Online Library of Liberty: Letters of Marcus Tullius Cicero

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Marcus Tullius Cicero, Letters of Marcus Tullius Cicero

[1909]

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Edition Used:

Letters of Marcus Tullius Cicero: with his Treatises on Friendship and Old Age,

trans. E.S. Shuckburgh. And Letters of Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus, trans.

William Melmoth, revised by F.C.T. Bosanquet (New York: P.F. Collier, 1909).

Author: Marcus Tullius Cicero

Translator: Evelyn Shirley Shuckburgh

Author: Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus (Pliny)

Translator: William Melmoth

About This Title:

A collection of letters by Cicero along with his work on Old Age and On Friendship

as well as some letters by Pliny.

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About Liberty Fund:

Liberty Fund, Inc. is a private, educational foundation established to encourage the

study of the ideal of a society of free and responsible individuals.

The text is in the public domain.

Fair Use Statement:

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Table Of Contents

Introductory Note

On Friendship

On Old Age

Letters of Cicero

Introductory Note

Letters

I: To Atticus (at Athens) Rome, July

II: To Atticus (at Athens) Rome, July

III: To Cn. Pompeius Magnus Rome

Iv (a I, 17): to Atticus (in Epirus) Rome, 5 December

V: To Terentia, Tulliola, and Young Cicero (at Rome) Brundisium, 29 April

VI: To His Brother Quintus (on His Way to Rome) Thessalonica, 15 June

VII: To Atticus (in Epirus) Rome (september)

VIII: To His Brother Quintus (in Sardinia) Rome, 12 February

IX: To Atticus (returning From Epirus) Antium (april)

X: To L. Lucceius Arpinum (april)

XI: To M. Fadius Gallus Rome (may)

XII: To M. Marius (at Cumæ) Rome (october?)

XIII: To His Brother Quintus (in the Country) Rome (february)

XIV: To His Brother Quintus (in Britain) Arpinum and Rome, 28 September

XV: To P. Lentulus Spinther (in Cilicia) Rome (october)

XVI: To C. Trebatius Testa (in Gaul) Rome (november)

XVII: To Atticus (at Rome) Minturnæ, May

XVIII: To M. Porcius Cato (at Rome) Cilicia (january)

XIX: To Atticus (in Epirus) Laodicea, 22 February

XX: M. Porcius Cato to Cicero (in Cilicia) Rome (june)

XXI: To M. Porcius Cato (at Rome) ( Asia, September )

XXII: To Tiro (at Patræ) Brundisium, 26 November

XXIII: To L. Papirius Pætus (at Naples) Tusculum (july)

XXIV: To L. Papirius Pætus (at Naples) Tusculum (july)

XXV: To L. Papirius Pætus (at Naples) Rome (august)

XXVI: To Aulus Cæcina (in Exile) Rome (september)

XXVII: Servius Sulpicius to Cicero (at Astura) Athens (march)

XXVIII: To Servius Sulpicius Rufus (in Achaia) Ficulea (april)

XXIX: To Atticus (at Rome) Puteoli, 21 December

XXX: To Atticus (at Rome) Matius’s Suburban Villa, 7 April

XXXI: To Atticus (at Rome) Astura, 11 June

XXXII: To Atticus (at Rome) Astura, 13 June

XXXIII: To C. Trebatius Testa (at Rome) Tusculum (june)

XXXIV: M. Cicero (the Younger) to Tiro Athens (august)

XXXV: Quintus Cicero to Tiro ( Time and Place Uncertain )

XXXVI: To M. Iunius Brutus (in Macedonia) Rome (middle of July)

Letters of Pliny

Introductory Note

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Letters

I: To Septitius

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 Junius Mauricus

XI: To Septitius Clarus

XII: To Suetonius Tranquillus

XIII: To Romanus Firmus

XIV: To Cornelius Tacitus

XV: To Paternus

XVI: To Catilius Severus 1

XVII: To Voconius Romanus

XVIII: To Nepos

XIX: To Avitus

XX: To Macrinus

XXI: To Priscus

XXII: To Maximus

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 1

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

Xliv: to Valerius Paulinus

Xlv: to Asinius

Xlvi: to Hispulla

Xlvii: to Romatius Firmus

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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 1

Lx: to Calpurnia

Lxi: to Priscus

Lxii: to Albinus

Lxiii: to Maximus

Lxiv: to Romanus

Lxv: to Tacitus

Lxvi: to Cornelius Tacitus

Lxvii: to Macer

Lxviii: to Servianus

Lxix: to Severus

Lxx: to Fabatus

Lxxi: to Cornelianus

Lxxii: to Maximus

Lxxiii: to Restitutus

Lxxiv: to Calpurnia 1

Lxxv: to Macrinus

Lxxvi: to Tuscus

Lxxvii: 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

Lxxxvi: to Septitius

Lxxxvii: to Calvisius

Lxxxviii: to Romanus

Lxxxix: to Aristo

XC: To Paternus

XCI: To Macrinus

XCII: To Rufinus

XCIII: To Gallus

XCIV: To Arrianus

XCV: To Maximus

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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

Correspondence With the Emperor Trajan

I 1: To the Emperor Trajan

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

IX: To the Emperor Trajan

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

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XXXIII: Trajan to Pliny

XXXIV: To the Emperor Trajan

XXXV: Trajan to Pliny

XXXVI: To the Emperor Trajan

XXXVII: 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

Domitian’s Letter to Terentius Maximus

From the Same to L. Appius Maximus

The Edict of the Emperor Nerva

From the Same to Tullius Justus

Lxvii: to the Emperor Trajan

Lxviii: 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

Lxxiv: Trajan to Pliny

Lxxv: to the Emperor Trajan

Lxxvi: Trajan to Pliny

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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 1: 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 the 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

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>Cicero Accusing Catiline in the Senate From the fresco by Prof. C. Maccari

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[Back to Table of Contents]

