attending his lectures and learning his
precepts. I cannot therefore but strongly recommend it to you, who have
the time for it, when next you come to town (and you will come, I
daresay, so much the sooner for this), to take the benefit of his
elegant and refined instructions. For I do not (as many do) envy others
the happiness I cannot share with them myself: on the contrary, it is a
very sensible pleasure to me when I find my friends in possession of an
enjoyment from which I have the misfortune to be excluded. Farewell.



VII -- To FABIUS JUSTUS

IT is a long time since I have had a letter from you, "There is nothing
to write about," you say: well then write and let me know just this,
that "there is nothing to write about," or tell me in the good old
style, _If you are well that's right, I am quite well_. This will do for
me, for it implies everything. You think I am joking? Let me assure you
I am in sober earnest. Do let me know how you are; for I cannot remain
ignorant any longer without growing exceedingly anxious about you.
Farewell.



VIII -- To CALESTRIUS TIRO

I HAVE suffered the heaviest loss; if that word be sufficiently strong
to express the misfortune which has deprived me of so excellent a man.
Corellius Rufus is dead; and dead, too, by his own act! A circumstance
of great aggravation to my affliction: as that sort of death which we
cannot impute either to the course of nature, or the hand of Providence,
is, of all others, the most to be lamented. It affords some consolation
in the loss of those friends whom disease snatches from us that they
fall by the general destiny of mankind; but those who destroy themselves
leave us under the inconsolable reflection, that they had it in their
power to have lived longer. It is true, Corellius had many inducements
to be fond of life; a blameless conscience, high reputation, and great
dignity of character, besides a daughter, a wife, a grandson, and
sisters; and, amidst these numerous pledges of happiness, faithful
friends. Still, it must be owned he had the highest motive (which to a
wise man will always have the force of destiny), urging him to this
resolution. He had long been tortured by so tedious and painful a
complaint that even these inducements to living on, considerable as they
are, were over-balanced by the reasons on the other side. In his thirty-
third year (as I have frequently heard him say) he was seized with the
gout in his feet. This was hereditary; for diseases, as well as
possessions, are sometimes handed down by a sort of inheritance. A life
of sobriety and continence had enabled him to conquer and keep down the
disease while he was still young, latterly as it grew upon him with
advancing years, he had to manfully bear it, suffering meanwhile the
most incredible and undeserved agonies; for the gout was now not only in
his feet, but had spread itself over his whole body. I remember, in
Domitian's reign, paying him a visit at his villa, near Rome. As soon as
I entered his chamber, his servants went out: for it was his rule, never
to allow them to be in the room when any intimate friend was with him;
nay, even his own wife, though she could have kept any secret, used to
go too. Casting his eyes round the room, "Why," he exclaimed, "do you
suppose I endure life so long under these cruel agonies? It is with the
hope that I may outlive, at least for one day, that villain." Had his
bodily strength been equal to his resolution, he would have carried his
desire into practical effect. God heard and answered his prayer; and
when he felt that he should now die a free, un-enslaved, Roman, he broke
through those other great, but now less forcible, attachments to the
world. His malady increased; and, as it now grew too violent to admit of
any relief from temperance, he resolutely determined to put an end to
its uninterrupted attacks, by an effort of heroism. He had refused all
sustenance during four days when his wife Hispulla sent our common
friend Geminius to me, with the melancholy news, that Corellius was
resolved to die; and that neither her own entreaties nor her daughter's
could move him from his purpose; I was the only person left who could
reconcile him to life. I ran to his house with the utmost precipitation.
As I approached it, I met a second messenger from Hispulla, Julius
Atticus, who informed me there was nothing to be hoped for now, even
from me, as he seemed more hardened than ever in his purpose. He had
said, indeed to his physician, who pressed him to take some nourishment,
"'Tis resolved": an expression which, as it raised my admiration of the
greatness of his soul, so it does my grief for the loss of him. I keep
thinking what a friend, what a man, I am deprived of. That he had
reached his sixty-seventh year, an age which even the strongest seldom
exceed, I well know; that he is released from a life of continual pain;
that he has left his dearest friends behind him, and (what was dearer to
him than all these) the state in a prosperous condition: all this I
know. Still I cannot forbear to lament him, as if he had been in the
prime and vigour of his days; and I lament him (shall I own my
weakness?) on my account. And--to confess to you as I did to Calvisius,
in the first transport of my grief--I sadly fear, now that I am no
longer under his eye, I shall not keep so strict a guard over my
conduct. Speak comfort to me then, not that he was old, he was infirm;
all this I know: but by supplying me with some reflections that are new
and resistless, which I have never heard, never read, anywhere else. For
all that I have heard, and all that I have read, occur to me of
themselves; but all these are by far too weak to support me under so
severe an affliction. Farewell.



IX -- To SOCIUS SENECIO

This year has produced a plentiful crop of poets: during the whole month
of April scarcely a day has passed on which we have not been entertained
with the recital of some poem. It is a pleasure to me to find that a
taste for polite literature still exists, and that men of genius do come
forward and make themselves known, notwithstanding the lazy attendance
they got for their pains. The greater part of the audience sit in the
lounging-places, gossip away their time there, and are perpetually
sending to enquire whether the author has made his entrance yet, whether
he has got through the preface, or whether he has almost finished the
piece. Then at length they saunter in with an air of the greatest
indifference, nor do they condescend to stay through the recital, but go
out before it is over, some slyly and stealthily, others again with
perfect freedom and unconcern. And yet our fathers can remember how
Claudius Cæsar walking one day in the palace, and hearing a great
shouting, enquired the cause: and being informed that Nonianus[11] was
reciting a composition of his, went immediately to the place, and
agreeably surprised the author with his presence. But now, were one to
bespeak the attendance of the idlest man living, and remind him of the
appointment ever so often, or ever so long beforehand; either he would
not come at all, or if he did would grumble about having "lost a day!"
for no other reason but because he had not lost it. So much the more do
those authors deserve our encouragement and applause who have resolution
to persevere in their studies, and to read out their compositions in
spite of this apathy or arrogance on the part of their audience. Myself
indeed, I scarcely ever miss being present upon any occasion; though, to
tell the truth, the authors have generally been friends of mine, as
indeed there are few men of literary tastes who are not. It is this
which has kept me in town longer than I had intended. I am now, however,
at liberty to go back into the country, and write something myself;
which I do not intend reciting, lest I should seem rather to have lent
than given my attendance to these recitations of my friends, for in
these, as in all other good offices, the obligation ceases the moment
you seem to expect a return. Farewell.



X -- To JUNSUS MAURICUS

You desire me to look out a proper husband for your niece: it is with
justice you enjoin me that office. You know the high esteem and
affection I bore that great man her father, and with what noble
instructions he nurtured my youth, and taught me to deserve those
praises he was pleased to bestow upon me. You could not give me, then, a
more important, or more agreeable, commission; nor could I be employed
in an office of higher honour, than that of choosing a young man worthy
of being father of the grandchildren of Rusticus Arulenus; a choice I
should be long in determining, were I not acquainted with Minutius
Aemilianus, who seems formed for our purpose. He loves me with all that
warmth of affection which is usual between young men of equal years (as
indeed I have the advance of him but by a very few), and reveres me at
the same time, with all the deference due to age; and, in a word, he is
no less desirous to model himself by my instructions than I was by those
of yourself and your brother.

He is a native of Brixia, one of those provinces in Italy which still
retain much of the old modesty, frugal simplicity, and even rusticity,
of manner. He is the son of Minutius Macrinus, whose humble desires were
satisfied with standing at the head of the equestrian order: for though
he was nominated by Vespasian in the number of those whom that prince
dignified with the praetorian office, yet, with an inflexible greatness
of mind, he resolutely preferred an honourable repose, to the ambitious,
shall I call them, or exalted, pursuits, in which we public men are
engaged. His grandmother, on the mother's side, is Serrana Procula, of
Patavium:[12] you are no stranger to the character of its citizens; yet
Serrana is looked upon, even among these correct people, as an exemplary
instance of strict virtue. Acilius, his uncle, is a man of almost
exceptional gravity, wisdom, and integrity. In short, you will find
nothing throughout his family unworthy of yours. Minutius himself has
plenty of vivacity, as well as application, together with a most amiable
and becoming modesty. He has already, with considerable credit, passed
through the offices of quaestor, tribune, and praetor; so that you will
be spared the trouble of soliciting for him those honourable
employments. He has a fine, well-bred, countenance, with a ruddy,
healthy complexion, while his whole person is elegant and comely and his
mien graceful and senatorian: advantages, I think, by no means to be
slighted, and which I consider as the proper tribute to virgin
innocence. I think I may add that his father is very rich. When I
contemplate the character of those who require a husband of my choosing,
I know it is unnecessary to mention wealth; but when I reflect upon the
prevailing manners of the age, and even the laws of Rome, which rank a
man according to his possessions, it certainly claims some regard; and,
indeed, in establishments of this nature, where children and many other
circumstances are to be duly weighed, it is an article that well
deserves to be taken into the account. You will be inclined, perhaps, to
suspect that affection has had too great a share in the character I have
been drawing, and that I have heightened it beyond the truth: but I will
stake all my credit, you will find everything far beyond what I have
represented. I love the young fellow indeed (as he justly deserves) with
all the warmth of a most ardent affection; but for that very reason I
would not ascribe more to his merit than I know it will bear. Farewell.



XI -- To SEPTITIUS CLARUS

Ah! you are a pretty fellow! You make an engagement to come to supper
and then never appear. Justice shall be exacted;--you shall reimburse me
to the very last penny the expense I went to on your account; no small
sum, let me tell you. I had prepared, you must know, a lettuce a-piece,
three snails, two eggs, and a barley cake, with some sweet wine and
snow, (the snow most certainly I shall charge to your account, as a
rarity that will not keep.) Olives, beet-root, gourds, onions, and a
thousand other dainties equally sumptuous. You should likewise have been
entertained either with an interlude, the rehearsal of a poem, or a
piece of music, whichever you preferred; or (such was my liberality)
with all three. But the oysters, sows'-bellies, sea-urchins, and dancers
from Cadiz of a certain--I know not who, were, it seems, more to your
taste. You shall give satisfaction, how, shall at present be a secret.

Oh! you have behaved cruelly, grudging your friend,--had almost said
yourself;--and upon second thoughts I do say so;--in this way: for how
agreeably should we have spent the evening, in laughing, trifling, and
literary amusements! You may sup, I confess, at many places more
splendidly; but nowhere with more unconstrained mirth, simplicity, and
freedom: only make the experiment, and if you do not ever after excuse
yourself to your other friends, to come to me, always put me off to go
to them. Farewell.



XII -- To SUETONIUS TRANQUILLUS

You tell me in your letter that you are extremely alarmed by a dream;
apprehending that it forebodes some ill success to you in the case you
have undertaken to defend; and, therefore, desire that I would get it
adjourned for a few days, or, at least, to the next. This will be no
easy matter, but I will try:


"For dreams descend from Jove."

Meanwhile, it is very material for you to recollect whether your dreams
generally represent things as they afterwards fall out, or quite the
reverse. But if I may judge of yours by one that happened to myself,
this dream that alarms you seems to portend that you will acquit
yourself with great success. I had promised to stand counsel for Junius
Pastor; when I fancied in my sleep that my mother-in-law came to me,
and, throwing herself at my feet, earnestly entreated me not to plead. I
was at that time a very young man; the case was to be argued in the four
centumviral courts; my adversaries were some of the most important
personages in Rome, and particular favourites of Cæsar;[13] any of which
circumstances were sufficient, after such an inauspicious dream, to have
discouraged me. Notwithstanding this, I engaged in the cause, reflecting
that,


"Without a sign, his sword the brave man draws, And asks no omen but his
country's cause."<a href="#linknote-14" name="linknoteref-14"
id="linknoteref-14">[14]</a>

for I looked upon the promise I had given to be as sacred to me as my
country, or, if that were possible, more so. The event happened as I
wished; and it was that very case which first procured me the favourable
attention of the public, and threw open to me the gates of Fame.
Consider then whether your dream, like this one I have related, may not
pre-signify success. But, after all, perhaps you will think it safer to
pursue this cautious maxim: "Never do a thing concerning the rectitude
of which you are in doubt;" if so, write me word. In the interval, I
will consider of some excuse, and will so plead your cause that you may
be able to plead it your self any day you like best. In this respect,
you are in a better situation than I was: the court of the centumviri,
where I was to plead, admits of no adjournment: whereas, in that where
your case is to be heard, though no easy matter to procure one, still,
however, it is possible. Farewell.



XIII -- To ROMANUS FIRMUS

As you are my towns-man, my school-fellow, and the earliest companion of
my youth; as there was the strictest friendship between my mother and
uncle and your father (a happiness which I also enjoyed as far as the
great inequality of our ages would admit); can I fail (thus biassed as I
am by so many and weighty considerations) to contribute all in my power
to the advancement of your honours? The rank you bear in our province,
as decurio, is a proof that you are possessed, at least, of an hundred
thousand sesterces;[15] but that we may also have the satisfaction of
seeing you a Roman Knight,[16] I present you with three hundred
thousand, in order to make up the sum requisite to entitle you to that
dignity. The long acquaintance we have had leaves me no room to
apprehend you will ever be forgetful of this instance of my friendship.
And I know your disposition too well to think it necessary to advise you
to enjoy this honour with the modesty that becomes a person who receives
it from me; for the advanced rank we possess through a friend's kindness
is a sort of sacred trust, in which we have his judgment, as well as our
own character, to maintain, and therefore to be guarded with the greater
caution. Farewell.



XIV -- TO CORNELIUS TACITUS

I HAVE frequent debates with a certain acquaintance of mine, a man of
skill and learning, who admires nothing so much in the eloquence of the
bar as conciseness. I agree with him, that where the case will admit of
this precision, it may with propriety be adopted; but insist that, to
leave out what is material to be mentioned,--or only briefly and
cursorily to touch upon those points which should be inculcated,
impressed, and urged well home upon the minds of the audience, is a
downright fraud upon one's client. In many cases, to deal with the
subject at greater length adds strength and weight to our ideas, which
frequently produce their impression upon the mind, as iron does upon
solid bodies, rather by repeated strokes than a single blow. In answer
to this, he usually has recourse to authorities, and produces Lysias[17]
amongst the Grecians, together with Cato and the two Gracchi, among our
own countrymen, many of whose speeches certainly are brief and
curtailed. In return, I name Demosthenes, Aeschines, Hyperides,[18] and
many others, in opposition to Lysias; while I confront Cato and the
Gracchi with Cæsar, Pollio,[19] Caelius,[20] but, above all, Cicero,
whose longest speech is generally considered his best. Why, no doubt
about it, in good compositions, as in everything else that is valuable,
the more there is of them, the better. You may observe in statues,
basso-relievos, pictures, and the human form, and even in animals and
trees, that nothing is more graceful than magnitude, if accompanied with
proportion. The same holds true in pleading; and even in books a large
volume carries a certain beauty and authority in its very size. My
antagonist, who is extremely dexterous at evading an argument, eludes
all this, and much more, which I usually urge to the same purpose, by
insisting that those very individuals, upon whose works I found my
opinion, made considerable additions to their speeches when they
published them. This I deny; and appeal to the harangues of numberless
orators, particularly to those of Cicero, for Murena and Varenus, in
which a short, bare notification of certain charges is expressed under
mere heads. Whence it appears that many things which he enlarged upon at
the time he delivered those speeches were retrenched when he gave them
to the public. The same excellent orator informs us that, agreeably to
the ancient custom, which allowed only of one counsel on a side,
Cluentius had no other advocate than himself; and he tells us further
that he employed four whole days in defence of Cornelius; by which it
plainly appears that those speeches which, when delivered at their full
length, had necessarily taken up so much time at the bar were
considerably cut down and pruned when he afterwards compressed them into
a single volume, though, I must confess, indeed, a large one. But good
pleading, it is objected, is one thing, just composition another. This
objection, I am aware, has had some favourers; nevertheless, I am
persuaded (though I may, perhaps, be mistaken) that, as it is possible
you may have a good pleading which is not a good speech, so a good
speech cannot be a bad pleading; for the speech on paper is the model
and, as it were, the archetype of the speech that was delivered. It is
for this reason we find, in many of the best speeches extant, numberless
extemporaneous turns of expression; and even in those which we are sure
were never spoken; as, for instance, in the following passage from the
speech against Verres: --"A certain mechanic--what's his name? Oh, thank
you for helping me to it: yes, I mean Polyclitus." It follows, then,
that the nearer approach a speaker makes to the rules of just
composition, the more perfect will he be in his art; always supposing,
however, that he has his due share of time allowed him; for, if he be
limited of that article, no blame can justly be fixed upon the advocate,
though much certainly upon the judge. The sense of the laws, I am sure,
is on my side, which are by no means sparing of the orator's time; it is
not conciseness, but fulness, a complete representation of every
material circumstance, which they recommend. Now conciseness cannot
effect this, unless in the most insignificant cases. Let me add what
experience, that unerring guide, has taught me: it has frequently been
my province to act both as an advocate and a judge; and I have often
also attended as an assessor.[21] Upon those occasions, I have ever
found the judgments of mankind are to be influenced by different modes
of application, and that the slightest circumstances frequently produce
the most important consequences. The dispositions and understandings of
men vary to such an extent that they seldom agree in their opinions
concerning any one point in debate before them; or, if they do, it is
generally from different motives. Besides, as every man is naturally
partial to his own discoveries, when he hears an argument urged which
had previously occurred to himself, he will be sure to embrace it as
extremely convincing. The orator, therefore, should so adapt himself to
his audience as to throw out something which every one of them, in turn,
may receive and approve as agreeable to his own particular views. I
recollect, once when Regulus and I were engaged on the same side, his
remarking to me, "You seem to think it necessary to go into every single
circumstance: whereas I always take aim at once at my adversary's
throat, and there I press him closely." ('Tis true, he keeps a tight
hold of whatever part he has once fixed upon; but the misfortune is, he
is extremely apt to fix upon the wrong place.) I replied, it might
possibly happen that what he called the throat was, in reality, the knee
or the ankle. As for myself, said I, who do not pretend to direct my aim
with so much precision, I test every part, I probe every opening; in
short, to use a vulgar proverb, I leave no stone unturned. And as in
agriculture, it is not my vineyards or my woods only, but my fields as
well, that I look after and cultivate, and (to carry on the metaphor) as
I do not content myself with sowing those fields simply with corn or
white wheat, but sprinkle in barley, pulse, and the other kinds of
grain; so, in my pleadings at the bar, I scatter broadcast various
arguments like so many kinds of seed, in order to reap whatever may
happen to come up. For the disposition of your judges is as hard to
fathom as uncertain, and as little to be relied on as that of soils and
seasons. The comic writer Eupolis,[22] I remember, mentions it in praise
of that excellent orator Pericles, that


"On his lips Persuasion hung, And powerful Reason rul'd his tongue: Thus
he alone could boast the art To charm at once, and pierce the heart."

[23] But could Pericles, without the richest variety of expression, and
merely by the force of the concise or the rapid style, or both (for they
are very different), have thus charmed and pierced the heart. To delight
and to persuade requires time and great command of language; and to
leave a sting in the minds of the audience is an effect not to be
expected from an orator who merely pinks, but from him, and him only,
who thrusts in. Another comic poet,[24] speaking of the same orator,
says:


"His mighty words like Jove's own thunder roll; Greece hears, and
trembles to her inmost soul."

But it is not the close and reserved; it is the copious, the majestic,
and the sublime orator, who thunders, who lightens, who, in short, bears
all before him in a confused whirl. There is, undeniably, a just mean in
everything; but he equally misses the mark who falls short of it, as he
who goes beyond it; he who is too limited as he who is too unrestrained.
Hence it is as common a thing to hear our orators condemned for being
too jejune and feeble as too excessive and redundant. One is said to
have exceeded the bounds of his subject, the other not to have reached
them. Both, no doubt, are equally in fault, with this difference,
however, that in the one the fault arises from an abundance, in the
other, from a deficiency; an error, in the former case, which, if it be
not the sign of a more correct, is certainly of a more fertile genius.
When I say this, I would not be understood to approve that everlasting
talker[25] mentioned in Homer, but that other' described in the
following lines:


"Frequent and soft, as falls the winter snow, Thus from his lips the
copious periods flow."

Not but that I extremely admire him,[26] too, of whom the poet says,


"Few were his words, but wonderfully strong."

Yet, if the choice were given me, I should give the preference to that
style resembling winter snow, that is, to the full, uninterrupted, and
diffusive; in short, to that pomp of eloquence which seems all heavenly
and divine. But (it is replied) the harangue of a more moderate length
is most generally admired. It is:--but only by indolent people; and to
fix the standard by their laziness and false delicacy would be simply
ridiculous. Were you to consult persons of this cast, they would tell
you, not only that it is best to say little, but that it is best to say
nothing at all. Thus, my friend, I have laid before you my opinions upon
this subject, and I am willing to change them if not agreeable to yours.
But should you disagree with me, pray let me know clearly your reasons
why. For, though I ought to yield in this case to your more enlightened
judgment, yet, in a point of such consequence, I had rather be convinced
by argument than by authority. So if I don't seem to you very wide of
the mark, a line or two from you in return, intimating your concurrence,
will be sufficient to confirm me in my opinion: on the other hand, if
you should think me mistaken, let me have your objections at full
length. Does it not look rather like bribery, my requiring only a short
letter, if you agree with me; but a very long one if you should be of a
different opinion. Farewell.



XV -- To PATERNUS

As I rely very much upon the soundness of your judgment, so I do upon
the goodness of your eyes: not because I think your discernment very
great (for I don't want to make you conceited), but because I think it
as good as mine: which, it must be confessed, is saying a great deal.
Joking apart, I like the look of the slaves which were purchased for me
on your recommendation very well; all I further care about is, that they
be honest: and for this I must depend upon their characters more than
their countenances. Farewell.



XVI -- To CATILIUS SEVERUS [27]

I AM at present (and have been a considerable time) detained in Rome,
under the most stunning apprehensions. Titus Aristo,[28] whom I have a
singular admiration and affection for, is fallen into a long and
obstinate illness, which troubles me. Virtue, knowledge, and good sense,
shine out with so superior a lustre in this excellent man that learning
herself, and every valuable endowment, seem involved in the danger of
his single person. How consummate his knowledge, both in the political
and civil laws of his country! How thoroughly conversant is he in every
branch of history or antiquity? In a word, there is nothing you might
wish to know which he could not teach you. As for me, whenever I would
acquaint myself with any abstruse point, I go to him as my store-house.
What an engaging sincerity, what dignity in his conversation! how
chastened and becoming is his caution! Though he conceives, at once,
every point in debate, yet he is as slow to decide as he is quick to
apprehend; calmly and deliberately sifting and weighing every opposite
reason that is offered, and tracing it, with a most judicious
penetration, from its source through all its remotest consequences. His
diet is frugal, his dress plain; and whenever I enter his chamber, and
view him reclined upon his couch, I consider the scene before me as a
true image of ancient simplicity, to which his illustrious mind reflects
the noblest ornament. He places no part of his happiness in ostentation,
but in the secret approbation of his conscience, seeking the reward of
his virtue, not in the clamorous applauses of the world, but in the
silent satisfaction which results from having acted well. In short, you
will not easily find his equal, even among our philosophers by outward
profession. No, he does not frequent the gymnasia or porticoes[29] nor
does he amuse his own and others' leisure with endless controversies,
but busies himself in the scenes of civil and active life. Many has he
assisted with his interest, still more with his advice, and withal in
the practice of temperance, piety, justice, and fortitude, he has no
superior. You would be astonished, were you there to see, at the
patience with which he bears his illness, how he holds out against pain,
endures thirst, and quietly submits to this raging fever and to the
pressure of those clothes which are laid upon him to promote
perspiration. He lately called me and a few more of his particular
friends to his bedside, requesting us to ask his physicians what turn
they apprehended his distemper would take; that, if they pronounced it
incurable, he might voluntarily put an end to his life; but if there
were hopes of a recovery, how tedious and difficult soever it might
prove, he would calmly wait the event; for so much, he thought, was due
to the tears and entreaties of his wife and daughter, and to the
affectionate intercession of his friends, as not voluntarily to abandon
our hopes, if they were not entirely desperate. A true hero's resolution
this, in my estimation, and worthy the highest applause. Instances are
frequent in the world, of rushing into the arms of death without
reflection and by a sort of blind impulse but deliberately to weigh the
reasons for life or death, and to be determined in our choice as either
side of the scale prevails, shows a great mind. We have had the
satisfaction to receive the opinion of his physicians in his favour: may
heaven favour their promises and relieve me at length from this painful
anxiety. Once easy in my mind, I shall go back to my favourite
Laurentum, or, in other words, to my books, my papers and studious
leisure. Just now, so much of my time and thoughts are taken up in
attendance upon my friend, and anxiety for him, that I have neither
leisure nor inclination for any reading or writing whatever. Thus you
have my fears, my wishes, and my after-plans. Write me in return, but in
a gayer strain, an account not only of what you are and have been doing,
but of what you intend doing too. It will be a very sensible consolation
to me in this disturbance of mind, to be assured that yours is easy.
Farewell.



XVII -- To VOCONIUS ROMANUS

ROME has not for many years beheld a more magnificent and memorable
spectacle than was lately exhibited in the public funeral of that great,
illustrious, and no less fortunate man, Verginius Rufus. He lived thirty
years after he had reached the zenith of his fame. He read poems
composed in his honour, he read histories of his achievements, and was
himself witness of his fame among posterity. He was thrice raised to the
dignity of consul, that he might at least be the highest of subjects,
who[30] had refused to be the first of princes. As he escaped the
resentment of those emperors to whom his virtues had given umbrage and
even rendered him odious, and ended his days when this best of princes,
this friend of mankind[31] was in quiet possession of the empire, it
seems as if Providence had purposely preserved him to these times, that
he might receive the honour of a public funeral. He reached his eighty-
fourth year, in full tranquillity and universally revered, having
enjoyed strong health during his lifetime, with the exception of a
trembling in his hands, which, however, gave him no pain. His last
illness, indeed, was severe and tedious, but even that circumstance
added to his reputation. As he was practising his voice with a view of
returning his public acknowledgements to the emperor, who had promoted
him to the consulship, a large volume he had taken into his hand, and
which happened to be too heavy for so old a man to hold standing up,
slid from his grasp. In hastily endeavouring to recover it, his foot
slipped on the smooth pavement, and he fell down and broke his thigh-
bone, which being clumsily set, his age as well being against him, did
not properly unite again. The funeral obsequies paid to the memory of
this great man have done honour to the emperor, to the age, and to the
bar. The consul Cornelius Tacitus[32] pronounced his funeral oration and
thus his good fortune was crowned by the public applause of so eloquent
an orator. He has departed from our midst, full of years, indeed, and of
glory; as illustrious by the honours he refused as by those he accepted.
Yet still we shall miss him and lament him, as the shining model of a
past age; I, especially, shall feel his loss, for I not only admired him
as a patriot, but loved him as a friend. We were of the same province,
and of neighbouring towns, and our estates were also contiguous. Besides
these accidental connections, he was left my guardian, and always
treated me with a parent's affection. Whenever I offered myself as a
candidate for any office in the state, he constantly supported me with
his interest; and although he had long since given up all such services
to friends, he would kindly leave his retirement and come to give me his
vote in person. On the day on which the priests nominate those they
consider most worthy of the sacred office[33] he constantly proposed me.
Even in his last illness, apprehending the possibility of the senate's
appointing him one of the five commissioners for reducing the public
expenses, he fixed upon me, young as I am, to bear his excuses, in
preference to so many other friends, elderly men too, and of consular
rank and said to me, "Had I a son of my own, I would entrust you with
this matter." And so I cannot but lament his death, as though it were
premature, and pour out my grief into your bosom; if indeed one has any
right to grieve, or to call it death at all, which to such a man
terminates his mortality, rather than ends his life. He lives, and will
live on for ever; and his fame will extend and be more celebrated by
posterity, now that he is gone from our sight. I had much else to write
to you but my mind is full of this. I keep thinking of Verginius: I see
him before me: I am for ever fondly yet vividly imagining that I hear
him, am speaking to him, embrace him. There are men amongst us, his
fellow-citizens, perhaps, who may rival him in virtue; but not one that
will ever approach him in glory. Farewell.



XVIII -- To NEPOS

THE great fame of Isaeus had already preceded him here; but we find him
even more wonderful than we had heard. He possesses the utmost
readiness, copiousness, and abundance of language: he always speaks
extempore, and his lectures are as finished as though he had spent a
long time over their written composition. His style is Greek, or rather
the genuine Attic. His exordiums are terse, elegant, attractive, and
occasionally impressive and majestic. He suggests several subjects for
discussion, allows his audience their choice, sometimes to even name
which side he shall take, rises, arranges himself, and begins. At once
he has everything almost equally at command. Recondite meanings of
things are suggested to you, and words--what words they are! exquisitely
chosen and polished. These extempore speeches of his show the wideness
of his reading, and how much practice he has had in composition. His
preface is to the point, his narrative lucid, his summing up forcible,
his rhetorical ornament imposing. In a word, he teaches, entertains, and
affects you; and you are at a loss to decide which of the three he does
best. His reflections are frequent, his syllogisms also are frequent,
condensed, and carefully finished, a result not easily attainable even
with the pen. As for his memory, you would hardly believe what it is
capable of. He repeats from a long way back what he has previously
delivered extempore, without missing a single word. This marvellous
faculty he has acquired by dint of great application and practice, for
night and day he does nothing, hears nothing, says nothing else. He has
passed his sixtieth year and is still only a rhetorician, and I know no
class of men more single-hearted, more genuine, more excellent than this
class. We who have to go through the rough work of the bar and of real
disputes unavoidably contract a certain unprincipled adroitness. The
school, the lecture-room, the imaginary case, all this, on the other
hand, is perfectly innocent and harmless, and equally enjoyable,
especially to old people, for what can be happier at that time of life
than to enjoy what we found pleasantest in our young days? I consider
Isaeus then, not only the most eloquent, but the happiest, of men, and
if you are not longing to make his acquaintance, you must be made of
stone and iron. So, if not upon my account, or for any other reason,
come, for the sake of hearing this man, at least. Have you never read of
a certain inhabitant of Cadiz who was so impressed with the name and
fame of Livy that he came from the remotest corner of the earth on
purpose to see him, and, his curiosity gratified, went straight home
again. It is utter want of taste, shows simple ignorance, is almost an
actual disgrace to a man, not to set any high value upon a proficiency
in so pleasing, noble, refining a science. "I have authors," you will
reply, "here in my own study, just as eloquent." True: but then those
authors you can read at any time, while you cannot always get the
opportunity of hearing eloquence. Besides, as the proverb says, "The
living voice is that which sways the soul;" yes, far more. For
notwithstanding what one reads is more clearly understood than what one
hears, yet the utterance, countenance, garb, aye and the very gestures
of the speaker, alike concur in fixing an impression upon the mind; that
is, unless we disbelieve the truth of Aeschines' statement, who, after
he had read to the Rhodians that celebrated speech of Demosthenes, upon
their expressing their admiration of it, is said to have added, "Ah!
what would you have said, could you have heard the wild beast himself?"
And Aeschines, if we may take Demosthenes' word for it, was no mean
elocutionist; yet, he could not but confess that the speech would have
sounded far finer from the lips of its author. I am saying all this with
a view to persuading you to hear Isaeus, if even for the mere sake of
being able to say you have heard him. Farewell.



XIX -- To AVITUS

IT would be a long story, and of no great importance, to tell you by
what accident I found myself dining the other day with an individual
with whom I am by no means intimate, and who, in his own opinion, does
things in good style and economically as well, but according to mine,
with meanness and extravagance combined. Some very elegant dishes were
served up to himself and a few more of us, whilst those placed before
the rest of the company consisted simply of cheap dishes and scraps.
There were, in small bottles, three different kinds of wine; not that
the guest might take their choice, but that they might not have any
option in their power; one kind being for himself, and for us; another
sort for his lesser friends (for it seems he has degrees of friends),
and the third for his own freedmen and ours. My neighbour,[34] reclining
next me, observing this, asked me if I approved the arrangement. Not at
all, I told him. "Pray then," he asked, "what is your method upon such
occasions?" "Mine," I returned, "is to give all my visitors the same
reception; for when I give an invitation, it is to entertain, not
distinguish, my company: I place every man upon my own level whom I
admit to my table." "Not excepting even your freedmen?" "Not excepting
even my freedmen, whom I consider on these occasions my guests, as much
as any of the rest." He replied, "This must cost you a great deal." "Not
in the least." "How can that be?" "Simply because, although my freedmen
don't drink the same wine as myself, yet I drink the same as they do."
And, no doubt about it, if a man is wise enough to moderate his
appetite, he will not find it such a very expensive thing to share with
all his visitors what he takes himself. Restrain it, keep it in, if you
wish to be true economist. You will find temperance a far better way of
saving than treating other people rudely can be. Why do I say all this?
Why, for fear a young man of your high character and promise should be
imposed upon by this immoderate luxury which prevails at some tables,
under the specious notion of frugality. Whenever any folly of this sort
falls under my eye, I shall, just because I care for you, point it out
to you as an example you ought to shun. Remember, then, nothing is more
to be avoided than this modern alliance of luxury with meanness; odious
enough when existing separate and distinct, but still more hateful where
you meet with them together. Farewell.