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

Marcus Tullius Cicero,the greatest of Roman orators and the chief master of Latin

prose style, was born at Arpinum, Jan. 3, 106 His father, who was a man of property

and belonged to the class of the “Knights,” moved to Rome when Cicero was a child;

and the future statesman received an elaborate education in rhetoric, law, and

philosophy, studying and practising under some of the most noted teachers of the

time. He began his career as an advocate at the age of twenty-five, and almost

immediately came to be recognized not only as a man of brilliant talents but also as a

courageous upholder of justice in the face of grave political danger. After two years

of practice he left Rome to travel in Greece and Asia, taking all the opportunities that

offered to study his art under distinguished masters. He returned to Rome greatly

improved in health and in professional skill, and in 76 was elected to the office of

quaestor. He was assigned to the province of Lilybaeum in Sicily, and the vigor and

justice of his administration earned him the gratitude of the inhabitants. It was at

their request that he undertook in 70 the prosecution of Verres, who as praetor had

subjected the Sicilians to incredible extortion and oppression; and his successful

conduct of this case, which ended in the conviction and banishment of Verres, may be

said to have launched him on his political career. He became aedile in the same year,

in 67 praetor, and in 64 was elected consul by a large majority. The most important

event of the year of his consulship was the conspiracy of Catiline. This notorious

criminal of patrician rank had conspired with a number of others, many of them

young men of high birth but dissipated character, to seize the chief offices of the state,

and to extricate themselves from the pecuniary and other difficulties that had resulted

from their excesses, by the wholesale plunder of the city. The plot was unmasked by

the vigilance of Cicero, five of the traitors were summarily executed, and in the

overthrow of the army that had been gathered in their support Catiline himself

perished. Cicero regarded himself as the savior of his country, and his country for the

moment seemed to give grateful assent.

But reverses were at hand. During the existence of the political combination of

Pompey, Cæsar, and Crassus, known as the first triumvirate, P. Clodius, an enemy of

Cicero’s, proposed a law banishing “any one who had put Roman citizens to death

without trial.” This was aimed at Cicero on account of his share in the Catiline affair,

and in March, 58 , he left Rome. The same day a law was passed by which he was

banished by name, and his property was plundered and destroyed, a temple to Liberty

being erected on the site of his house in the city. During his exile Cicero’s manliness

to some extent deserted him. He drifted from place to place, seeking the protection of

officials against assassination, writing letters urging his supporters to agitate for his

recall, sometimes accusing them of lukewarmness and even treachery, bemoaning the

ingratitude of his country or regretting the course of action that had led to his

outlawry, and suffering from extreme depression over his separation from his wife

and children and the wreck of his political ambitions. Finally in August, 57 , the

decree for his restoration was passed, and he returned to Rome the next month, being

received with immense popular enthusiasm. During the next few years the renewal of

the understanding among the triumvirs shut Cicero out from any leading part in

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politics, and he resumed his activity in the law-courts, his most important case being,

perhaps, the defence of Milo for the murder of Clodius, Cicero’s most troublesome

enemy. This oration, in the revised form in which it has come down to us, is ranked as

among the finest specimens of the art of the orator, though in its original form it

failed to secure Milo’s acquittal. Meantime, Cicero was also devoting much time to

literary composition, and his letters show great dejection over the political situation,

and a somewhat wavering attitude towards the various parties in the state. In 51 he

went to Cilicia in Asia Minor as proconsul, an office which he administered with

efficiency and integrity in civil affairs and with success in military. He returned to

Italy in the end of the following year, and he was publicly thanked by the senate for

his services, but disappointed in his hopes for a triumph. The war for supremacy

between Cæsar and Pompey which had for some time been gradually growing more

certain, broke out in 49 , when Cæsar led his army across the Rubicon, and Cicero

after much irresolution threw in his lot with Pompey, who was overthrown the next

year in the battle of Pharsalus andlater murdered in Egypt. Cicero returned to Italy,

where Cæsar treated him magnanimously, and for some time he devoted himself to

philosophical and rhetorical writing. In 46 he divorced his wife Terentia, to whom he

had been married for thirty years and married the young and wealthy Publilia in

order to relieve himself from financial difficulties; but her also he shortly divorced.

Cæsar, who had now become supreme in Rome, was assassinated in 44 , and though

Cicero was not a sharer in the conspiracy, he seems to have approved the deed. In the

confusion which followed he supported the cause of the conspirators against Antony;

and when finally the triumvirate of Antony, Octavius, and Lepidus was established,

Cicero was included among the proscribed, and on December 7, 43 , he was killed by

agents of Antony. His head and hand were cut off and exhibited at Rome.

The most important orations of the last months of his life were the fourteen

“Philippics” delivered against Antony, and the price of this enmity he paid with his

life.

To his contemporaries Cicero was primarily the great forensic and political orator of

his time, and the fifty-eight speeches which have come down to us bear testimony to

the skill, wit, eloquence, and passion which gave him his pre-eminence. But these

speeches of necessity deal with the minute details of the occasions which called them

forth, and so require for their appreciation a full knowledge of the history, political

and personal, of the time. The letters, on the other hand, are less elaborate both in

style and in the handling of current events, while they serve to reveal his personality,

and to throw light upon Roman life in the last days of the Republic in an extremely

vivid fashion. Cicero as a man, in spite of his self-importance, the vacillation of his

political conduct in desperate crises, and the whining despondency of his times of

adversity, stands out as at bottom a patriotic Roman of substantial honesty, who gave

his life to check the inevitable fall of the commonwealth to which he was devoted. The

evils which were undermining the Republic bear so many striking resemblances to

those which threaten the civic and national life of America to-day that the interest of

the period is by no means merely historical.

As a philosopher, Cicero’s most important function was to make his countrymen

familiar with the main schools of Greek thought. Much of this writing is thus of

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secondary interest to us in comparison with his originals, but in the fields of religious

theory and of the application of philosophy to life he made important first-hand

contributions. From these works have been selected the two treatises, on Old Age and

on Friendship, which have proved of most permanent and widespread interest to

posterity, and which give a clear impression of the way in which a high-minded

Roman thought about some of the main problems of human life.