XX -- To MACRINUS

THE senate decreed yesterday, on the emperor's motion, a triumphal
statue to Vestricius Spurinna: not as they would to many others, who
never were in action, or saw a camp, or heard the sound of a trumpet,
unless at a show; but as it would be decreed to those who have justly
bought such a distinction with their blood, their exertions, and their
deeds. Spurinna forcibly restored the king of the Bructeri[35] to his
throne; and this by the noblest kind of victory; for he subdued that
warlike people by the terror of the mere display of his preparation for
the campaign. This is his reward as a hero, while, to console him for
the loss of his son Cottius, who died during his absence upon that
expedition, they also voted a statue to the youth; a very unusual honour
for one so young; but the services of the father deserved that the pain
of so severe a wound should be soothed by no common balm. Indeed Cottius
himself evinced such remarkable promise of the highest qualities that it
is but fitting his short limited term of life should be extended, as it
were, by this kind of immortality. He was so pure and blameless, so full
of dignity, and commanded such respect, that he might have challenged in
moral goodness much older men, with whom he now shares equal honours.
Honours, if I am not mistaken, conferred not only to perpetuate the
memory of the deceased youth, and in consolation to the surviving
father, but for the sake of public example also. This will rouse and
stimulate our young men to cultivate every worthy principle, when they
see such rewards bestowed upon one of their own years, provided he
deserve them: at the same time that men of quality will be encouraged to
beget children and to have the joy and satisfaction of leaving a worthy
race behind, if their children survive them, or of so glorious a
consolation, should they survive their children. Looking at it in this
light then, I am glad, upon public grounds, that a statue is decreed
Cottius: and for my own sake too, just as much; for I loved this most
favoured, gifted, youth, as ardently as I now grievously miss him
amongst us. So that it will be a great satisfaction to me to be able to
look at this figure from time to time as I pass by, contemplate it,
stand underneath, and walk to and fro before it. For if having the
pictures of the departed placed in our homes lightens sorrow, how much
more those public representations of them which are not only memorials
of their air and countenance, but of their glory and honour besides?
Farewell.



XXI To PAISCUS

As I know you eagerly embrace every opportunity of obliging me, so there
is no man whom I had rather be under an obligation to. I apply to you,
therefore, in preference to anyone else, for a favour which I am
extremely desirous of obtaining. You, who are commander-in-chief of a
very considerable army, have many opportunities of exercising your
generosity; and the length of time you have enjoyed that post must have
enabled you to provide for all your own friends. I hope you will now
turn your eyes upon some of mine: as indeed they are but a few Your
generous disposition, I know, would be better pleased if the number were
greater, but one or two will suffice my modest desires; at present I
will only mention Voconius Romanus. His father was of great distinction
among the Roman knights, and his father-in-law, or, I might more
properly call him, his second father, (for his affectionate treatment of
Voconius entitles him to that appellation) was still more conspicuous.
His mother was one of the most considerable ladies of Upper Spain: you
know what character the people of that province bear, and how remarkable
they are for their strictness of their manners. As for himself, he
lately held the post of flamen.[36] Now, from the time when we were
first students together, I have felt very tenderly attached to him. We
lived under the same roof, in town and country, we joked together, we
shared each other's serious thoughts: for where indeed could I have
found a truer friend or pleasanter companion than he? In his
conversation, and even in his very voice and countenance, there is a
rare sweetness; as at the bar he displays talents of a high order;
acuteness, elegance, ease, and skill: and he writes such letters too
that were you to read them you would imagine they had been dictated by
the Muses themselves. I have a very great affection for him, as he has
for me. Even in the earlier part of our lives, I warmly embraced every
opportunity of doing him all the good services which then lay in my
power, as I have lately obtained for him from our most gracious
prince[37] the privilege[38] granted to those who have three children: a
favour which, though Cæsar very rarely bestows, and always with great
caution, yet he conferred, at my request, in such a matter as to give it
the air and grace of being his own choice.

The best way of showing that I think he deserves the kindnesses he has
already received from me is by increasing them, especially as he always
accepts my services so gratefully as to deserve more. Thus I have shown
you what manner of man Romanus is, how thoroughly I have proved his
worth, and how much I love him. Let me entreat you to honour him with
your patronage in a way suitable to the generosity of your heart, and
the eminence of your station. But above all let him have your affection;
for though you were to confer upon him the utmost you have in your power
to bestow, you can give him nothing more valuable than your friendship-
That you may see he is worthy of it, even to the closest degree of
intimacy, I send you this brief sketch of his tastes, character, his
whole life, in fact. I should continue my intercessions in his behalf,
but that I know you prefer not being pressed, and I have already
repeated them in every line of this letter: for, to show a good reason
for what one asks is true intercession, and of the most effectual kind.
Farewell.



XXII -- To MAIMUS

You guessed correctly: I am much engaged in pleading before the Hundred.
The business there is more fatiguing than pleasant. Trifling,
inconsiderable cases, mostly; it is very seldom that anything worth
speaking of, either from the importance of the question or the rank of
the persons concerned, comes before them. There are very few lawyers
either whom I take any pleasure in working with. The rest, a parcel of
impudent young fellows, many of whom one knows nothing whatever about,
come here to get some practice in speaking, and conduct themselves so
forwardly and with such utter want of deference that my friend Attilius
exactly hit it, I think, when he made the observation that "boys set out
at the bar with cases in the Court of the Hundred as they do at school
with Homer," intimating that at both places they begin where they should
end. But in former times (so my elders tell me) no youth, even of the
best families, was allowed in unless introduced by some person of
consular dignity. As things are now, since every fence of modesty and
decorum is broken down, and all distinctions are levelled and
confounded, the present young generation, so far from waiting to be
introduced, break in of their own free will. The audience at their heels
are fit attendants upon such orators; a low rabble of hired mercenaries,
supplied by contract. They get together in the middle of the court,
where the dole is dealt round to them as openly as if they were in a
dining-room: and at this noble price they run from court to court. The
Greeks have an appropriate name in their language for this sort of
people, importing that they are applauders by profession, and we
stigmatize them with the opprobrious title of table-flatterers: yet the
dirty business alluded to increases every day. It was only yesterday two
of my domestic officers, mere striplings, were hired to cheer somebody
or other, at three denarii apiece:[39] that is what the highest
eloquence goes for. Upon these terms we fill as many benches as we
please, and gather a crowd; this is how those rending shouts are raised,
as soon as the individual standing up in the middle of the ring gives
the signal. For, you must know, these honest fellows, who understand
nothing of what is said, or, if they did, could not hear it, would be at
a loss without a signal, how to time their applause: for many of them
don't hear a syllable, and are as noisy as any of the rest. If, at any
time, you should happen to be passing by when the court is sitting, and
feel at all interested to know how any speaker is acquitting himself,
you have no occasion to give yourself the trouble of getting up on the
judge's platform, no need to listen; it is easy enough to find out, for
you may be quite sure he that gets most applause deserves it the least.
Largius Licinus was the first to introduce this fashion; but then he
went no farther than to go round and solicit an audience. I know, I
remember hearing this from my tutor Quinctilian. "I used," he told me,
"to go and hear Domitius Afer, and as he was pleading once before the
Hundred in his usual slow and impressive manner, hearing, close to him,
a most immoderate and unusual noise, and being a good deal surprised at
this, he left off: the noise ceased, and he began again: he was
interrupted a second time, and a third. At last he enquired who it was
that was speaking? He was told, Licinus. Upon which, he broke off the
case, exclaiming, 'Eloquence is no more!'" The truth is it had only
begun to decline then, when in Afer's opinion it no longer existed --
whereas now it is almost extinct. I am ashamed to tell you of the
mincing and affected pronunciation of the speakers, and of the shrill-
voiced applause with which their effusions are received; nothing seems
wanting to complete this sing-song performance except claps, or rather
cymbals and tambourines. Howlings indeed (for I can call such applause,
which would be indecent even in the theatre, by no other name) abound in
plenty. Up to this time the interest of my friends and the consideration
of my early time of life have kept me in this court, as I am afraid they
might think I was doing it to shirk work rather than to avoid these
indecencies, were I to leave it just yet: however, I go there less
frequently than I did, and am thus effecting a gradual retreat.
Farewell.



XXIII -- To GALLUS

You are surprised that I am so fond of my Laurentine, or (if you prefer
the name) my Laurens: but you will cease to wonder when I acquaint you
with the beauty of the villa, the advantages of its situation, and the
extensive view of the sea-coast. It is only seventeen miles from Rome:
so that when I have finished my business in town, I can pass my evenings
here after a good satisfactory day's work. There are two different roads
to it: if you go by that of Laurentum, you must turn off at the
fourteenth mile-stone; if by Astia, at the eleventh. Both of them are
sandy in places, which makes it a little heavier and longer by carriage,
but short and easy on horseback. The landscape affords plenty of
variety, the view in some places being closed in by woods, in others
extending over broad meadows, where numerous flocks of sheep and herds
of cattle, which the severity of the winter has driven from the
mountains, fatten in the spring warmth, and on the rich pasturage. My
villa is of a convenient size without being expensive to keep up. The
courtyard in front is plain, but not mean, through which you enter
porticoes shaped into the form of the letter D, enclosing a small but
cheerful area between. These make a capital retreat for bad weather, not
only as they are shut in with windows, but particularly as they are
sheltered by a projection of the roof. From the middle of these
porticoes you pass into a bright pleasant inner court, and out of that
into a handsome hall running out towards the sea-shore; so that when
there is a south-west breeze, it is gently washed with the waves, which
spend themselves at its base. On every side of this hall there are
either folding-doors or windows equally large, by which means you have a
view from the front and the two sides of three different seas, as it
were: from the back you see the middle court, the portico, and the area;
and from another point you look through the portico into the courtyard,
and out upon the woods and distant mountains beyond. On the left hand of
this hall, a little farther from the sea, lies a large drawing-room, and
beyond that, a second of a smaller size, which has one window to the
rising and another to the setting sun: this as well has a view of the
sea, but more distant and agreeable. The angle formed by the projection
of the dining-room with this drawing-room retains and intensifies the
warmth of the sun, and this forms our winter quarters and family
gymnasium, which is sheltered from all the winds except those which
bring on clouds, but the clear sky comes out again before the warmth has
gone out of the place. Adjoining this angle is a room forming the
segment of a circle, the windows of which are so arranged as to get the
sun all through the day: in the walls are contrived a sort of cases,
containing a collection of authors who can never be read too often. Next
to this is a bed-room, connected with it by a raised passage furnished
with pipes, which supply, at a wholesome temperature, and distribute to
all parts of this room, the heat they receive. The rest of this side of
the house is appropriated to the use of my slaves and freedmen; but most
of the rooms in it are respectable enough to put my guests into. In the
opposite wing is a most elegant, tastefully fitted up bed-room; next to
which lies another, which you may call either a large bed-room or a
modified dining-room; it is very warm and light, not only from the
direct rays of the sun, but by their reflection from the sea. Beyond
this is a bed-room with an ante-room, the height of which renders it
cool in summer, its thick walls warm in winter, for it is sheltered,
every way from the winds. To this apartment another anteroom is joined
by one common wall. From thence you enter into the wide and spacious
cooling-room belonging to the bath, from the opposite walls of which two
curved basins are thrown out, so to speak; which are more than large
enough if you consider that the sea is close at hand. Adjacent to this
is the anointing-room, then the sweating-room, and beyond that the bath-
heating room: adjoining are two other little bath-rooms, elegantly
rather than sumptuously fitted up: annexed to them is a warm bath of
wonderful construction, in which one can swim and take a view of the sea
at the same time. Not far from this stands the tennis-court, which lies
open to the warmth of the afternoon sun. From thence you go up a sort of
turret which has two rooms below, with the same number above, besides a
dining-room commanding a very extensive look-out on to the sea, the
coast, and the beautiful villas scattered along the shore line. At the
other end is a second turret, containing a room that gets the rising and
setting sun. Behind this is a large store-room and granary, and
underneath, a spacious dining-room, where only the murmur and break of
the sea can be heard, even in a storm: it looks out upon the garden, and
the gestatio,[40] running round the garden. The gestatio is bordered
round with box, and, where that is decayed, with rosemary: for the box,
wherever sheltered by the buildings, grows plentifully, but where it
lies open and exposed to the weather and spray from the sea, though at
some distance from the latter, it quite withers up. Next the gestatio,
and running along inside it, is a shady vine plantation, the path of
which is so soft and easy to the tread that you may walk bare-foot upon
it. The garden is chiefly planted with fig and mulberry trees, to which
this soil is as favourable as it is averse from all others. Here is a
dining-room, which, though it stands away from the sea enjoys the garden
view which is just as pleasant: two apartments run round the back part
of it, the windows of which look out upon the entrance of the villa, and
into a fine kitchen-garden. From here extends an enclosed portico which,
from its great length, you might take for a public one. It has a range
of windows on either side, but more on the side facing the sea, and
fewer on the garden side, and these, single windows and alternate with
the opposite rows. In calm, clear, weather these are all thrown open;
but if it blows, those on the weather side are closed, whilst those away
from the wind can remain open without any inconvenience. Before this
enclosed portico lies a terrace fragrant with the scent of violets, and
warmed by the reflection of the sun from the portico, which, while it
retains the rays, keeps away the north-east wind; and it is as warm on
this side as it is cool on the side opposite: in the same way it is a
protection against the wind from the south-west; and thus, in short, by
means of its several sides, breaks the force of the winds, from whatever
quarter they may blow. These are some of its winter advantages, they are
still more appreciable in the summer time; for at that season it throws
a shade upon the terrace during the whole of the forenoon, and upon the
adjoining portion of the gestatio and garden in the afternoon, casting a
greater or less shade on this side or on that as the day increases or
decreases. But the portico itself is coolest just at the time when the
sun is at its hottest, that is, when the rays fall directly upon the
roof. Also, by opening the windows you let in the western breezes in a
free current, which prevents the place getting oppressive with close and
stagnant air. At the upper end of the terrace and portico stands a
detached garden building, which I call my favourite; my favourite
indeed, as I put it up myself. It contains a very warm winter-room, one
side of which looks down upon the terrace, while the other has a view of
the sea, and both lie exposed to the sun. The bed-room opens on to the
covered portico by means of folding-doors, while its window looks out
upon the sea. On that side next the sea, and facing the middle wall, is
formed a very elegant little recess, which, by means of transparent[41]
windows, and a curtain drawn to or aside, can be made part of the
adjoining room, or separated from it. It contains a couch and two
chairs: as you lie upon this couch, from where your feet are you get a
peep of the sea; looking behind you see the neighbouring villas, and
from the head you have a view of the woods: these three views may be
seen either separately, from so many different windows, or blended
together in one. Adjoining this is a bed-room, which neither the
servants' voices, the murmuring of the sea, the glare of lightning, nor
daylight itself can penetrate, unless you open the windows. This
profound tranquillity and seclusion are occasioned by a passage
separating the wall of this room from that of the garden, and thus, by
means of this intervening space, every noise is drowned. Annexed to this
is a tiny stove-room, which, by opening or shutting a little aperture,
lets out or retains the heat from underneath, according as you require.
Beyond this lie a bed-room and ante-room, which enjoy the sun, though
obliquely indeed, from the time it rises, till the afternoon. When I
retire to this garden summer-house, I fancy myself a hundred miles away
from my villa, and take especial pleasure in it at the feast of the
Saturnalia,[42] when, by the licence of that festive season, every other
part of my house resounds with my servants' mirth: thus I neither
interrupt their amusement nor they my studies. Amongst the pleasures and
conveniences of this situation, there is one drawback, and that is, the
want of running water; but then there are wells about the place, or
rather springs, for they lie close to the surface. And, altogether, the
quality of this coast is remarkable; for dig where you may, you meet,
upon the first turning up of the ground, with a spring of water, quite
pure, not in the least salt, although so near the sea. The neighbouring
woods supply us with all the fuel we require, the other necessaries
Ostia furnishes. Indeed, to a moderate man, even the village (between
which and my house there is only one villa) would supply all ordinary
requirements. It has three public baths, which are a great convenience
if it happen that friends come in unexpectedly, or make too short a stay
to allow time in preparing my own. The whole coast is very pleasantly
sprinkled with villas either in rows or detached, which whether looking
at them from the sea or the shore, present the appearance of so many
different cities. The strand is, sometimes, after a long calm, perfectly
smooth, though, in general, through the storms driving the waves upon
it, it is rough and uneven. I cannot boast that our sea is plentiful in
choice fish; however, it supplies us with capital soles and prawns; but
as to other kinds of provisions, my villa aspires to excel even inland
countries, particularly in milk: for the cattle come up there from the
meadows in large numbers, in pursuit of water and shade. Tell me, now,
have I not good reason for living in, staying in, loving, such a
retreat, which, if you feel no appetite for, you must be morbidly
attached to town? And I only wish you would feel inclined to come down
to it, that to so many charms with which my little villa abounds, it
might have the very considerable addition of your company to recommend
it. Farewell.