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[Back to Table of Contents]

ON FRIENDSHIP

MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO

THE augur Quintus Mucius Scaevola used to recount a number of stories about his

father-in-law Gaius Laelius, accurately remembered and charmingly told; and

whenever he talked about him always gave him the title of “the wise” without any

hesitation. I had been introduced by my father to Scaevola as soon as I had assumed

the toga virilis, and I took advantage of the introduction never to quit the venerable

man’s side as long as I was able to stay and he was spared to us. The consequence

was that I committed to memory many disquisitions of his, as well as many short

pointed apophthegms, and, in short, took as much advantage of his wisdom as I could.

When he died, I attached myself to Scaevola the Pontifex, whom I may venture to call

quite the most distinguished of our countrymen for ability and uprightness. But of this

latter I shall take other occasions to speak. To return to Scaevola the augur. Among

many other occasions I particularly remember one. He was sitting on a semicircular

garden-bench, as was his custom, when I and a very few intimate friends were there,

and he chanced to turn the conversation upon a subject which about that time was in

many people’s mouths. You must remember, Atticus, for you were very intimate with

Publius Sulpicius, what expressions of astonishment, or even indignation, were called

forth by his mortal quarrel, as tribune, with the consul Quintus Pompeius, with whom

he had formerly lived on terms of the closest intimacy and affection. Well, on this

occasion, happening to mention this particular circumstance, Scaevola detailed to us a

discourse of Laelius on friendship delivered to himself and Laelius’s other son-in-law

Gaius Fannius, son of Marcus Fannius, a few days after the death of Africanus. The

points of that discussion I committed to memory, and have arranged them in this book

at my own discretion. For I have brought the speakers, as it were, personally on to my

stage to prevent the constant “said I” and “said he” of a narrative, and to give the

discourse the air of being orally delivered in our hearing.

You have often urged me to write something on Friendship, and I quite acknowledged

that the subject seemed one worth everybody’s investigation, and specially suited to

the close intimacy that has existed between you and me. Accordingly I was quite

ready to benefit the public at your request.

As to the dramatis personæ. In the treatise on Old Age, which I dedicated to you, I

introduced Cato as chief speaker. No one, I thought, could with greater propriety

speak on old age than one who had been an old man longer than any one else, and had

been exceptionally vigorous in his old age. Similarly, having learnt from tradition that

of all friendships that between Gaius Laelius and Publius Scipio was the most

remarkable, I thought Laelius was just the person to support the chief part in a

discussion on friendship which Scaevola remembered him to have actually taken.

Moreover, a discussion of this sort gains somehow in weight from the authority of

men of ancient days, especially if they happen to have been distinguished. So it comes

about that in reading over what I have myself written I have a feeling at times that it is

actually Cato that is speaking, not I.

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Finally, as I sent the former essay to you as a gift from one old man to another, so I

have dedicated this On Friendship as a most affectionate friend to his friend. In the

former Cato spoke, who was the oldest and wisest man of his day; in this Laelius

speaks on friendship—Laelius, who was at once a wise man (that was the title given

him) and eminent for his famous friendship. Please forget me for a while; imagine

Laelius to be speaking.

Gaius Fannius and Quintus Mucius come to call on their father-in-law after the death

of Africanus. They start the subject; Laelius answers them. And the whole essay on

friendship is his. In reading it you will recognise a picture of yourself.

2. FANNIUS.

You are quite right, Laelius! there never was a better or more illustrious character

than Africanus. But you should consider that at the present moment all eyes are on

you. Everybody calls you “the wise” par excellence, and thinks you so. The same

mark of respect was lately paid Cato, and we know that in the last generation Lucius

Atilius was called “the wise.” But in both cases the word was applied with a certain

difference. Atilius was so called from his reputation as a jurist; Cato got the name as a

kind of honorary title and in extreme old age because of his varied experience of

affairs, and his reputation for foresight and firmness, and the sagacity of the opinions

which he delivered in senate and forum. You, however, are regarded as “wise” in a

somewhat different sense—not alone on account of natural ability and character, but

also from your industry and learning; and not in the sense in which the vulgar, but that

in which scholars, give that title. In this sense we do not read of any one being called

wise in Greece except one man at Athens; and he, to be sure, had been declared by the

oracle of Apollo also to be “the supremely wise man.” For those who commonly go

by the name of the Seven Sages are not admitted into the category of the wise by

fastidious critics. Your wisdom people believe to consist in this, that you look upon

yourself as self-sufficing and regard the changes and chances of mortal life as

powerless to affect your virtue. Accordingly they are always asking me, and doubtless

also our Scaevola here, how you bear the death of Africanus. This curiosity has been

the more excited from the fact that on the Nones of this month, when we augurs met

as usual in the suburban villa of Decimus Brutus for consultation, you were not

present, though it had always been your habit to keep that appointment and perform

that duty with the utmost punctuality.

SCAEVOLA.

Yes, indeed, Laelius, I am often asked the question mentioned by Fannius. But I

answer in accordance with what I have observed: I say that you bear in a reasonable

manner the grief which you have sustained in the death of one who was at once a man

of the most illustrious character and a very dear friend. That of course you could not

but be affected—anything else would have been wholly unnatural in a man of your

gentle nature—but that the cause of your non-attendance at our college meeting was

illness, not melancholy.

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LAELIUS.

Thanks, Scaevola! You are quite right; you spoke the exact truth. For in fact I had no

right to allow myself to be withdrawn from a duty which I had regularly performed, as

long as I was well, by any personal misfortune; nor do I think that anything that can

happen will cause a man of principle to intermit a duty. As for your telling me,

Fannius, of the honourable appellation given me (an appellation to which I do not

recognise my title, and to which I make no claim), you doubtless act from feelings of

affection; but I must say that you seem to me to do less than justice to Cato. If any one

was ever “wise,”—of which I have my doubts,—he was. Putting aside everything

else, consider how he bore his son’s death! I had not forgotten Paulus; I had seen with

my own eyes Gallus. But they lost their sons when mere children; Cato his when he

was a full-grown man with an assured reputation. Do not therefore be in a hurry to

reckon as Cato’s superior even that same famous personage whom Apollo, as you say,

declared to be “the wisest.” Remember the former’s reputation rests on deeds, the

latter’s on words.