XXIV -- To CEREALIS

You advise me to read my late speech before an assemblage of my friends.
I shall do so, as you advise it, though I have strong scruples.
Compositions of this sort lose, I well know, all their force and fire,
and even their very name almost, by a mere recital. It is the solemnity
of the tribunal, the concourse of advocates, the suspense of the event,
the fame of the several pleaders concerned, the different parties formed
amongst the audience; add to this the gestures, the pacing, aye the
actual running, to and fro, of the speaker, the body working[43] in
harmony with every inward emotion, that conspire to give a spirit and a
grace to what he delivers. This is the reason that those who plead
sitting, though they retain most of the advantages possessed by those
who stand up to plead, weaken the whole force of their oratory. The eyes
and hands of the reader, those important instruments of graceful
elocution, being engaged, it is no wonder that the attention of the
audience droops, without anything extrinsic to keep it up, no
allurements of gesture to attract, no smart, stinging impromptus to
enliven. To these general considerations I must add this particular
disadvantage which attends the speech in question, that it is of the
argumentative kind; and it is natural for an author to infer that what
he wrote with labour will not be read with pleasure. For who is there so
unprejudiced as not to prefer the attractive and sonorous to the sombre
and unornamented in style? It is very unreasonable that there should be
any distinction; however, it is certain the judges generally expect one
style of pleading, and the audience another; whereas an auditor ought to
be affected only by those parts which would especially strike him, were
he in the place of the judge. Nevertheless it is possible the objections
which lie against this piece may be surmounted in consideration of the
novelty it has to recommend it: the novelty I mean with respect to us;
for the Greek orators have a method of reasoning upon a different
occasion, not altogether unlike that which I have employed. They, when
they would throw out a law, as contrary to some former one unrepealed,
argue by comparing those together; so I, on the contrary, endeavour to
prove that the crime, which I was insisting upon as falling within the
intent and meaning of the law relating to public extortions, was
agreeable, not only to that law, but likewise to other laws of the same
nature. Those who are ignorant of the jurisprudence of their country can
have no taste for reasonings of this kind, but those who are not ought
to be proportionably the more favourable in the judgments they pass upon
them. I shall endeavour, therefore, if you persist in my reciting it, to
collect as learned an audience as I can. But before you determine this
point, do weigh impartially the different considerations I have laid
before you, and then decide as reason shall direct; for it is reason
that must justify you; obedience to your commands will be a sufficient
apology for me. Farewell.



XXV -- To CALVISIUS

GIVE me a penny, and I will tell you a story "worth gold," or, rather,
you shall hear two or three; for one brings to my mind another. It makes
no difference with which I begin. Verania, the widow of Piso, the Piso,
I mean, whom Galba adopted, lay extremely ill, and Regulus paid her a
visit. By the way, mark the assurance of the man, visiting a lady who
detested him herself, and to whose husband he was a declared enemy! Even
barely to enter her house would have been bad enough, but he actually
went and seated himself by her bed-side and began enquiring on what day
and hour she was born. Being informed of these important particulars, he
composes his countenance, fixes his eyes, mutters something to himself,
counts upon his fingers, and all this merely to keep the poor sick lady
in suspense. When he had finished, "You are," he says, "in one of your
climacterics; however, you will get over it. But for your greater
satisfaction, I will consult with a certain diviner, whose skill I have
frequently experienced." Accordingly off he goes, performs a sacrifice,
and returns with the strongest assurances that the omens confirmed what
he had promised on the part of the stars. Upon this the good woman,
whose danger made her credulous, calls for her will and gives Regulus a
legacy. She grew worse shortly after this; and in her last moments
exclaimed against this wicked, treacherous, and worse than perjured
wretch, who had sworn falsely to her by his own son's life. But
imprecations of this sort are as common with Regulus as they are
impious; and he continually devotes that unhappy youth to the curse of
those gods whose vengeance his own frauds every day provoke.

Velleius Blaesus, a man of consular rank, and remarkable for his immense
wealth, in his last illness was anxious to make some alterations in his
will. Regulus, who had lately endeavoured to insinuate himself into his
good graces, hoped to get something from the new will, and accordingly
addresses himself to his physicians, and conjures them to exert all
their skill to prolong the poor man's life. But after the will was
signed, he changes his character, reversing his tone: "How long," says
he to these very same physicians, "do you intend keeping this man in
misery? Since you cannot preserve his life, why do you grudge him the
happy release of death?" Blaesus dies, and, as if he had overheard every
word that Regulus had said, has not left him one farthing.--And now have
you had enough? or are you for the third, according to rhetorical canon?
If so, Regulus will supply you. You must know, then, that Aurelia, a
lady of remarkable accomplishments, purposing to execute her will,[44]
had put on her smartest dress for the occasion. Regulus, who was present
as a witness, turned to the lady, and "Pray," says he, "leave me these
fine clothes." Aurelia thought the man was joking: but he insisted upon
it perfectly seriously, and, to be brief, obliged her to open her will,
and insert the dress she had on as a legacy to him, watching as she
wrote, and then looking over it to see that it was all down correctly.
Aurelia, however, is still alive: though Regulus, no doubt, when he
solicited this bequest, expected to enjoy it pretty soon. The fellow
gets estates, he gets legacies, conferred upon him, as if he really
deserved them! But why should I go on dwelling upon this in a city where
wickedness and knavery have, for this time past, received, the same, do
I say, nay, even greater encouragement, than modesty and virtue? Regulus
is a glaring instance of this truth, who, from a state of poverty, has
by a train of villainies acquired such immense riches that he once told
me, upon consulting the omens to know how soon he should be worth sixty
millions of sesterces,[45] he found them so favourable as to portend he
should possess double that sum. And possibly he may, if he continues to
dictate wills for other people in this way: a sort of fraud, in my
opinion, the most infamous of any. Farewell.



XXVI -- To CALVISIUS

I NEVER, I think, spent any time more agreeably than my time lately with
Spurinna. So agreeably, indeed, that if ever I should arrive at old age,
there is no man whom I would sooner choose for my model, for nothing can
be more perfect in arrangement than his mode of life. I look upon order
in human actions, especially at that advanced age, with the same sort of
pleasure as I behold the settled course of the heavenly bodies. In young
men, indeed, a little confusion and disarrangement is all well enough:
but in age, when business is unseasonable, and ambition indecent, all
should be composed and uniform. This rule Spurinna observes with the
most religious consistency. Even in those matters which one might call
insignificant, were they not of every-day occurrence, he observes a
certain periodical season and method. The early morning he passes on his
couch; at eight he calls for his slippers, and walks three miles,
exercising mind and body together. On his return, if he has any friends
in the house with him, he gets upon some entertaining and interesting
topic of conversation; if by himself, some book is read to him,
sometimes when visitors are there even, if agreeable to the company.
Then he has a rest, and after that either takes up a book or resumes his
conversation in preference to reading. By-and-by he goes out for a drive
in his carriage, either with his wife, a most admirable woman, or with
some friend: a happiness which lately was mine.--How agreeable, how
delightful it is getting a quiet time alone with him in this way! You
could imagine you were listening to some worthy of ancient times! What
deeds, what men you hear about, and with what noble precepts you are
imbued! Yet all delivered with so modest an air that there is not the
least appearance of dictating. When he has gone about seven miles, he
gets out of his chariot and walks a mile more, after which he returns
home, and either takes a rest or goes back to his couch and writing. For
he composes most elegant lyrics both in Greek and Latin. So wonderfully
soft, sweet, and gay they are, while the author's own unsullied life
lends them additional charm. When the baths are ready, which in winter
is about three o'clock, and in summer about two, he undresses himself
and, if there happen to be no wind, walks for some time in the sun.
After this he has a good brisk game of tennis: for by this sort of
exercise too, he combats the effects of old age. When he has bathed, he
throws himself upon his couch, but waits a little before he begins
eating, and in the meanwhile has some light and entertaining author read
to him. In this, as in all the rest, his friends are at full liberty to
share; or to employ themselves in any other way, just as they prefer.
You sit down to an elegant dinner, without extravagant display, which is
served up in antique plate of pure silver. He has another complete
service in Corinthian metal, which, though he admires as a curiosity, is
far from being his passion. During dinner he is frequently entertained
with the recital of some dramatic piece, by way of seasoning his very
pleasures with study; and although he continues at the table, even in
summer, till the night is somewhat advanced, yet he prolongs the
entertainment with so much affability and politeness that none of his
guests ever finds it tedious. By this method of living he has preserved
all his senses entire, and his body vigorous and active to his seventy-
eighth year, without showing any sign of old age except wisdom. This is
the sort of life I ardently aspire after; as I purpose enjoying it when
I shall arrive at those years which will justify a retreat from active
life. Meanwhile I am embarrassed with a thousand affairs, in which
Spurinna is at once my support and my example: for he too, so long as it
became him, discharged his professional duties, held magistracies,
governed provinces, and by toiling hard earned the repose he now enjoys.
I propose to myself the same career and the same limits: and I here give
it to you under my hand that I do so. If an ill-timed ambition should
carry me beyond those bounds, produce this very letter of mine in court
against me; and condemn me to repose, whenever I enjoy it without being
reproached with indolence. Farewell.



XXVII -- To BAEBIUS MACER

IT gives me great pleasure to find you such a reader of my uncle's works
as to wish to have a complete collection of them, and to ask me for the
names of them all. I will act as index then, and you shall know the very
order in which they were written, for the studious reader likes to know
this. The first work of his was a treatise in one volume, "On the Use of
the Dart by Cavalry"; this he wrote when in command of one of the
cavalry corps of our allied troops, and is drawn up with great care and
ingenuity. "The Life of Pomponius Secundus,"[46] in two volumes.
Pomponius had a great affection for him, and he thought he owed this
tribute to his memory. "The History of the Wars in Germany," in twenty
books, in which he gave an account of all the battles we were engaged in
against that nation. A dream he had while serving in the army in Germany
first suggested the design of this work to him. He imagined that Drusus
Nero[47] (who extended his conquest very far into that country, and
there lost his life) appeared to him in his sleep, and entreated him to
rescue his memory from oblivion. Next comes a work entitled "The
Student," in three parts, which from their length spread into six
volumes: a work in which is discussed the earliest training and
subsequent education of the orator. "Questions of Grammar and Style," in
eight books, written in the latter part of Nero's reign, when the
tyranny of the times made it dangerous to engage in literary pursuits
requiring freedom and elevation of tone. He has completed the history
which Aufidius Bassus[48] left unfinished, and has added to it thirty
books. And lastly he has left thirty-seven books on Natural History, a
work of great compass and learning, and as full of variety as nature
herself. You will wonder how a man as busy as he was could find time to
compose so many books, and some of them too involving such care and
labour. But you will be still more surprised when you hear that he
pleaded at the bar for some time, that he died in his sixty-sixth year,
that the intervening time was employed partly in the execution of the
highest official duties, partly in attendance upon those emperors who
honoured him with their friendship. But he had a quick apprehension,
marvellous power of application, and was of an exceedingly wakeful
temperament. He always began to study at midnight at the time of the
feast of Vulcan, not for the sake of good luck, but for learning's sake;
in winter generally at one in the morning, but never later than two, and
often at twelve.[49] He was a most ready sleeper, insomuch that he would
sometimes, whilst in the midst of his studies, fall off and then wake up
again. Before day-break he used to wait upon Vespasian' (who also used
his nights for transacting business in), and then proceed to execute the
orders he had received. As soon as he returned home, he gave what time
was left to study. After a short and light refreshment at noon
(agreeably to the good old custom of our ancestors) he would frequently
in the summer, if he was disengaged from business, lie down and bask in
the sun; during which time some author was read to him, while he took
notes and made extracts, for every book he read he made extracts out of,
indeed it was a maxim of his, that "no book was so bad but some good
might be got out of it." When this was over, he generally took a cold
bath, then some light refreshment and a little nap. After this, as if it
had been a new day, he studied till supper-time, when a book was again
read to him, which he would take down running notes upon. I remember
once his reader having mis-pronounced a word, one of my uncle's friends
at the table made him go back to where the word was and repeat it again;
upon which my uncle said to his friend, "Surely you understood it?" Upon
his acknowledging that he did, "Why then," said he, "did you make him go
back again? We have lost more than ten lines by this interruption." Such
an economist he was of time! In the summer he used to rise from supper
at daylight, and in winter as soon as it was dark: a rule he observed as
strictly as if it had been a law of the state. Such was his manner of
life amid the bustle and turmoil of the town: but in the country his
whole time was devoted to study, excepting only when he bathed. In this
exception I include no more than the time during which he was actually
in the bath; for all the while he was being rubbed and wiped, he was
employed either in hearing some book read to him or in dictating
himself. In going about anywhere, as though he were disengaged from all
other business, he applied his mind wholly to that single pursuit. A
shorthand writer constantly attended him, with book and tablets, who, in
the winter, wore a particular sort of warm gloves, that the sharpness of
the weather might not occasion any interruption to my uncle's studies:
and for the same reason, when in Rome, he was always carried in a chair.
I recollect his once taking me to task for walking. "You need not," he
said, "lose these hours." For he thought every hour gone that was not
given to study. Through this extraordinary application he found time to
compose the several treatises I have mentioned, besides one hundred and
sixty volumes of extracts which he left me in his will, consisting of a
kind of common-place, written on both sides, in very small hand, so that
one might fairly reckon the number considerably more. He used himself to
tell us that when he was comptroller of the revenue in Spain, he could
have sold these manuscripts to Largius Licinus for four hundred thousand
sesterces,[50] and then there were not so many of them. When you
consider the books he has read, and the volumes he has written, are you
not inclined to suspect that he never was engaged in public duties or
was ever in the confidence of his prince? On the other hand, when you
are told how indefatigable he was in his studies, are you not inclined
to wonder that he read and wrote no more than he did? For, on one side,
what obstacles would not the business of a court throw in his way? and
on the other, what is it that such intense application might not effect?
It amuses me then when I hear myself called a studious man, who in
comparison with him am the merest idler. But why do I mention myself,
who am diverted from these pursuits by numberless affairs both public
and private? Who amongst those whose whole lives are devoted to literary
pursuits would not blush and feel himself the most confirmed of
sluggards by the side of him? I see I have run out my letter farther
than I had originally intended, which was only to let you know, as you
asked me, what works he had left behind him. But I trust this will be no
less acceptable to you than the books themselves, as it may, possibly,
not only excite your curiosity to read his works, but also your
emulation to copy his example, by some attempts of a similar nature.
Farewell.



XXVIII -- To ANNIUS SEVERUS

I HAVE lately purchased with a legacy that was left me a small statue of
Corinthian brass. It is small indeed, but elegant and life-like, as far
as I can form any judgment, which most certainly in matters of this
sort, as perhaps in all others, is extremely defective. However, I do
see the beauties of this figure: for, as it is naked the faults, if
there be any, as well as the perfections, are the more observable. It
represents an old man, in an erect attitude. The bones, muscles, veins,
and the very wrinkles, give the Impression of breathing life. The hair
is thin and failing, the forehead broad, the face shrivelled, the throat
lank, the arms loose and hanging, the breast shrunken, and the belly
fallen in, as the whole turn and air of the figure behind too is equally
expressive of old age. It appears to be true antique, judging from the
colour of the brass. In short, it is such a masterpiece as would strike
the eyes of a connoisseur, and which cannot fail to charm an ordinary
observer: and this induced me, who am an absolute novice in this art, to
buy it. But I did so, not with any intention of placing it in my own
house (for I have nothing of the kind there), but with a design of
fixing it in some conspicuous place in my native province; I should like
it best in the temple of Jupiter, for it is a gift well worthy of a
temple, well worthy of a god. I desire therefore you would, with that
care with which you always perform my requests, undertake this
commission and give immediate orders for a pedestal to be made for it,
out of what marble you please, but let my name be engraved upon it, and,
if you think proper to add these as well, my titles. I will send the
statue by the first person I can find who will not mind the trouble of
it; or possibly (which I am sure you will like better) I may myself
bring it along with me: for I intend, if business can spare me that is
to say, to make an excursion over to you. I see joy in your looks when I
promise to come; but you will soon change your countenance when I add,
only for a few days: for the same business that at present keeps me here
will prevent my making a longer stay. Farewell.



XXIX -- To CANINIUS RUFUS

I HAVE just been informed that Silius Italicus[51] has starved himself
to death, at his villa near Naples. Ill-health was the cause. Being
troubled with an incurable cancerous humour, he grew weary of life and
therefore put an end to it with a determination not to be moved. He had
been extremely fortunate all through his life with the exception of the
death of the younger of his two sons; however, he has left behind him
the elder and the worthier man of the two in a position of distinction,
having even attained consular rank. His reputation had suffered a little
in Nero's time, as he was suspected of having officiously joined in some
of the informations in that reign; but he used his interest with
Vitellius, with great discretion and humanity. He acquired considerable
honour by his administration of the government of Asia, and, by his good
conduct after his retirement from business, cleared his character from
that stain which his former public exertions had thrown upon it. He
lived as a private nobleman, without power, and consequently without
envy. Though he was frequently confined to his bed, and always to his
room, yet he was highly respected, and much visited; not with an
interested view, but on his own account. He employed his time between
conversing with literary men and composing verses; which he sometimes
read out, by way of testing the public opinion: but they evidence more
industry than genius. In the decline of his years he entirely quitted
Rome, and lived altogether in Campania, from whence even the accession
of the new emperor[52] could not draw him. A circumstance which I
mention as much to the honour of Cæsar, who was not displeased with that
liberty, as of Italicus, who was not afraid to make use of it. He was
reproached with indulging his taste for the fine arts at an immoderate
expense. He had several villas in the same province, and the last
purchase was always the especial favourite, to the neglect of all the
rest, These residences overflowed with books, statues, and pictures,
which he more than enjoyed, he even adored; particularly that of Virgil,
of whom he was so passionate an admirer that he celebrated the
anniversary of that poet's birthday with more solemnity than his own, at
Naples especially where he used to approach his tomb as if it had been a
temple. In this tranquillity he passed his seventy-fifth year, with a
delicate rather than an infirm constitution.

As he was the last person upon whom Nero conferred the consular office,
so he was the last survivor of all those who had been raised by him to
that dignity. It is also remarkable that, as he was the last to die of
Nero's consuls, so Nero died when he was consul. Recollecting this, a
feeling of pity for the transitory condition of mankind comes over me.
Is there anything in nature so short and limited as human life, even at
its longest? Does it not seem to you but yesterday that Nero was alive?
And yet not one of all those who were consuls in his reign now remains!
Though why should I wonder at this? Lucius Piso (the father of that Piso
who was so infamously assassinated by Valerius Festus in Africa) used to
say, he did not see one person in the senate whose opinion he had
consulted when he was consul: in so short a space is the very term of
life of such a multitude of beings comprised! so that to me those royal
tears seem not only worthy of pardon but of praise. For it is said that
Xerxes, on surveying his immense army, wept at the reflection that so
many thousand lives would in such a short space of time be extinct. The
more ardent therefore should be our zeal to lengthen out this frail and
transient portion of existence, if not by our deeds (for the
opportunities of this are not in our power) yet certainly by our
literary accomplishments; and since long life is denied us, let us
transmit to posterity some memorial that we have at least LIVED. I well
know you need no incitements, but the warmth of my affection for you
inclines me to urge you on in the course you are already pursuing, just
as you have so often urged me. "Happy rivalry" when two friends strive
in this way which of them shall animate the other most in their mutual
pursuit of immortal fame. Farewell.



XXX -- To SPURINNA AND COTTIA[53]

I DID not tell you, when I paid you my last visit, that I had composed
something in praise of your son; because, in the first place, I wrote it
not for the sake of talking about my performance, but simply to satisfy
my affection, to console my sorrow for the loss of him. Again, as you
told me, my dear Spurinna, that you had heard I had been reciting a
piece of mine, I imagined you had also heard at the same time what was
the subject of the recital, and besides I was afraid of casting a gloom
over your cheerfulness in that festive season, by reviving the
remembrance of that heavy sorrow. And even now I have hesitated a little
whether I should gratify you both, in your joint request, by sending
only what I recited, or add to it what I am thinking of keeping back for
another essay. It does not satisfy my feelings to devote only one little
tract to a memory so dear and sacred to me, and it seemed also more to
the interest of his fame to have it thus disseminated by separate
pieces. But the consideration, that it will be more open and friendly to
send you the whole now, rather than keep back some of it to another
time, has determined me to do the former, especially as I have your
promise that it shall not be communicated by either of you to anyone
else, until I shall think proper to publish it. The only remaining
favour I ask is, that you will give me a proof of the same unreserve by
pointing out to me what you shall judge would be best altered, omitted,
or added. It is difficult for a mind in affliction to concentrate itself
upon such little cares. However, as you would direct a painter or
sculptor who was representing the figure of your son what parts he
should retouch or express, so I hope you will guide and inform my hand
in this more durable or (as you are pleased to think it) this immortal
likeness which I am endeavouring to execute: for the truer to the
original, the more perfect and finished it is, so much the more lasting
it is likely to prove. Farewell.



XXXI -- To JULIUS GENITOR

IT is just like the generous disposition of Artemidorus to magnify the
kindnesses of his friends; hence he praises my deserts (though he is
really indebted to me) beyond their due. It is true indeed that when the
philosophers were expelled from Rome,[54] I visited him at his house
near the city, and ran the greater risk in paying him that civility, as
it was more noticeable then, I being praetor at the time. I supplied him
too with a considerable sum to pay certain debts he had contracted upon
very honourable occasions, without charging interest, though obliged to
borrow the money myself, while the rest of his rich powerful friends
stood by hesitating about giving him assistance. I did this at a time
when seven of my friends were either executed or banished; Senecio,
Rusticus, and Helvidius having just been put to death, while Mauricus,
Gratilla, Arria, and Fannia, were sent into exile; and scorched as it
were by so many lightning-bolts of the state thus hurled and flashing
round me, I augured by no uncertain tokens my own impending doom. But I
do not look upon myself, on that account, as deserving of the high
praises my friend bestows upon me: all I pretend to is the being clear
of the infamous guilt of abandoning him in his misfortunes. I had, as
far as the differences between our ages would admit, a friendship for
his father-in-law Musonius, whom I both loved and esteemed, while
Artemidorus himself I entered into the closest intimacy with when I was
serving as a military tribune in Syria. And I consider as a proof that
there is some good in me the fact of my being so early capable of
appreciating a man who is either a philosopher or the nearest
resemblance to one possible; for I am sure that, amongst all those who
at the present day call themselves philosophers, you will find hardly
any one of them so full of sincerity and truth as he. I forbear to
mention how patient he is of heat and cold alike, how indefatigable in
labour, how abstemious in his food, and what an absolute restraint he
puts upon all his appetites; for these qualities, considerable as they
would certainly be in any other character, are less noticeable by the
side of the rest of those virtues of his which recommended him to
Musonius for a son-in-law, in preference to so many others of all ranks
who paid their addresses to his daughter. And when I think of all these
things, I cannot help feeling pleasurably affected by those unqualified
terms of praise in which he speaks of me to you as well as to everyone
else. I am only apprehensive lest the warmth of his kind feeling carry
him beyond the due limits; for he, who is so free from all other errors,
is apt to fall into just this one good-natured one, of overrating the
merits of his friends. Farewell.



XXXII -- To CATILIUS SEVERUS

I WILL come to supper, but must make this agreement beforehand, that I
go when I please, that you treat me to nothing expensive, and that our
conversation abound only in Socratic discourse, while even that in
moderation. There are certain necessary visits of ceremony, bringing
people out before daylight, which Cato himself could not safely fall in
with; though I must confess that Julius Cæsar reproaches him with that
circumstance in such a manner as redounds to his praise; for he tells us
that the persons who met him reeling home blushed at the discovery, and
adds, "You would have thought that Cato had detected them, and not they
Cato." Could he place the dignity of Cato in a stronger light than by
representing him thus venerable even in his cups? But let our supper be
as moderate in regard to hours as in the preparation and expense: for we
are not of such eminent reputation that even our enemies cannot censure
our conduct without applauding it at the same time. Farewell.



XXXIII -- To ACILIUS

THE atrocious treatment that Largius Macedo, a man of praetorian rank,
lately received at the hands of his slaves is so extremely tragical that
it deserves a place rather in public history than in a private letter;
though it must at the same time be acknowledged there was a haughtiness
and severity in his behaviour towards them which shewed that he little
remembered, indeed almost entirely forgot, the fact that his own father
had once been in that station of life. He was bathing at his Formian
Villa, when he found himself suddenly surrounded by his slaves; one
seizes him by the throat, another strikes him on the mouth, whilst
others trampled upon his breast, stomach, and even other parts which I
need not mention. When they thought the breath must be quite out of his
body, they threw him down upon the heated pavement of the bath, to try
whether he were still alive, where he lay outstretched and motionless,
either really insensible or only feigning to be so, upon which they
concluded him to be actually dead. In this condition they brought him
out, pretending that he had got suffocated by the heat of the bath. Some
of his more trusty servants received him, and his mistresses came about
him shrieking and lamenting. The noise of their cries and the fresh air,
together, brought him a little to himself; he opened his eyes, moved his
body, and shewed them (as he now safely might) that he was not quite
dead. The murderers immediately made their escape; but most of them have
been caught again, and they are after the rest. He was with great
difficulty kept alive for a few days, and then expired, having however
the satisfaction of finding himself as amply revenged in his lifetime as
he would have been after his death. Thus you see to what affronts,
indignities, and dangers we are exposed. Lenity and kind treatment are
no safeguard; for it is malice and not reflection that arms such
ruffians against their masters. So much for this piece of news. And what
else? What else? Nothing else, or you should hear it, for I have still
paper, and time too (as it is holiday time with me) to spare for more,
and I can tell you one further circumstance relating to Macedo, which
now occurs to me. As he was in a public bath once, at Rome, a
remarkable, and (judging from the manner of his death) an ominous,
accident happened to him. A slave of his, in order to make way for his
master, laid his hand gently upon a Roman knight, who, turning suddenly
round, struck, not the slave who had touched him, but Macedo, so violent
a blow with his open palm that he almost knocked him down. Thus the bath
by a kind of gradation proved fatal to him; being first the scene of an
indignity he suffered, afterwards the scene of his death. Farewell.



XXXIV -- To NEPOS

I HAVE constantly observed that amongst the deeds and sayings of
illustrious persons of either sex, some have made more noise in the
world, whilst others have been really greater, although less talked
about; and I am confirmed in this opinion by a conversation I had
yesterday with Fannia. This lady is a grand-daughter to that celebrated
Arria, who animated her husband to meet death, by her own glorious
example. She informed me of several particulars relating to Arria, no
less heroic than this applauded action of hers, though taken less notice
of, and I think you will be as surprised to read the account of them as
I was to hear it. Her husband Caecinna Paetus, and her son, were both
attacked at the same time with a fatal illness, as was supposed; of
which the son died, a youth of remarkable beauty, and as modest as he
was comely, endeared indeed to his parents no less by his many graces
than from the fact of his being their son. His mother prepared his
funeral and conducted the usual ceremonies so privately that Paetus did
not know of his death. Whenever she came into his room, she pretended
her son was alive and actually better: and as often as he enquired after
his health, would answer, "He has had a good rest, and eaten his food
with quite an appetite." Then when she found the tears, she had so long
kept back, gushing forth in spite of herself, she would leave the room,
and having given vent to her grief, return with dry eyes and a serene
countenance, as though she had dismissed every feeling of bereavement at
the door of her husband's chamber. I must confess it was a brave
action[55] in her to draw the steel, plunge it into her breast, pluck
out the dagger, and present it to her husband with that ever memorable,
I had almost said that divine, expression, "Paetus, it is not painful."
But when she spoke and acted thus, she had the prospect of glory and
immortality before her; how far greater, without the support of any such
animating motives, to hide her tears, to conceal her grief, and
cheerfully to act the mother, when a mother no more!

Scribonianus had taken up arms in Illyria against Clatidius, where he
lost his life, and Paetus, who was of his party, was brought a prisoner
to Rome. When they were going to put him on board ship, Arria besought
the soldiers that she might be permitted to attend him: "For surely,"
she urged, "you will allow a man of consular rank some servants to dress
him, attend to him at meals, and put his shoes on for him; but if you
will take me, I alone will perform all these offices." Her request was
refused; upon which she hired a fishing-boat, and in that small vessel
followed the ship. On her return to Rome, meeting the wife of
Scribonianus in the emperor's palace, at the time when this woman
voluntarily gave evidence against the conspirators--"What," she
exclaimed, "shall I hear you even speak to me, you, on whose bosom your
husband Scribonianus was murdered, and yet you survive him?"--an
expression which plainly shews that the noble manner in which she put an
end to her life was no unpremeditated effect of sudden passion.
Moreover, when Thrasea, her son-in-law, was endeavouring to dissuade her
from her purpose of destroying herself, and, amongst other arguments
which he used, said to her, "Would you then advise your daughter to die
with me if my life were to be taken from me?" "Most certainly I would,"
she replied, "if she had lived as long, and in as much harmony with you,
as I have with my Paetus." This answer greatly increased the alarm of
her family, and made them watch her for the future more narrowly; which,
when she perceived, "It is of no use," she said, "you may oblige me to
effect my death in a more painful way, but it is impossible you should
prevent it." Saying this, she sprang from her chair, and running her
head with the utmost violence against the wall, fell down, to all
appearance, dead; but being brought to herself again, "I told you," she
said, "if you would not suffer me to take an easy path to death, I
should find a way to it, however hard." Now, is there not, my friend,
something much greater in all this than in the so-much-talked-of
"Paetus, it is not painful," to which these led the way? And yet this
last is the favourite topic of fame, while all the former are passed
over in silence. Whence I cannot but infer, what I observed at the
beginning of my letter, that some actions are more celebrated, whilst
others are really greater. Farewell.



XXXV -- To SEVERUS

I WAS obliged by my consular office to compliment the emperor[56] in the
name of the republic; but after I had performed that ceremony in the
senate in the usual manner, and as fully as the time and place would
allow, I thought it agreeable to the affection of a good subject to
enlarge those general heads, and expand them into a complete discourse.
My principal object in doing so was, to confirm the emperor in his
virtues, by paying them that tribute of applause which they so justly
deserve; and at the same time to direct future princes, not in the
formal way of lecture, but by his more engaging example, to those paths
they must pursue if they would attain the same heights of glory. To
instruct princes how to form their conduct, is a noble, but difficult
task, and may, perhaps, be esteemed an act of presumption: but to
applaud the character of an accomplished prince, and to hold out to
posterity, by this means, a beacon-light as it were, to guide succeeding
monarchs, is a method equally useful, and much more modest. It afforded
me a very singular pleasure that when I wished to recite this panegyric
in a private assembly, my friends gave me their company, though I did
not solicit them in the usual form of notes or circulars, but only
desired their attendance, "should it be quite convenient to them," and
"if they should happen to have no other engagement." You know the
excuses generally made at Rome to avoid invitations of this kind; how
prior invitations are usually alleged; yet, in spite of the worst
possible weather, they attended the recital for two days together; and
when I thought it would be unreasonable to detain them any longer, they
insisted upon my going through with it the next day. Shall I consider
this as an honour done to myself or to literature? Rather let me suppose
to the latter, which, though well-nigh extinct, seems to be now again
reviving amongst us. Yet what was the subject which raised this uncommon
attention? No other than what formerly, even in the senate, where we had
to submit to it, we used to grudge even a few moments' attention to. But
now, you see, we have patience to recite and to attend to the same topic
for three days together; and the reason of this is, not that we have
more eloquent writing now than formerly, but we write under a fuller
sense of individual freedom, and consequently more genially than we used
to. It is an additional glory therefore to our present emperor that this
sort of harangue, which was once as disgusting as it was false, is now
as pleasing as it is sincere. But it was not only the earnest attention
of my audience which afforded me pleasure; I was greatly delighted too
with the justness of their taste: for I observed, that the more nervous
parts of my discourse gave them peculiar satisfaction. It is true,
indeed, this work, which was written for the perusal of the world in
general, was read only to a few; however, I would willingly look upon
their particular judgment as an earnest of that of the public, and
rejoice at their manly taste as if it were universally spread. It was
just the same in eloquence as it was in music, the vitiated ears of the
audience introduced a depraved style; but now, I am inclined to hope, as
a more refined judgment prevails in the public, our compositions of both
kinds will improve too; for those authors whose sole object is to please
will fashion their works according to the popular taste. I trust,
however, in subjects of this nature the florid style is most proper; and
am so far from thinking that the vivid colouring I have used will be
esteemed foreign and unnatural that I am most apprehensive that censure
will fall upon those parts where the diction is most simple and
unornate. Nevertheless, I sincerely wish the time may come, and that it
now were, when the smooth and luscious, which has affected our style,
shall give place, as it ought, to severe and chaste composition. -- Thus
have I given you an account of my doings of these last three days, that
your absence might not entirely deprive you of a pleasure which, from
your friendship to me, and the part you take in everything that concerns
the interest of literature, I know you would have received, had you been
there to hear. Farewell.