3. Now, as far as I am concerned (I speak to both of you now), believe me the case

stands thus. If I were to say that I am not affected by regret for Scipio, I must leave

the philosophers to justify my conduct, but in point of fact I should be telling a lie.

Affected of course I am by the loss of a friend as I think there will never be again,

such as I can fearlessly say there never was before. But I stand in no need of

medicine. I can find my own consolation, and it consists chiefly in my being free from

the mistaken notion which generally causes pain at the departure of friends. To Scipio

I am convinced no evil has befallen: mine is the disaster, if disaster there be; and to be

severely distressed at one’s own misfortunes does not show that you love your friend,

but that you love yourself.

As for him, who can say that all is not more than well? For, unless he had taken the

fancy to wish for immortality, the last thing of which he ever thought, what is there

for which mortal man may wish that he did not attain? In his early manhood he more

than justified by extraordinary personal courage the hopes which his fellow-citizens

had conceived of him as a child. He never was a candidate for the consulship, yet was

elected consul twice: the first time before the legal age; the second at a time which, as

far as he was concerned, was soon enough, but was near being too late for the

interests of the State. By the overthrow of two cities which were the most bitter

enemies of our Empire, he put an end not only to the wars then raging, but also to the

possibility of others in the future. What need to mention the exquisite grace of his

manners, his dutiful devotion to his mother, his generosity to his sisters, his liberality

to his relations, the integrity of his conduct to every one? You know all this already.

Finally, the estimation in which his fellow-citizens held him has been shown by the

signs of mourning which accompanied his obsequies. What could such a man have

gained by the addition of a few years? Though age need not be a burden,—as I

remember Cato arguing in the presence of myself and Scipio two years before he

died,—yet it cannot but take away the vigour and freshness which Scipio was still

enjoying. We may conclude therefore that his life, from the good fortune which had

attended him and the glory he had obtained, was so circumstanced that it could not be

bettered, while the suddenness of his death saved him the sensation of dying. As to

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the manner of his death it is difficult to speak; you see what people suspect. Thus

much, however, I may say: Scipio in his lifetime saw many days of supreme triumph

and exultation, but none more magnificent than his last, on which, upon the rising of

the Senate, he was escorted by the senators and the people of Rome, by the allies, and

by the Latins, to his own door. From such an elevation of popular esteem the next step

seems naturally to be an ascent to the gods above, rather than a descent to Hades.

4. For I am not one of these modern philosophers who maintain that our souls perish

with our bodies, and that death ends all. With me ancient opinion has more weight:

whether it be that of our own ancestors, who attributed such solemn observances to

the dead, as they plainly would not have done if they had believed them to be wholly

annihilated; or that of the philosophers who once visited this country, and who by

their maxims and doctrines educated Magna Graecia, which at that time was in a

flourishing condition, though it has now been ruined; or that of the man who was

declared by Apollo’s oracle to be “most wise,” and who used to teach without the

variation which is to be found in most philosophers that “the souls of men are divine,

and that when they have quitted the body a return to heaven is open to them, least

difficult to those who have been most virtuous and just.” This opinion was shared by

Scipio. Only a few days before his death—as though he had a presentiment of what

was coming—he discoursed for three days on the state of the republic. The company

consisted of Philus and Manlius and several others, and I had brought you, Scaevola,

along with me. The last part of his discourse referred principally to the immortality of

the soul; for he told us what he had heard from the elder Africanus in a dream. Now if

it be true that in proportion to a man’s goodness the escape from what may be called

the prison and bonds of the flesh is easiest, whom can we imagine to have had an

easier voyage to the gods than Scipio? I am disposed to think, therefore, that in his

case mourning would be a sign of envy rather than of friendship. If, however, the truth

rather is that the body and soul perish together, and that no sensation remains, then

though there is nothing good in death, at least there is nothing bad. Remove sensation,

and a man is exactly as though he had never been born; and yet that this man was born

is a joy to me, and will be a subject of rejoicing to this State to its last hour.

Wherefore, as I said before, all is as well as possible with him. Not so with me; for as

I entered life before him, it would have been fairer for me to leave it also before him.

Yet such is the pleasure I take in recalling our friendship, that I look upon my life as

having been a happy one because I have spent it with Scipio. With him I was

associated in public and private business; with him I lived in Rome and served

abroad; and between us there was the most complete harmony in our tastes, our

pursuits, and our sentiments, which is the true secret of friendship. It is not therefore

in that reputation for wisdom mentioned just now by Fannius—especially as it

happens to be groundless—that I find my happiness so much, as in the hope that the

memory of our friendship will be lasting. What makes me care the more about this is

the fact that in all history there are scarcely three or four pairs of friends on record;

and it is classed with them that I cherish a hope of the friendship of Scipio and Laelius

being known to posterity.

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FANNIUS.

Of course that must be so, Laelius. But since you have mentioned the word friendship,

and we are at leisure, you would be doing me a great kindness, and I expect Scaevola

also, if you would do as it is your habit to do when asked questions on other subjects,

and tell us your sentiments about friendship, its nature, and the rules to be observed in

regard to it.

SCAEVOLA.

I shall of course be delighted. Fannius has anticipated the very request I was about to

make. So you will be doing us both a great favour.

5. LAELIUS.

I should certainly have no objection if I felt confidence in myself. For the theme is a

noble one, and we are (as Fannius has said) at leisure. But who am I? and what ability

have I? What you propose is all very well for professional philosophers, who are used,

particularly if Greeks, to have the subject for discussion proposed to them on the spur

of the moment. It is a task of considerable difficulty, and requires no little practice.

Therefore for a set discourse on friendship you must go, I think, to professional

lecturers. All I can do is to urge on you to regard friendship as the greatest thing in the

world; for there is nothing which so fits in with our nature, or is so exactly what we

want in prosperity or adversity.