XXXVI -- To CALVISIUS RUFUS

I MUST have recourse to you, as usual, in an affair which concerns my
finances. An estate adjoining my land, and indeed running into it, is
for sale. There are several considerations strongly inclining me to this
purchase, while there are others no less weighty deterring me from it.
Its first recommendation is, the beauty which will result from uniting
this farm to my own lands; next, the advantage as well as pleasure of
being able to visit it without additional trouble and expense; to have
it superintended by the same steward, and almost by the same sub-agents,
and to have one villa to support and embellish, the other just to keep
in common repair. I take into this account furniture, housekeepers,
fancy-gardeners, artificers, and even hunting-apparatus, as it makes a
very great difference whether you get these altogether into one place or
scatter them about in several. On the other hand, I don't know whether
it is prudent to expose so large a property to the same climate, and the
same risks of accident happening; to distribute one's possessions about
seems a safer way of meeting the caprice of fortune, besides, there is
something extremely pleasant in the change of air and place, and the
going about between one's properties. And now, to come to the chief
consideration:--the lands are rich, fertile, and well-watered,
consisting chiefly of meadow-ground, vineyard, and wood, while the
supply of building timber and its returns, though moderate, still, keep
at the same rate. But the soil, fertile as it is, has been much
impoverished by not having been properly looked after. The person last
in possession used frequently to seize and sell the stock, by which
means, although he lessened his tenants' arrears for the time being, yet
he left them nothing to go on with and the arrears ran up again in
consequence. I shall be obliged, then, to provide them with slaves,
which I must buy, and at a higher than the usual price, as these will be
good ones; for I keep no fettered slaves[57] myself, and there are none
upon the estate. For the rest, the price, you must know, is three
millions of sesterces.[58] It has formerly gone over five millions,[59]
but owing, partly to the general hardness of the times, and partly to
its being thus stripped of tenants, the income of this estate is
reduced, and consequently its value. You will be inclined perhaps to
enquire whether I can easily raise the purchase-money? My estate, it is
true, is almost entirely in land, though I have some money out at
interest; but I shall find no difficulty in borrowing any sum I may
want. I can get it from my wife's mother, whose purse I may use with the
same freedom as my own; so that you need not trouble yourself at all
upon that point, should you have no other objections, which I should
like you very carefully to consider: for, as in everything else, so,
particularly in matters of economy, no man has more judgment and
experience than yourself. Farewell.



XXXVII -- To CORNELIUS PRISCUS

I HAVE just heard of Valerius Martial's death, which gives me great
concern. He was a man of an acute and lively genius, and his writings
abound in equal wit, satire, and kindliness. On his leaving Rome I made
him a present to defray his travelling expenses, which I gave him, not
only as a testimony of friendship, but also in return for the verses
with which he had complimented me. It was the custom of the ancients to
distinguish those poets with honours or pecuniary rewards, who had
celebrated particular individuals or cities in their verses; but this
good custom, along with every other fair and noble one, has grown out of
fashion now; and in consequence of our having ceased to act laudably, we
consider praise a folly and impertinence. You may perhaps be curious to
see the verses which merited this acknowledgment from me, and I believe
I can, from memory, partly satisfy your curiosity, without referring you
to his works: but if you should be pleased with this specimen of them,
you must turn to his poems for the rest. He addresses himself to his
muse, whom he directs to go to my house upon the Esquiline,[60] but to
approach it with respect.


"Go, wanton muse, but go with care, Nor meet, ill-tim'd, my Pliny's ear;
He, by sage Minerva taught, Gives the day to studious thought, And plans
that eloquence divine, Which shall to future ages shine, And rival,
wondrous Tully! thine. Then, cautious, watch the vacant hour, When
Bacchus reigns in all his pow'r; When, crowned with rosy chaplets gay,
Catos might read my frolic lay."<a href="#linknote-61"
name="linknoteref-61" id="linknoteref-61">[61]</a>

Do you not think that the poet who wrote of me in such terms deserved
some friendly marks of my bounty then, and of my sorrow now? For he gave
me the very best he had to bestow, and would have given more had it been
in his power. Though indeed what can a man have conferred on him more
valuable than the honour of never-fading praise? But his poems will not
long survive their author, at least I think not, though he wrote them in
the expectation of their doing so. Farewell.



XXXVIII -- To FABATUS (HIS WIFE'S GRANDFATHER)

You have long desired a visit from your grand-daughter[62] accompanied
by me. Nothing, be assured, could be more agreeable to either of us; for
we equally wish to see you, and are determined to delay that pleasure no
longer. For this purpose we are already packing up, and hastening to you
with all the speed the roads will permit of. We shall make only one,
short, stoppage, for we intend turning a little out of our way to go
into Tuscany: not for the sake of looking upon our estate, and into our
family concerns, which we can postpone to another opportunity, but to
perform an indispensable duty. There is a town near my estate, called
Tifernum-upon-the-Tiber,[63] which, with more affection than wisdom, put
itself under my patronage when I was yet a youth. These people celebrate
my arrival among them, express the greatest concern when I leave them,
and have public rejoicings whenever they hear of my preferments. By way
of requiting their kindnesses (for what generous mind can bear to be
excelled in acts of friendship?) I have built a temple in this place, at
my own expense, and as it is finished, it would be a sort of impiety to
put off its dedication any longer. So we shall be there on the day on
which that ceremony is to be performed, and I have resolved to celebrate
it with a general feast. We may possibly stay on there for all the next
day, but shall make so much the greater haste in our journey afterwards.
May we have the happiness to find you and your daughter in good health!
In good spirits I am sure we shall, should we get to you all safely.
Farewell.



XXXIX -- To ATTIUS CLEMENS

REGULUS has lost his son; the only undeserved misfortune which could
have befallen him, in that I doubt whether he thinks it a misfortune.
The boy had quick parts, but there was no telling how he might turn out;
however, he seemed capable enough of going right, were he not to grow up
like his father. Regulus gave him his freedom,[64] in order to entitle
him to the estate left him by his mother; and when he got into
possession of it, (I speak of the current rumours, based upon the
character of the man,) fawned upon the lad with a disgusting shew of
fond affection which in a parent was utterly out of place. You may
hardly think this credible; but then consider what Regulus is. However,
he now expresses his concern for the loss of this youth in a most
extravagant manner. The boy had a number of ponies for riding and
driving, dogs both big and little, together with nightingales, parrots,
and blackbirds in abundance. All these Regulus slew round the funeral
pile. It was not grief, but an ostentatious parade of grief. He is
visited upon this occasion by a surprising number of people, who all
hate and detest the man, and yet are as assiduous in their attendance
upon him as if they really esteemed and loved him, and, to give you my
opinion in a word, in endeavouring to do Regulus a kindness, make
themselves exactly like him. He keeps himself in his park on the other
side the Tiber, where he has covered a vast extent of ground with his
porticoes, and crowded all the shore with his statues; for he unites
prodigality with excessive covetousness, and vain-glory with the height
of infamy. At this very unhealthy time of year he is boring society, and
he feels pleasure and consolation in being a bore. He says he wishes to
marry,--a piece of perversity, like all his other conduct. You must
expect, therefore, to hear shortly of the marriage of this mourner, the
marriage of this old man; too early in the former case, in the latter,
too late. You ask me why I conjecture this? Certainly not because he
says so himself (for a greater liar never stepped), but because there is
no doubt that Regulus will do whatever ought not to be done. Farewell.



XL -- To CATIUS LEPIDUS

I OFTEN tell you that there is a certain force of character about
Regulus: it is wonderful how he carries through what he has set his mind
to. He chose lately to be extremely concerned for the loss of his son:
accordingly he mourned for him as never man mourned before. He took it
into his head to have an immense number of statues and pictures of him;
immediately all the artisans in Rome are set to work. Canvas, wax,
brass, silver, gold, ivory, marble, all exhibit the figure of the young
Regulus. Not long ago he read, before a numerous audience, a memoir of
his son: a memoir of a mere boy! However he read it. He wrote likewise a
sort of circular letter to the several Decurii desiring them to choose
out one of their order who had a strong clear voice, to read this eulogy
to the people; it has been actually done. Now had this force of
character or whatever else you may call a fixed determination in
obtaining whatever one has a mind for, been rightly applied, what
infinite good it might have effected! The misfortune is, there is less
of this quality about good people than about bad people, and as
ignorance begets rashness, and thoughtfulness produces deliberation, so
modesty is apt to cripple the action of virtue, whilst confidence
strengthens vice. Regulus is a case in point: he has a weak voice, an
awkward delivery, an indistinct utterance, a slow imagination, and no
memory; in a word, he possesses nothing but a sort of frantic energy:
and yet, by the assistance of a flighty turn and much impudence, he
passes as an orator. Herennius Senecio admirably reversed Cato's
definition of an orator, and applied it to Regulus: "An orator," he
said, "is a bad man, unskilled in the art of speaking." And really
Cato's definition is not a more exact description of a true orator than
Seneclo's is of the character of this man. Would you make me a suitable
return for this letter? Let me know if you, or any of my friends in your
town, have, like a stroller in the marketplace, read this doleful
production of Regulus's, "raising," as Demosthenes says, "your voice
most merrily, and straining every muscle in your throat." For so absurd
a performance must excite laughter rather than compassion; and indeed
the composition is as puerile as the subject. Farewell.



XLI -- To MATURUS ARRIANUS

Mv advancement to the dignity of augur[65] is an honour that justly
indeed merits your congratulations; not only because it is highly
honourable to receive, even in the slightest instances, a testimony of
the approbation of so wise and discreet a prince,[66] but because it is
moreover an ancient and religious institution, which has this sacred and
peculiar privilege annexed to it, that it is for life. Other sacerdotal
offices, though they may, perhaps, be almost equal to this one in
dignity, yet as they are given so they may be taken away again: but
fortune has no further power over this than to bestow it. What
recommends this dignity still more highly is, that I have the honour to
succeed so illustrious a person as Julius Frontinus. He for many years,
upon the nomination-day of proper persons to be received into the sacred
college, constantly proposed me, as though he had a view to electing me
as his successor; and since it actually proved so in the event, I am
willing to look upon it as something more than mere accident. But the
circumstance, it seems, that most pleases you in this affair, is, that
Cicero enjoyed the same post; and you rejoice (you tell me) to find that
I follow his steps as closely in the path of honours as I endeavour to
do in that of eloquence. I wish, indeed, that as I had the advantage of
being admitted earlier into the same order of priesthood, and into the
consular office, than Cicero, that so I might, in my later years, catch
some spark, at least, of his divine genius! The former, indeed, being at
man's disposal, may be conferred on me and on many others, but the
latter it is as presumptuous to hope for as it is difficult to reach,
being in the gift of heaven alone. Farewell.



XLII -- To STATIUS SABINUS

YOUR letter informs me that Sabina, who appointed you and me her heirs,
though she has nowhere expressly directed that Modestus shall have his
freedom, yet has left him a legacy in the following words, "I give, &c.-
-To Modestus, whom I have ordered to have his freedom": upon which you
desire my opinion. I have consulted skilful lawyers upon the point, and
they all agree Modestus is not entitled to his liberty, since it is not
expressly given, and consequently that the legacy is void, as being
bequeathed to a slave.[67] But it evidently appears to be a mistake in
the testatrix; and therefore I think we ought to act in this case as
though Sabina had directed, in so many words, what, it is clear, she had
ordered. I am persuaded you will go with me in this opinion, who so
religiously regard the will of the deceased, which indeed where it can
be discovered will always be law to honest heirs. Honour is to you and
me as strong an obligation as the compulsion of law is to others. Let
Modestus then enjoy his freedom and his legacy as fully as if Sabina had
observed all the requisite forms, as indeed they effectually do who make
a judicious choice of their heirs. Farewell.



XLIII -- To CORNELIUS MINICIANUS

[68] Have you heard--I suppose, not yet, for the news has but just
arrived -- that Valerius Licinianus has become a professor in Sicily?
This unfortunate person, who lately enjoyed the dignity of praetor, and
was esteemed the most eloquent of our advocates, is now fallen from a
senator to an exile, from an orator to a teacher of rhetoric.
Accordingly in his inaugural speech he uttered, sorrowfully and
solemnly, the following words: "Oh! Fortune, how capriciously dost thou
sport with mankind! Thou makest rhetoricians of senators, and senators
of rhetoricians!" A sarcasm so poignant and full of gall that one might
almost imagine he fixed upon this profession merely for the sake of an
opportunity of applying it. And having made his first appearance in
school, clad in the Greek cloak (for exiles have no right to wear the
toga), after arranging himself and looking down upon his attire, "I am,
however," he said, "going to declaim in Latin." You will think, perhaps,
this situation, wretched and deplorable as it is, is what he well
deserves for having stained the honourable profession of an orator with
the crime of incest. It is true, indeed, he pleaded guilty to the
charge; but whether from a consciousness of his guilt, or from an
apprehension of worse consequences if he denied it, is not clear; for
Domitian generally raged most furiously where his evidence failed him
most hopelessly. That emperor had determined that Cornelia, chief of the
Vestal Virgins, should be buried alive, from an extravagant notion that
exemplary severities of this kind conferred lustre upon his reign.
Accordingly, by virtue of his office as supreme pontiff, or, rather, in
the exercise of a tyrant's cruelty, a despot's lawlessness, he convened
the sacred college, not in the pontifical court where they usually
assemble, but at his villa near Alba; and there, with a guilt no less
heinous than that which he professed to be punishing, he condemned her,
when she was not present to defend herself, on the charge of incest,
while he himself had been guilty, not only of debauching his own
brother's daughter, but was also accessory to her death: for that lady,
being a widow, in order to conceal her shame, endeavoured to procure an
abortion, and by that means lost her life. However, the priests were
directed to see the sentence immediately executed upon Cornelia. As they
were leading her to the place of execution, she called upon Vesta, and
the rest of the gods, to attest her innocence; and, amongst other
exclamations, frequently cried out, "Is it possible that Cæsar can think
me polluted, under the influence of whose sacred functions he has
conquered and triumphed?"[69] Whether she said this in flattery or
derision; whether it proceeded from a consciousness of her innocence, or
contempt of the emperor, is uncertain; but she continued exclaiming in
this manner, till she came to the place of execution, to which she was
led, whether innocent or guilty I cannot say, at all events with every
appearance and demonstration of innocence. As she was being lowered down
into the subterranean vault, her robe happening to catch upon something
in the descent, she turned round and disengaged it, when, the
executioner offering his assistance, she drew herself back with horror,
refusing to be so much as touched by him, as though it were a defilement
to her pure and unspotted chastity: still preserving the appearance of
sanctity up to the last moment; and, among all the other instances of
her modesty,


"She took great care to fall with decency."<a href="#linknote-70"
name="linknoteref-70" id="linknoteref-70">[70]</a>

Celer likewise, a Roman knight, who was accused of an intrigue with her,
while they were scourging him with rods[71] in the Forum, persisted in
exclaiming, "What have I done?--I have done nothing." These declarations
of innocence had exasperated Domitian exceedingly, as imputing to him
acts of cruelty and injustice, accordingly Licinianus being seized by
the emperor's orders for having concealed a freedwoman of Cornelia's in
one of his estates, was advised, by those who took him in charge, to
confess the fact, if he hoped to obtain a remission of his punishment,
circumstance to add further, that a young nobleman, having had his tunic
torn, an ordinary occurrence in a crowd, stood with his gown thrown over
him, to hear me, and that during the seven hours I was speaking, whilst
my success more than counterbalanced the fatigue of so long a speech. So
let us set to and not screen our own indolence under pretence of that of
the public. Never, be very sure of that, will there be wanting hearers
and readers, so long as we can only supply them with speakers and
writers worth their attention. Farewell.