But I must at the very beginning lay down this principle—friendship can only exist

between good men. I do not, however, press this too closely, like the philosophers

who push their definitions to a superfluous accuracy. They have truth on their side,

perhaps, but it is of no practical advantage. Those, I mean, who say that no one but

the “wise” is “good.” Granted, by all means. But the “wisdom” they mean is one to

which no mortal ever yet attained. We must concern ourselves with the facts of

everyday life as we find it—not imaginary and ideal perfections. Even Gaius Fannius,

Manius Curius, and Tiberius Coruncanius, whom our ancestors decided to be “wise,”

I could never declare to be so according to their standard. Let them, then, keep this

word “wisdom” to themselves. Everybody is irritated by it; no one understands what it

means. Let them but grant that the men I mentioned were “good.” No, they won’t do

that either. No one but the “wise” can be allowed that title, say they. Well, then, let us

dismiss them and manage as best we may with our own poor mother wit, as the phrase

is.

We mean then by the “good” those whose actions and lives leave no question as to

their honour, purity, equity, and liberality; who are free from greed, lust, and

violence; and who have the courage of their convictions. The men I have just named

may serve as examples. Such men as these being generally accounted “good,” let us

agree to call them so, on the ground that to the best of human ability they follow

nature as the most perfect guide to a good life.

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Now this truth seems clear to me, that nature has so formed us that a certain tie unites

us all, but that this tie becomes stronger from proximity. So it is that fellow-citizens

are preferred in our affections to foreigners, relations to strangers; for in their case

Nature herself has caused a kind of friendship to exist, though it is one which lacks

some of the elements of permanence. Friendship excels relationship in this, that

whereas you may eliminate affection from relationship, you cannot do so from

friendship. Without it relationship still exists in name, friendship does not. You may

best understand this friendship by considering that, whereas the merely natural ties

uniting the human race are indefinite, this one is so concentrated, and confined to so

narrow a sphere, that affection is ever shared by two persons only or at most by a few.

6. Now friendship may be thus defined: a complete accord on all subjects human and

divine, joined with mutual good-will and affection. And with the exception of

wisdom, I am inclined to think nothing better than this has been given to man by the

immortal gods. There are people who give the palm to riches or to good health, or to

power and office, many even to sensual pleasures. This last is the ideal of brute

beasts; and of the others we may say that they are frail and uncertain, and depend less

on our own prudence than on the caprice of fortune. Then there are those who find the

“chief good” in virtue. Well, that is a noble doctrine. But the very virtue they talk of is

the parent and preserver of friendship, and without it friendship cannot possibly exist.

Let us, I repeat, use the word virtue in the ordinary acceptation and meaning of the

term, and do not let us define it in high-flown language. Let us account as good the

persons usually considered so, such as Paulus, Cato, Gallus, Scipio, and Philus. Such

men as these are good enough for everyday life; and we need not trouble ourselves

about those ideal characters which are nowhere to be met with.

Well, between men like these the advantages of friendship are almost more than I can

say. To begin with, how can life be worth living, to use the words of Ennius, which

lacks that repose which is to be found in the mutual good-will of a friend? What can

be more delightful than to have some one to whom you can say everything with the

same absolute confidence as to yourself? Is not prosperity robbed of half its value if

you have no one to share your joy? On the other hand, misfortunes would be hard to

bear if there were not some one to feel them even more acutely than yourself. In a

word, other objects of ambition serve for particular ends—riches for use, power for

securing homage, office for reputation, pleasure for enjoyment, health for freedom

from pain and the full use of the functions of the body. But friendship embraces

innumerable advantages. Turn which way you please, you will find it at hand. It is

everywhere; and yet never out of place, never unwelcome. Fire and water themselves,

to use a common expression, are not of more universal use than friendship. I am not

now speaking of the common or modified form of it, though even that is a source of

pleasure and profit, but of that true and complete friendship which existed between

the select few who are known to fame. Such friendship enhances prosperity, and

relieves adversity of its burden by halving and sharing it.

7. And great and numerous as are the blessings of friendship, this certainly is the

sovereign one, that it gives us bright hopes for the future and forbids weakness and

despair. In the face of a true friend a man sees as it were a second self. So that where

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his friend is he is; if his friend be rich, he is not poor; though he be weak, his friend’s

strength is his; and in his friend’s life he enjoys a second life after his own is finished.

This last is perhaps the most difficult to conceive. But such is the effect of the respect,

the loving remembrance, and the regret of friends which follow us to the grave. While

they take the sting out of death, they add a glory to the life of the survivors. Nay, if

you eliminate from nature the tie of affection, there will be an end of house and city,

nor will so much as the cultivation of the soil be left. If you don’t see the virtue of

friendship and harmony, you may learn it by observing the effects of quarrels and

feuds. Was any family ever so well established, any State so firmly settled, as to be

beyond the reach of utter destruction from animosities and factions? This may teach

you the immense advantage of friendship.

They say that a certain philosopher of Agrigentum, in a Greek poem, pronounced with

the authority of an oracle the doctrine that whatever in nature and the universe was

unchangeable was so in virtue of the binding force of friendship; whatever was

changeable was so by the solvent power of discord. And indeed this is a truth which

everybody understands and practically attests by experience. For if any marked

instance of loyal friendship in confronting or sharing danger comes to light, every one

applauds it to the echo. What cheers there were, for instance, all over the theatre at a

passage in the new play of my friend and guest Pacuvius; where the king, not

knowing which of the two was Orestes, Pylades declared himself to be Orestes, that

he might die in his stead, while the real Orestes kept on asserting that it was he. The

audience rose en masse and clapped their hands. And this was at an incident in fiction:

what would they have done, must we suppose, if it had been in real life? You can

easily see what a natural feeling it is, when men who would not have had the

resolution to act thus themselves, shewed how right they thought it in another.

I don’t think I have any more to say about friendship. If there is any more, and I have

no doubt there is much, you must, if you care to do so, consult those who profess to

discuss such matters.