XLV -- To ASINIUS

You advise me, nay you entreat me, to undertake, in her absence, the
cause of Corellia, against C. Caecilius, consul elect. For your advice I
am grateful, of your entreaty I really must complain; without the first,
indeed, I should have been ignorant of this affair, but the last was
unnecessary, as I need no solicitations to comply, where it would be
ungenerous in me to refuse; for can I hesitate a moment to take upon
myself the protection of a daughter of Corellius? It is true, indeed,
though there is no particular intimacy between her adversary and myself,
still we are upon good enough terms. It is also true that he is a person
of rank, and one who has a high claim upon my especial regard, as
destined to enter upon an office which I have had the honour to fill;
and it is natural for a man to be desirous those dignities should be
held in the highest esteem which he himself once possessed. Yet all
these considerations appear indifferent and trifling when I reflect that
it is the daughter of Corellius whom I am to defend. The memory of that
excellent person, than whom this age has not produced a man of greater
dignity, rectitude, and acuteness, is indelibly imprinted upon my mind.
My regard for him sprang from my admiration of the man, and contrary to
what is usually the case, my admiration increased upon a thorough
knowledge of him, and indeed I did know him thoroughly, for he kept
nothing back from me, whether gay or serious, sad or joyous. When he was
but a youth, he esteemed, and (I will even venture to say) revered, me
as if I had been his equal. When I solicited any post of honour, he
supported me with his interest, and recommended me with his testimony;
when I entered upon it, he was my introducer and my companion; when I
exercised it, he was my guide and my counsellor. In a word, whenever my
interest was concerned, he exerted himself, in spite of his weakness and
declining years, with as much alacrity as though he were still young and
lusty. In private, in public, and at court, how often has he advanced
and supported my credit and interest! It happened once that the
conversation, in the presence of the emperor Nerva, turned upon the
promising young men of that time, and several of the company present
were pleased to mention me with applause; he sat for a little while
silent, which gave what he said the greater weight; and then, with that
air of dignity, to which you are no stranger, "I must be reserved," said
he, "in my praises of Pliny, because he does nothing without advice." By
which single sentence he bestowed upon me more than my most extravagant
wishes could aspire to, as he represented my conduct to be always such
as wisdom must approve, since it was wholly under the direction of one
of the wisest of men. Even in his last moments he said to his daughter
(as she often mentions), "I have in the course of a long life raised up
many friends to you, but there are none in whom you may more assuredly
confide than Pliny and Cornutus." A circumstance I cannot reflect upon
without being deeply sensible how incumbent it is upon me to endeavour
not to disappoint the confidence so excellent a judge of human nature
reposed in me. I shall therefore most readily give my assistance to
Corellia in this affair, and willingly risk any displeasure I may incur
by appearing in her behalf. Though I should imagine, if in the course of
my pleadings I should find an opportunity to explain and enforce more
fully and at large than the limits of a letter allow of the reasons I
have here mentioned, upon which I rest at once my apology and my glory;
her adversary (whose suit may perhaps, as you say, be entirely without
precedent, as it is against a woman) will not only excuse, but approve,
my conduct. Farewell.



XLVI -- To HISPULLA

As you are a model of all virtue, and loved your late excellent brother,
who had such a fondness for you, with an affection equal to his own;
regarding too his daughter[72] as your child, not only shewing her an
aunt's tenderness but supplying the place of the parent she had lost; I
know it will give you the greatest pleasure and joy to hear that she
proves worthy of her father, her grandfather, and yourself. She
possesses an excellent understanding together with a consummate
prudence, and gives the strongest evidence of the purity of her heart by
her fondness of her husband. Her affection for me, moreover, has given
her a taste for books, and my productions, which she takes a pleasure in
reading, and even in getting by heart, are continually in her hands. How
full of tender anxiety is she when I am going to speak in any case, how
rejoiced she feels when it is got through. While I am pleading, she
stations persons to inform her from time to time how I am heard, what
applauses I receive, and what success attends the case. When I recite my
works at any time, she conceals herself behind some curtain, and drinks
in my praises with greedy ears. She sings my verses too, adapting them
to her lyre, with no other master but love, that best of instructors,
for her guide. From these happy circumstances I derive my surest hopes,
that the harmony between us will increase with our days, and be as
lasting as our lives. For it is not my youth or person, which time
gradually impairs; it is my honour and glory that she cares for. But
what less could be expected from one who was trained by your hands, and
formed by your instructions; who was early familiarized under your roof
with all that is pure and virtuous, and who learnt to love me first
through your praises? And as you revered my mother with all the respect
due even to a parent, so you kindly directed and encouraged my tender
years, presaging from that early period all that my wife now fondly
imagines I really am. Accept therefore of our mutual thanks, mine, for
your giving me her, hers for your giving her me; for you have chosen us
out, as it were, for each other. Farewell.



XLVII -- To ROMATIUS FIASIUS

Look here! The next time the court sits, you must, at all events, take
your place there. In vain would your indolence repose itself under my
protection, for there is no absenting oneself with impunity. Look at
that severe, determined, praetor, Licinius Nepos, who fined even a
senator for the same neglect! The senator pleaded his cause in person,
but in suppliant tone. The fine, it is true, was remitted, but sore was
his dismay, humble his intercession, and he had to ask pardon. "All
praetors are not so severe as that," you will reply; you are mistaken --
for though indeed to be the author and reviver of an example of this
kind may be an act of severity, yet, once introduced, even lenity
herself may follow the precedent. Farewell.



XLVIII -- To LICINIUS SURA

I HAVE brought you as a little present out of the country a query which
well deserves the consideration of your extensive knowledge. There is a
spring which rises in a neighbouring mountain, and running among the
rocks is received into a little banqueting-room, artificially formed for
that purpose, from whence, after being detained a short time, it falls
into the Larian lake. The nature of this spring is extremely curious; it
ebbs and flows regularly three times a day. The increase and decrease is
plainly visible, and exceedingly interesting to observe. You sit down by
the side of the fountain, and while you are taking a repast and drinking
its water, which is extremely cool, you see it gradually rise and fall.
If you place a ring, or anything else at the bottom, when it is dry, the
water creeps gradually up, first gently washing, finally covering it
entirely, and then little by little subsides again. If you wait long
enough, you may see it thus alternately advance and recede three
successive times. Shall we say that some secret current of air stops and
opens the fountain-head, first rushing in and checking the flow and
then, driven back by the counter-resistance of the water, escaping
again; as we see in bottles, and other vessels of that nature, where,
there not being a free and open passage, though you turn their necks
perpendicularly or obliquely downwards, yet, the outward air obstructing
the vent, they discharge their contents as it were by starts? Or, may
not this small collection of water be successively contracted and
enlarged upon the same principle as the ebb and flow of the sea? Or,
again, as those rivers which discharge themselves into the sea, meeting
with contrary winds and the swell of the ocean, are forced back in their
channels, so, in the same way, may there not be something that checks
this fountain, for a time, in its progress? Or is there rather a certain
reservoir that contains these waters in the bowels of the earth, and
while it is recruiting its discharges, the stream in consequence flows
more slowly and in less quantity, but, when it has collected its due
measure, runs on again in its usual strength and fulness? Or lastly, is
there I know not what kind of subterranean counterpoise, that throws up
the water when the fountain is dry, and keeps it back when it is full?
You, who are so well qualified for the enquiry, will examine into the
causes of this wonderful phenomenon; it will be sufficient for me if I
have given you an adequate description of it. Farewell.



XLIX -- To ANNIUS SEVERUS

A SMALL legacy was lately left me, yet one more acceptable than a far
larger bequest would have been. How more acceptable than a far larger
one? In this way. Pomponia Gratilla, having disinherited her son
Assidius Curianus, appointed me of one of her heirs, and Sertorius
Severus, of pretorian rank, together with several eminent Roman knights,
co-heirs along with me. The son applied to me to give him my share of
the inheritance, in order to use my name as an example to the rest of
the joint-heirs, but offered at the same time to enter into a secret
agreement to return me my proportion. I told him, it was by no means
agreeable to my character to seem to act one way while in reality I was
acting another, besides it was not quite honourable making presents to a
man of his fortune, who had no children; in a word, this would not at
all answer the purpose at which he was aiming, whereas, if I were to
withdraw my claim, it might be of some service to him, and this I was
ready and willing to do, if he could clearly prove to me that he was
unjustly disinherited.

"Do then," he said, "be my arbitrator in this case." After a short pause
I answered him, "I will, for I don't see why I should not have as good
an opinion of my own impartial disinterestedness as you seem to have.
But, mind, I am not to be prevailed upon to decide the point in question
against your mother, if it should appear she had just reason for what
she has done." "As you please," he replied, "which I am sure is always
to act according to justice." I called in, as my assistants, Corellius
and Frontinus, two of the very best lawyers Rome at that time afforded.
With these in attendance, I heard the case in my own chamber. Curianus
said everything which he thought would favour his pretensions, to whom
(there being nobody but myself to defend the character of the deceased)
I made a short reply; after which I retired with my friends to
deliberate, and, being agreed upon our verdict, I said to him,
"Curianus, it is our opinion that your conduct has justly drawn upon you
your mother's displeasure." Sometime afterwards, Curianus commenced a
suit in the Court of the Hundred against all the co-heirs except myself.
The day appointed for the trial approaching, the rest of the co-heirs
were anxious to compromise the affair and have done with it, not out of
any diffidence of their cause, but from a distrust of the times. They
were apprehensive of what had happened to many others, happening to
them, and that from a civil suit it might end in a criminal one, as
there were some among them to whom the friendship of Gratilla and
Rusticus[73] might be extremely prejudicial: they therefore desired me
to go and talk with Curianus. We met in the temple of Concord; "Now
supposing," I said, "your mother had left you the fourth part of her
estate, or even suppose she had made you sole heir, but had exhausted so
much of the estate in legacies that there would not be more than a
fourth part remaining to you, could you justly complain? You ought to be
content, therefore, if, being absolutely disinherited as you are, the
heirs are willing to relinquish to you a fourth part, which however I
will increase by contributing my proportion. You know you did not
commence any suit against me, and two years have now elapsed, which
gives me legal and indisputable possession. But to induce you to agree
to the proposals on the part of the other co-heirs, and that you may be
no sufferer by the peculiar respect you shew me, I offer to advance my
proportion with them." The silent approval of my own conscience is not
the only result out of this transaction; it has contributed also to the
honour of my character. For it is this same Cunianus who has left me the
legacy I have mentioned in the beginning of my letter, and I received it
as a very notable mark of his approbation of my conduct, if I do not
flatter myself. I have written and told you all this, because in all my
joys and sorrows I am wont to look upon you as myself, and I thought it
would be unkind not to communicate to so tender a friend whatever
occasions me a sensible gratification; for I am not philosopher enough
to be indifferent, when I think I have acted like an honour-able man,
whether my actions meet with that approval which is in some sort their
due. Farewell.



L -- To TITIUS ARISTO

AMONG the many agreeable and obliging instances I have received of your
friendship, your not concealing from me the long conversations which
lately took place at your house concerning my verses, and the various
judgments passed upon them (which served to prolong the talk,) is by no
means the least. There were some, it seems, who did not disapprove of my
poems in themselves, but at the same time censured me in a free and
friendly way, for employing myself in composing and reciting them. I am
so far, however, from desiring to extenuate the charge that I willingly
acknowledge myself still more deserving of it, and confess that I
sometimes amuse myself with writing verses of the gayer sort. I compose
comedies, divert myself with pantomimes, read the lyric poets, and enter
into the spirit of the most wanton muse, besides that, I indulge myself
sometimes in laughter, mirth, and frolic, and, to sum up every kind of
innocent relaxation in one word, I am a man. I am not in the least
offended, though, at their low opinion of my morals, and that those who
are ignorant of the fact that the most learned, the wisest, and the best
of men have employed themselves in the same way, should be surprised at
the tone of my writings: but from those who know what noble and numerous
examples I follow, I shall, I am confident, easily obtain permission to
err with those whom it is an honour to imitate, not only in their most
serious occupations but their lightest triflings. Is it unbecoming me (I
will not name any living example, lest I should seem to flatter), but is
it unbecoming me to practise what became Tully, Calvus, Pollio, Messala,
Hortensius, Brutus, Sulla, Catulus, Scaevola, Sulpitius, Varro, the
Torquati, Memmius, Gaetulicus, Seneca, Lucceius, and, within our own
memory, Verginius Rufus? But if the examples of private men are not
sufficient to justify me, I can cite Julius Casar, Augustus, Nerva, and
Tiberius Casar. I forbear to add Nero to the catalogue, though I am
aware that what is practised by the worst of men does not therefore
degenerate into wrong: on the contrary, it still maintains its credit,
if frequently countenanced by the best. In that number, Virgil,
Cornelius Nepos, and prior to these, Ennius and Attius, justly deserve
the most distinguished place. These last indeed were not senators, but
goodness knows no distinction of rank or title. I recite my works, it is
true, and in this instance I am not sure I can support myself by their
examples. They, perhaps, might be satisfied with their own judgment, but
I have too humble an opinion of mine to suppose my compositions perfect,
because they appear so to my own mind. My reason then for reciting are,
that, for one thing, there is a certain deference for one's audience,
which excites a somewhat more vigorous application, and then again, I
have by this means an opportunity of settling any doubts I may have
concerning my performance, by observing the general opinion of the
audience. In a word, I have the advantage of receiving different hints
from different persons: and although they should not declare their
meaning in express terms, yet the expression of the countenance, the
movement of the head, the eyes, the motion of a hand, a whisper, or even
silence itself will easily distinguish their real opinion from the
language of politeness. And so if any one of my audience should have the
curiosity to read over the same performance which he heard me read, he
may find several things altered or omitted, and perhaps too upon his
particular judgment, though he did not say a single word to me. But I am
not defending my conduct in this particular, as if I had actually
recited my works in public, and not in my own house before my friends, a
numerous appearance of whom has upon many occasions been held an honour,
but never, surely, a reproach. Farewell.



LI -- To NONIUS MAXIMUS

I AM deeply afflicted with the news I have received of the death of
Fannius; in the first place, because I loved one so eloquent and
refined, in the next, because I was accustomed to be guided by his
judgment--and indeed he possessed great natural acuteness, improved by
practice, rendering him able to see a thing in an instant. There are
some circumstances about his death, which aggravate my concern. He left
behind him a will which had been made a considerable time before his
decease, by which it happens that his estate is fallen into the hands of
those who had incurred his displeasure, whilst his greatest favourites
are excluded. But what I particularly regret is, that he has left
unfinished a very noble work in which he was employed. Notwithstanding
his full practice at the bar, he had begun a history of those persons
who were put to death or banished by Nero, and completed three books of
it. They are written with great elegance and precision, the style is
pure, and preserves a proper medium between the plain narrative and the
historical: and as they were very favourably received by the public, he
was the more desirous of being able to finish the rest. The hand of
death is ever, in my opinion, too untimely and sudden when it falls upon
such as are employed in some immortal work. The sons of sensuality, who
have no outlook beyond the present hour, put an end every day to all
motives for living, but those who look forward to posterity, and
endeavour to transmit their names with honour to future generations by
their works--to such, death is always immature, as it still snatches
them from amidst some unfinished design. Fannius, long before his death,
had a presentiment of what has happened: he dreamed one night that as he
was lying on his couch, in an undress, all ready for his work, and with
his desk,[74] as usual, in front of him, Nero entered, and placing
himself by his side, took up the three first books of this history,
which he read through and then departed. This dream greatly alarmed him,
and he regarded it as an intimation, that he should not carry on his
history any farther than Nero had read, and so the event has proved. I
cannot reflect upon this accident without lamenting that he was
prevented from accomplishing a work which had cost him so many toilsome
vigils, as it suggests to me, at the same time, reflections on my own
mortality, and the fate of my writings: and I am persuaded the same
apprehensions alarm you for those in which you are at present employed.
Let us then, my friend, while life permits, exert all our endeavours,
that death, whenever it arrives, may find as little as possible to
destroy. Farewell.



LII -- To DOMITIUS APOLLINARIS

THE kind concern you expressed on hearing of my design to pass the
summer at my villa in Tuscany, and your obliging endeavours to dissuade
me from going to a place which you think unhealthy, are extremely
pleasing to me. It is quite true indeed that the air of that part of
Tuscany which lies towards the coast is thick and unwholesome: but my
house stands at a good distance from the sea, under one of the Apennines
which are singularly healthy. But, to relieve you from all anxiety on my
account, I will give you a description of the temperature of the
climate, the situation of the country, and the beauty of my villa,
which, I am persuaded, you will hear with as much pleasure as I shall
take in giving it. The air in winter is sharp and frosty, so that
myrtles, olives, and trees of that kind which delight in constant
warmth, will not flourish here: but the laurel thrives, and is
remarkably beautiful, though now and then the cold kills it--though not
oftener than it does in the neighbourhood of Rome. The summers are
extraordinarily mild, and there is always a refreshing breeze, seldom
high winds. This accounts for the number of old men we have about, you
would see grandfathers and great-grandfathers of those now grown up to
be young men, hear old stories and the dialect of our ancestors, and
fancy yourself born in some former age were you to come here. The
character of the country is exceedingly beautiful. Picture to yourself
an immense amphitheatre, such as nature only could create. Before you
lies a broad, extended plain bounded by a range of mountains, whose
summits are covered with tall and ancient woods, which are stocked with
all kinds of game.