FANNIUS.

We would rather apply to you. Yet I have often consulted such persons, and have

heard what they had to say with a certain satisfaction. But in your discourse one

somehow feels that there is a different strain.

SCAEVOLA.

You would have said that still more, Fannius, if you had been present the other day in

Scipio’s pleasuregrounds when we had the discussion about the State. How splendidly

he stood up for justice against Philus’s elaborate speech.

FANNIUS.

Ah! it was naturally easy for the justest of men to stand up for justice.

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SCAEVOLA.

Well, then, what about friendship? Who could discourse on it more easily than the

man whose chief glory is a friendship maintained with the most absolute fidelity,

constancy, and integrity?

8. LAELIUS.

Now you are really using force. It makes no difference what kind of force you use:

force it is. For it is neither easy nor right to refuse a wish of my sons-in-law,

particularly when the wish is a creditable one in itself.

Well, then, it has very often occurred to me when thinking about friendship, that the

chief point to be considered was this: is it weakness and want of means that make

friendship desired? I mean, is its object an interchange of good offices, so that each

may give that in which he is strong, and receive that in which he is weak? Or is it not

rather true that, although this is an advantage naturally belonging to friendship, yet its

original cause is quite other, prior in time, more noble in character, and springing

more directly from our nature itself? The Latin word for friendship—amicitia—is

derived from that for love—amor; and love is certainly the prime mover in

contracting mutual affection. For as to material advantages, it often happens that those

are obtained even by men who are courted by a mere show of friendship and treated

with respect from interested motives. But friendship by its nature admits of no

feigning, no pretence: as far as it goes it is both genuine and spontaneous. Therefore I

gather that friendship springs from a natural impulse rather than a wish for help: from

an inclination of the heart, combined with a certain instinctive feeling of love, rather

than from a deliberate calculation of the material advantage it was likely to confer.

The strength of this feeling you may notice in certain animals. They show such love to

their offspring for a certain period, and are so beloved by them, that they clearly have

a share in this natural, instinctive affection. But of course it is more evident in the case

of man: first, in the natural affection between children and their parents, an affection

which only shocking wickedness can sunder; and next, when the passion of love has

attained to a like strength—on our finding, that is, some one person with whose

character and nature we are in full sympathy, because we think that we perceive in

him what I may call the beacon-light of virtue. For nothing inspires love, nothing

conciliates affection, like virtue. Why, in a certain sense we may be said to feel

affection even for men we have never seen, owing to their honesty and virtue. Who,

for instance, fails to dwell on the memory of Gaius Fabricius and Manius Curius with

some affection and warmth of feeling, though he has never seen them? Or who but

loathes Tarquinius Superbus, Spurius Cassius, Spurius Maelius? We have fought for

empire in Italy with two great generals, Pyrrhus and Hannibal. For the former, owing

to his probity, we entertain no great feelings of enmity: the latter, owing to his cruelty,

our country has detested and always will detest.

9. Now, if the attraction of probity is so great that we can love it not only in those

whom we have never seen, but, what is more, actually in an enemy, we need not be

surprised if men’s affections are roused when they fancy that they have seen virtue

and goodness in those with whom a close intimacy is possible. I do not deny that

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affection is strengthened by the actual receipt of benefits, as well as by the perception

of a wish to render service, combined with a closer intercourse. When these are added

to the original impulse of the heart, to which I have alluded, a quite surprising warmth

of feeling springs up. And if any one thinks that this comes from a sense of weakness,

that each may have some one to help him to his particular need, all I can say is that,

when he maintains it to be born of want and poverty, he allows to friendship an origin

very base, and a pedigree, if I may be allowed the expression, far from noble. If this

had been the case, a man’s inclination to friendship would be exactly in proportion to

his low opinion of his own resources. Whereas the truth is quite the other way. For

when a man’s confidence in himself is greatest, when he is so fortified by virtue and

wisdom as to want nothing and to feel absolutely self-dependent, it is then that he is

most conspicuous for seeking out and keeping up friendships. Did Africanus, for

example, want anything of me? Not the least in the world! Neither did I of him. In my

case it was an admiration of his virtue, in his an opinion, may be, which he

entertained of my character, that caused our affection. Closer intimacy added to the

warmth of our feelings. But though many great material advantages did ensue, they

were not the source from which our affection proceeded. For as we are not beneficent

and liberal with any view of extorting gratitude, and do not regard an act of kindness

as an investment, but follow a natural inclination to liberality; so we look on

friendship as worth trying for, not because we are attracted to it by the expectation of

ulterior gain, but in the conviction that what it has to give us is from first to last

included in the feeling itself.

Far different is the view of those who, like brute beasts, refer everything to sensual

pleasure. And no wonder. Men who have degraded all their powers of thought to an

object so mean and contemptible can of course raise their eyes to nothing lofty, to

nothing grand and divine. Such persons indeed let us leave out of the present question.

And let us accept the doctrine that the sensation of love and the warmth of inclination

have their origin in a spontaneous feeling which arises directly the presence of probity

is indicated. When once men have conceived the inclination, they of course try to

attach themselves to the object of it, and move themselves nearer and nearer to him.

Their aim is that they may be on the same footing and the same level in regard to

affection, and be more inclined to do a good service than to ask a return, and that

there should be this noble rivalry between them. Thus both truths will be established.

We shall get the most important material advantages from friendship; and its origin

from a natural impulse rather than from a sense of need will be at once more dignified

and more in accordance with fact. For if it were true that its material advantages

cemented friendship, it would be equally true that any change in them would dissolve

it. But nature being incapable of change, it follows that genuine friendships are

eternal.

So much for the origin of friendship. But perhaps you would not care to hear any

more.

FANNIUS.

Nay, pray go on; let us have the rest, Laelius. I take on myself to speak for my friend

here as his senior.

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SCAEVOLA.

Quite right! Therefore, pray let us hear.

10. LAELIUS.

Well, then, my good friends, listen to some conversations about friendship which very

frequently passed between Scipio and myself. I must begin by telling you, however,

that he used to say that the most difficult thing in the world was for a friendship to

remain unimpaired to the end of life. So many things might intervene: conflicting

interests; differences of opinion in politics; frequent changes in character, owing

sometimes to misfortunes, sometimes to advancing years. He used to illustrate these

facts from the analogy of boyhood, since the warmest affections between boys are

often laid aside with the boyish toga; and even if they did manage to keep them up to

adolescence, they were sometimes broken by a rivalry in courtship, or for some other

advantage to which their mutual claims were not compatible. Even if the friendship

was prolonged beyond that time, yet it frequently received a rude shock should the

two happen to be competitors for office. For while the most fatal blow to friendship in

the majority of cases was the lust of gold, in the case of the best men it was a rivalry

for office and reputation, by which it had often happened that the most violent enmity

had arisen between the closest friends.

Again, wide breaches and, for the most part, justifiable ones were caused by an

immoral request being made of friends, to pander to a man’s unholy desires or to

assist him in inflicting a wrong. A refusal, though perfectly right, is attacked by those

to whom they refuse compliance as a violation of the laws of friendship. Now the

people who have no scruples as to the requests they make to their friends, thereby

allow that they are ready to have no scruples as to what they will do for their friends;

and it is the recriminations of such people which commonly not only quench

friendships, but give rise to lasting enmities. “In fact,” he used to say, “these fatalities

overhang friendship in such numbers that it requires not only wisdom but good luck

also to escape them all.”

11. With these premises, then, let us first, if you please, examine the question—how

far ought personal feeling to go in friendship? For instance: suppose Coriolanus to

have had friends, ought they to have joined him in invading his country? Again, in the

case of Vecellinus or Spurius Maelius, ought their friends to have assisted them in

their attempt to establish a tyranny? Take two instances of either line of conduct.

When Tiberius Gracchus attempted his revolutionary measures he was deserted, as we

saw, by Quintus Tubero and the friends of his own standing. On the other hand, a

friend of your own family, Scaevola, Gaius Blossius of Cumae, took a different

course. I was acting as assessor to the consuls Laenas and Rupilius to try the

conspirators, and Blossius pleaded for my pardon on the ground that his regard for

Tiberius Gracchus had been so high that he looked upon his wishes as law. “Even if

he had wished you to set fire to the Capitol?” said I. “That is a thing,” he replied, “that

he never would have wished.” “Ah, but if he had wished it?” said I. “I would have

obeyed.” The wickedness of such a speech needs no comment. And in point of fact he

was as good and better than his word; for he did not wait for orders in the audacious

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proceedings of Tiberius Gracchus, but was the head and front of them, and was a

leader rather than an abettor of his madness. The result of his infatuation was that he

fled to Asia, terrified by the special commission appointed to try him, joined the

enemies of his country, and paid a penalty to the republic as heavy as it was deserved.

I conclude, then, that the plea of having acted in the interests of a friend is not a valid

excuse for a wrong action. For, seeing that a belief in a man’s virtue is the original

cause of friendship, friendship can hardly remain if virtue be abandoned. But if we

decide it to be right to grant our friends whatever they wish, and to ask them for

whatever we wish, perfect wisdom must be assumed on both sides if no mischief is to

happen. But we cannot assume this perfect wisdom; for we are speaking only of such

friends as are ordinarily to be met with, whether we have actually seen them or have

been told about them—men, that is to say, of everyday life. I must quote some

examples of such persons, taking care to select such as approach nearest to our

standard of wisdom. We read, for instance, that Papus Aemilius was a close friend of

Gaius Luscinus. History tells us that they were twice consuls together, and colleagues

in the censorship. Again, it is on record that Manius Curius and Tiberius Coruncanius

were on the most intimate terms with them and with each other. Now, we cannot even

suspect that any one of these men ever asked of his friend anything that militated

against his honour or his oath or the interests of the republic. In the case of such men

as these there is no point in saying that one of them would not have obtained such a

request if he had made it; for they were men of the most scrupulous piety, and the

making of such a request would involve a breach of religious obligation no less than

the granting it. However, it is quite true that Gaius Carbo and Gaius Cato did follow

Tiberius Gracchus; and though his brother Caius Gracchus did not do so at the time,

he is now the most eager of them all.

12. We may then lay down this rule of friendship—neither ask nor consent to do what

is wrong. For te plea “for friendship’s sake” is a discreditable one, and not to be

admitted for a moment. This rule holds good for all wrong-doing, but more especially

in such as involves disloyalty to the republic. For things have come to such a point

with us, my dear Fannius and Scaevola, that we are bound to look somewhat far ahead

to what is likely to happen to the republic. The constitution, as known to our

ancestors, has already swerved somewhat from the regular course and the lines

marked out for it. Tiberius Gracchus made an attempt to obtain the power of a king,

or, I might rather say, enjoyed that power for a few months. Had the Roman people

ever heard or seen the like before? What the friends and connexions that followed

him, even after his death, have succeeded in doing in the case of Publius Scipio I

cannot describe without tears. As for Carbo, thanks to the punishment recently

inflicted on Tiberius Gracchus, we have by hook or by crook managed to hold out

against his attacks. But what to expect of the tribuneship of Caius Gracchus I do not

like to forecast. One thing leads to another; and once set going, the downward course

proceeds with ever-increasing velocity. There is the case of the ballot: what a blow

was inflicted first by the lex Gabinia, and two years afterwards by the lex Cassia! I

seem already to see the people estranged from the Senate, and the most important

affairs at the mercy of the multitude. For you may be sure that more people will learn

how to set such things in motion than how to stop them. What is the point of these

remarks? This: no one ever makes any attempt of this sort without friends to help him.