The descending slopes of the mountains are planted with underwood, among
which are a number of little risings with a rich soil, on which hardly a
stone is to be found. In fruitfulness they are quite equal to a valley,
and though their harvest is rather later, their crops are just as good.
At the foot of these, on the mountain-side, the eye, wherever it turns,
runs along one unbroken stretch of vineyards terminated by a belt of
shrubs. Next you have meadows and the open plain. The arable land is so
stiff that it is necessary to go over it nine times with the biggest
oxen and the strongest ploughs. The meadows are bright with flowers, and
produce trefoil and other kinds of herbage as fine and tender as if it
were but just sprung up, for all the soil is refreshed by never failing
streams. But though there is plenty of water, there are no marshes; for
the ground being on a slope, whatever water it receives without
absorbing runs off into the Tiber. This river, which winds through the
middle of the meadows, is navigable only in the winter and spring, at
which seasons it transports the produce of the lands to Rome: but in
summer it sinks below its banks, leaving the name of a great river to an
almost empty channel: towards the autumn, however, it begins again to
renew its claim to that title. You would be charmed by taking a view of
this country from the top of one of our neighbouring mountains, and
would fancy that not a real, but some imaginary landscape, painted by
the most exquisite pencil, lay before you, such an harmonious variety of
beautiful objects meets the eye, whichever way it turns. My house,
although at the foot of a hill, commands as good a view as if it stood
on its brow, yet you approach by so gentle and gradual a rise that you
find yourself on high ground without perceiving you have been making an
ascent. Behind, but at a great distance, is the Apennine range. In the
calmest days we get cool breezes from that quarter, not sharp and
cutting at all, being spent and broken by the long distance they have
travelled. The greater part of the house has a southern aspect, and
seems to invite the afternoon sun in summer (but rather earlier in the
winter) into a broad and proportionately long portico, consisting of
several rooms, particularly a court of antique fashion. In front of the
portico is a sort of terrace, edged with box and shrubs cut into
different shapes. You descend, from the terrace, by an easy slope
adorned with the figures of animals in box, facing each other, to a lawn
overspread with the soft, I had almost said the liquid, Acanthus: this
is surrounded by a walk enclosed with evergreens, shaped into a variety
of forms. Beyond it is the gestation laid out in the form of a circus
running round the multiform box-hedge and the dwarf-trees, which are cut
quite close. The whole is fenced in with a wall completely covered by
box cut into steps all the way up to the top. On the outside of the wall
lies a meadow that owes as many beauties to nature as all I have been
describing within does to art; at the end of which are open plain and
numerous other meadows and copses. From the extremity of the portico a
large dining-room runs out, opening upon one end of the terrace, while
from the windows there is a very extensive view over the meadows up into
the country, and from these you also see the terrace and the projecting
wing of the house together with the woods enclosing the adjacent
hippodrome. Almost opposite the centre of the portico, and rather to the
back, stands a summer-house, enclosing a small area shaded by four
plane-trees, in the midst of which rises a marble fountain which gently
plays upon the roots of the plane-trees and upon the grass-plots
underneath them. This summer-house has a bed-room in it free from every
sort of noise, and which the light itself cannot penetrate, together
with a common dining-room I use when I have none but intimate friends
with me. A second portico looks upon this little area, and has the same
view as the other I have just been describing. There is, besides,
another room, which, being situate close to the nearest plane-tree,
enjoys a constant shade and green. Its sides are encrusted with carved
marble up to the ceiling, while above the marble a foliage is painted
with birds among the branches, which has an effect altogether as
agreeable as that of the carving, at the foot of which a little
fountain, playing through several small pipes into a vase it encloses,
produces a most pleasing murmur. From a corner of the portico you enter
a very large bed-chamber opposite the large dining-room, which from some
of its windows has a view of the terrace, and from others, of the
meadow, as those in the front look upon a cascade, which entertains at
once both the eye and the ear; for the water, dashing from a great
height, foams over the marble basin which receives it below. This room
is extremely warm in winter, lying much exposed to the sun, and on a
cloudy day the heat of an adjoining stove very well supplies his
absence. Leaving this room, you pass through a good-sized, pleasant,
undressing-room into the cold-bath-room, in which is a large gloomy
bath: but if you are inclined to swim more at large, or in warmer water,
in the middle of the area stands a wide basin for that purpose, and near
it a reservoir from which you may be supplied with cold water to brace
yourself again, if you should find you are too much relaxed by the warm.
Adjoining the cold bath is one of a medium degree of heat, which enjoys
the kindly warmth of the sun, but not so intensely as the hot bath,
which projects farther. This last consists of three several
compartments, each of different degrees of heat; the two former lie open
to the full sun, the latter, though not much exposed to its heat,
receives an equal share of its light. Over the undressing-room is built
the tennis-court, which admits of different kinds of games and different
sets of players. Not far from the baths is the staircase leading to the
enclosed portico, three rooms intervening. One of these looks out upon
the little area with the four plane-trees round it, the other upon the
meadows, and from the third you have a view of several vineyards, so
that each has a different one, and looks towards a different point of
the heavens. At the upper end of the enclosed portico, and indeed taken
off from it, is a room that looks out upon the hippodrome, the
vineyards, and the mountains; adjoining is a room which has a full
exposure to the sun, especially in winter, and out of which runs another
connecting the hippodrome with the house. This forms the front. On the
side rises an enclosed portico, which not only looks out upon the
vineyards, but seems almost to touch them. From the middle of this
portico you enter a dining-room cooled by the wholesome breezes from the
Apennine valleys: from the windows behind, which are extremely large,
there is a close view of the vineyards, and from the folding doors
through the summer portico. Along that side of the dining-room where
there are no windows runs a private staircase for greater convenience in
serving up when I give an entertainment; at the farther end is a
sleeping-room with a look-out upon the vineyards, and (what is equally
agreeable) the portico. Underneath this room is an enclosed portico
resembling a grotto, which, enjoying in the midst of summer heats its
own natural coolness, neither admits nor wants external air. After you
have passed both these porticoes, at the end of the dining-room stands a
third, which according as the day is more or less advanced, serves
either for Winter or summer use. It leads to two different apartments,
one containing four chambers, the other, three, which enjoy by turns
both sun and shade. This arrangement of the different parts of my house
is exceedingly pleasant, though it is not to be compared with the beauty
of the hippodrome,' lying entirely open in the middle of the grounds, so
that the eye, upon your first entrance, takes it in entire in one view.
It is set round with plane-trees covered with ivy, so that, while their
tops flourish with their own green, towards the roots their verdure is
borrowed from the ivy that twines round the trunk and branches, spreads
from tree to tree, and connects them together. Between each plane-tree
are planted box-trees, and behind these stands a grove of laurels which
blend their shade with that of the planes. This straight boundary to the
hippodrome[75] alters its shape at the farther end, bending into a
semicircle, which is planted round, shut in with cypresses, and casts a
deeper and gloomier shade, while the inner circular walks (for there are
several), enjoying an open exposure, are filled with plenty of roses,
and correct, by a very pleasant contrast, the coolness of the shade with
the warmth of the sun. Having passed through these several winding
alleys, you enter a straight walk, which breaks out into a variety of
others, partitioned off by box-row hedges. In one place you have a
little meadow, in another the box is cut in a thousand different forms,
sometimes into letters, expressing the master's name, sometimes the
artificer's, whilst here and there rise little obelisks with fruit-trees
alternately intermixed, and then on a sudden, in the midst of this
elegant regularity, you are surprised with an imitation of the negligent
beauties of rural nature. In the centre of this lies a spot adorned with
a knot of dwarf plane-trees. Beyond these stands an acacia, smooth and
bending in places, then again various other shapes and names. At the
upper end is an alcove of white marble, shaded with vines and supported
by four small Carystian columns. From this semicircular couch, the
water, gushing up through several little pipes, as though pressed out by
the weight of the persons who recline themselves upon it, falls into a
stone cistern underneath, from whence it is received into a fine
polished marble basin, so skilfully contrived that it is always full
without ever overflowing. When I sup here, this basin serves as a table,
the larger sort of dishes being placed round the margin, while the
smaller ones swim about in the form of vessels and water-fowl. Opposite
this is a fountain which is incessantly emptying and filling, for the
water which it throws up to a great height, falling back again into it,
is by means of consecutive apertures returned as fast as it is received.
Facing the alcove (and reflecting upon it as great an ornament as it
borrows from it) stands a summer-house of exquisite marble, the doors of
which project and open into a green enclosure, while from its upper and
lower windows the eye falls upon a variety of different greens. Next to
this is a little private closet (which, though it seems distinct, may
form part of the same room), furnished with a couch, and notwithstanding
it has windows on every side, yet it enjoys a very agreeable gloom, by
means of a spreading vine which climbs to the top, and entirely
overshadows it. Here you may lie and fancy yourself in a wood, with this
only difference, that you are not exposed to the weather as you would be
there. Here too a fountain rises and instantly disappears--several
marble seats are set in different places, which are as pleasant as the
summer-house itself after one is tired out with walking. Near each is a
little fountain, and throughout the whole hippodrome several small rills
run murmuring along through pipes, wherever the hand of art has thought
proper to conduct them, watering here and there different plots of
green, and sometimes all parts at once. I should have ended before now,
for fear of being too chatty, had I not proposed in this letter to lead
you into every corner of my house and gardens. Nor did I apprehend your
thinking it a trouble to read the description of a place which I feel
sure would please you were you to see it; especially as you can stop
just when you please, and by throwing aside my letter, sit down as it
were, and give yourself a rest as often as you think proper. Besides, I
gave my little passion indulgence, for I have a passion for what I have
built, or finished, myself. In a word, (for why should I conceal from my
friend either my deliberate opinion or my prejudice?) I look upon it as
the first duty of every writer to frequently glance over his title-page
and consider well the subject he has proposed to himself; and he may be
sure, if he dwells on his subject, he cannot justly be thought tedious,
whereas if, on the contrary, he introduces and drags in anything
irrelevant, he will be thought exceedingly so. Homer, you know, has
employed many verses in the description of the arms of Achilles, as
Virgil has also in those of Aeneas, yet neither 'of them is prolix,
because they each keep within the limits of their original design.
Aratus, you observe, is not considered too circumstantial, though he
traces and enumerates the minutest stars, for he does not go out of his
way for that purpose, but only follows where his subject leads him. In
the same way (to compare small things with great), so long as, in
endeavouring to give you an idea of my house, I have not introduced
anything irrelevant or superfluous, it is not my letter which describes,
but my villa which is described, that is to be considered large. But to
return to where I began, lest I should justly be condemned by my own
law, if I continue longer in this digression, you see now the reasons
why I prefer my Tuscan villa to those which I possess at Tusculum,
Tiber, and Praeneste.[76] Besides the advantages already mentioned, I
enjoy here a cozier, more profound and undisturbed retirement than
anywhere else, as I am at a greater distance from the business of the
town and the interruption of troublesome clients. All is calm and
composed; which circumstances contribute no less than its clear air and
unclouded sky to that health of body and mind I particularly enjoy in
this place, both of which I keep in full swing by study and hunting. And
indeed there is no place which agrees better with my family, at least I
am sure I have not yet lost one (may the expression be allowed![77]) of
all those I brought here with me. And may the gods continue that
happiness to me, and that honour to my villa. Farewell.



LIII -- To CALVISIUS

IT is certain the law does not allow a corporate city to inherit any
estate by will, or to receive a legacy. Saturninus, however, who has
appointed me his heir, had left a fourth part of his estate to our
corporation of Comum; afterwards, instead of a fourth part, he
bequeathed four hundred thousand sesterces.[78] This bequest, in the eye
of the law, is null and void, but, considered as the clear and express
will of the deceased, ought to stand firm and valid. Myself, I consider
the will of the dead (though I am afraid what I say will not please the
lawyers) of higher authority than the law, especially when the interest
of one's native country is concerned. Ought I, who made them a present
of eleven hundred thousand sesterces[79] out of my own patrimony, to
withhold a benefaction of little more than a third part of that sum out
of an estate which has come quite by a chance into my hands? You, who
like a true patriot have the same affection for this our common country,
will agree with me in opinion, I feel sure. I wish therefore you would,
at the next meeting of the Decurii, acquaint them, just briefly and
respectfully, as to how the law stands in this case, and then add that I
offer them four hundred thousand sesterces according to the direction in
Saturninus' will. You will represent this donation as his present and
his liberality; I only claim the merit of complying with his request. I
did not trouble to write to their senate about this, fully relying as I
do upon our intimate friendship and your wise discretion, and being
quite satisfied that you are both able and willing to act for me upon
this occasion as I would for myself; besides, I was afraid I should not
seem to have so cautiously guarded my expressions in a letter as you
will be able to do in a speech. The countenance, the gesture, and even
the tone of voice govern and determine the sense of the speaker, whereas
a letter, being without these advantages, is more liable to malignant
misinterpretation. Farewell.



LIV -- To MARCELLINUS

I WRITE this to you in the deepest sorrow: the youngest daughter of my
friend Fundanus is dead! I have never seen a more cheerful and more
lovable girl, or one who better deserved to have enjoyed a long, I had
almost said an immortal, life! She was scarcely fourteen, and yet there
was in her a wisdom far beyond her years, a matronly gravity united with
girlish sweetness and virgin bashfulness. With what an endearing
fondness did she hang on her father's neck! How affectionately and
modestly she used to greet us his friends! With what a tender and
deferential regard she used to treat her nurses, tutors, teachers, each
in their respective offices! What an eager, industrious, intelligent,
reader she was! She took few amusements, and those with caution. How
self-controlled, how patient, how brave, she was, under her last
illness! She complied with all the directions of her physicians; she
spoke cheerful, comforting words to her sister and her father; and when
all her bodily strength was exhausted, the vigour of her mind sustained
her. That indeed continued even to her last moments, unbroken by the
pain of a long illness, or the terrors of approaching death; and it is a
reflection which makes us miss her, and grieve that she has gone from
us, the more. 0 melancholy, untimely, loss, too truly! She was engaged
to an excellent young man; the wedding-day was fixed, and we were all
invited. How our joy has been turned into sorrow! I cannot express in
words the inward pain I felt when I heard Fundanus himself (as grief is
ever finding out fresh circumstances to aggravate its affliction)
ordering the money he had intended laying out upon clothes, pearls, and
jewels for her marriage, to be employed in frankincense, ointments, and
perfumes for her funeral. He is a man of great learning and good sense,
who has applied himself from his earliest youth to the deeper studies
and the fine arts, but all the maxims of fortitude which he has received
from books, or advanced himself, he now absolutely rejects, and every
other virtue of his heart gives place to all a parent's tenderness. You
will excuse, you will even approve, his grief, when you consider what he
has lost. He has lost a daughter who resembled him in his manners, as
well as his person, and exactly copied out all her father. So, if you
should think proper to write to him upon the subject of so reasonable a
grief, let me remind you not to use the rougher arguments of
consolation, and such as seem to carry a sort of reproof with them, but
those of kind and sympathizing humanity. Time will render him more open
to the dictates of reason: for as a fresh wound shrinks back from the
hand of the surgeon, but by degrees submits to, and even seeks of its
own accord the means of its cure, so a mind under the first impression
of a misfortune shuns and rejects all consolations, but at length
desires and is lulled by their gentle application. Farewell.



LV -- To SPURINNA

KNOWING, as I do, how much you admire the polite arts, and what
satisfaction you take in seeing young men of quality pursue the steps of
their ancestors, I seize this earliest opportunity of informing you that
I went to-day to hear Calpurnius Piso read a beautiful and scholarly
production of his, entitled the Sports of Love. His numbers, which were
elegiac, were tender, sweet, and flowing, at the same time that they
occasionally rose to all the sublimity of diction which the nature of
his subject required. He varied his style from the lofty to the simple,
from the close to the copious, from the grave to the florid, with equal
genius and judgment. These beauties were further recommended by a most
harmonious voice; which a very becoming modesty rendered still more
pleasing. A confusion and concern in the countenance of a speaker
imparts a grace to all he utters; for diffidence, I know not how, is
infinitely more engaging than assurance and self-sufficiency. I might
mention several other circumstances to his advantage, which I am the
more inclined to point out, as they are exceedingly striking in one of
his age, and are most uncommon in a youth of his quality: but not to
enter into a farther detail of his merit, I will only add that, when he
had finished his poem, I embraced him very heartily, and being persuaded
that nothing is a greater encouragement than applause, I exhorted him to
go on as he had begun, and to shine out to posterity with the same
glorious lustre, which was reflected upon him from his ancestors. I
congratulated his excellent mother, and particularly his brother, who
gained as much honour by the generous affection he manifested upon this
occasion as Calpurnius did by his eloquence; so remarkable a solicitude
he showed for him when he began to recite his poem, and so much pleasure
in his success. May the gods grant me frequent occasions of giving you
accounts of this nature! for I have a partiality to the age in which I
live, and should rejoice to find it not barren of merit. I ardently
wish, therefore, our young men of quality would have something else to
show of honourable memorial in their houses than the images[80] of their
ancestors. As for those which are placed in the mansion of these
excellent youths, I now figure them to myself as silently applauding and
encouraging their pursu

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