We must therefore impress upon good men that, should they become inevitably

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involved in friendships with men of this kind, they ought not to consider themselves

under any obligation to stand by friends who are disloyal to the republic. Bad men

must have the fear of punishment before their eyes: a punishment not less severe for

those who follow than for those who lead others to crime. Who was more famous and

powerful in Greece than Themistocles? At the head of the army in the Persian war he

had freed Greece; he owed his exile to personal envy: but he did not submit to the

wrong done him by his ungrateful country as he ought to have done. He acted as

Coriolanus had acted among us twenty years before. But no one was found to help

them in their attacks upon their fatherland. Both of them accordingly committed

suicide.

We conclude, then, not only that no such confederation of evilly disposed men must

be allowed to shelter itself under the plea of friendship, but that, on the contrary, it

must be visited with the severest punishment, lest the idea should prevail that fidelity

to a friend justifies even making war upon one’s country. And this is a case which I

am inclined to think, considering how things are beginning to go, will sooner or later

arise. And I care quite as much what the state of the constitution will be after my

death as what it is now.

13. Let this, then, be laid down as the first law of friendship, that we should ask from

friends, and do for friends, only what is good. But do not let us wait to be asked

either: let there be ever an eager readiness, and an absence of hesitation. Let us have

the courage to give advice with candour. In friendship, let the influence of friends

who give good advice be paramount; and let this influence be used to enforce advice

not only in plain-spoken terms, but sometimes, if the case demands it, with sharpness;

and when so used, let it be obeyed.

I give you these rules because I believe that some wonderful opinions are entertained

by certain persons who have, I am told, a reputation for wisdom in Greece. There is

nothing in the world, by the way, beyond the reach of their sophistry. Well, some of

them teach that we should avoid very close friendships, for fear that one man should

have to endure the anxieties of several. Each man, say they, has enough and to spare

on his own hands; it is too bad to be involved in the cares of other people. The wisest

course is to hold the reins of friendship as loose as possible; you can then tighten or

slacken them at your will. For the first condition of a happy life is freedom from care,

which no one’s mind can enjoy if it has to travail, so to speak, for others besides itself.

Another sect, I am told, gives vent to opinions still less generous. I briefly touched on

this subject just now. They affirm that friendships should be sought solely for the sake

of the assistance they give, and not at all from motives of feeling and affection; and

that therefore just in proportion as a man’s power and means of support are lowest, he

is most eager to gain friendships: thence it comes that weak women seek the support

of friendship more than men, the poor more than the rich, the unfortunate rather than

those esteemed prosperous. What noble philosophy! You might just as well take the

sun out of the sky as friendship from life; for the immortal gods have given us nothing

better or more delightful.

But let us examine the two doctrines. What is the value of this “freedom from care”?

It is very tempting at first sight, but in practice it has in many cases to be put on one

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side. For there is no business and no course of action demanded from us by our

honour which you can consistently decline, or lay aside when begun, from a mere

wish to escape from anxiety. Nay, if we wish to avoid anxiety we must avoid virtue

itself, which necessarily involves some anxious thoughts in showing its loathing and

abhorrence for the qualities which are opposite to itself—as kindness for ill-nature,

self-control for licentiousness, courage for cowardice. Thus you may notice that it is

the just who are most pained at injustice, the brave at cowardly actions, the temperate

at depravity. It is then characteristic of a rightly ordered mind to be pleased at what is

good and grieved at the reverse. Seeing then that the wise are not exempt from the

heart-ache (which must be the case unless we suppose all human nature rooted out of

their hearts), why should we banish friendship from our lives, for fear of being

involved by it in some amount of distress? If you take away emotion, what difference

remains I don’t say between a man and a beast, but between a man and a stone or a

log of wood, or anything else of that kind?

Neither should we give any weight to the doctrine that virtue is something rigid and

unyielding as iron. In point of fact it is in regard to friendship, as in so many other

things, so supple and sensitive that it expands, so to speak, at a friend’s good fortune,

contracts at his misfortunes. We conclude then that mental pain which we must often

encounter on a friend’s account is not of sufficient consequence to banish friendship

from our life, any more than it is true that the cardinal virtues are to be dispensed with

because they involve certain anxieties and distresses.

14. Let me repeat then, “the clear indication of virtue, to which a mind of like

character is naturally attracted, is the beginning of friendship.” When that is the case

the rise of affection is a necessity. For what can be more irrational than to take delight

in many objects incapable of response, such as office, fame, splendid buildings, and

personal decoration, and yet to take little or none in a sentient being endowed with

virtue, which has the faculty of loving or, if I may use the expression, loving back?

For nothing is really more delightful than a return of affection, and the mutual

interchange of kind feeling and good offices. And if we add, as we may fairly do, that

nothing so powerfully attracts and draws one thing to itself as likeness does to

friendship, it will at once be admitted to be true that the good love the good and attach

them to themselves as though they were united by blood and nature. For nothing can

be more eager, or rather greedy, for what is like itself than nature. So, my dear

Fannius and Scaevola, we may look upon this as an established fact, that between

good men there is, as it were of necessity, a kindly feeling, which is the source of

friendship ordained by nature. But this same kindliness affects the many also. For that

is no unsympathetic or selfish or exclusive virtue, which protects even whole nations

and consults their best interests. And that certainly it would not have done had it

disdained all affection for the common herd.

Again, the believers in the “interest” theory appear to me to destroy the most

attractive link in the chain of friendship. For it is not so much what one gets by a

friend that gives one pleasure, as the warmth of his feeling; and we only care for a

friend’s service if it has been prompted by affection. And so far from its being true

that lack of means is a motive for seeking friendship, it is usually those who being

most richly endowed with wealth and means, and above all with virtue (which, after

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all, is a man’s best support), are least in need of another, that are most open-handed

and beneficent. Indeed I am inclined to think that friends ought at times to be in want

of something. For instance, what scope would my affections have had if Scipio had

never wanted my advice or co-operation at home or abroad? It is not friendship, then,

that follows material advantage, but material advantage friendship.

15. We must not therefore listen to these superfine gentlemen when they talk of

friendship, which they know neither in theory nor in practice. For who, in heaven’s

name, would choose a life of the greatest wealth and abundance on condition of

neither loving or being beloved by any creature? That is the sort of life tyrants endure.

They, of course, can count on no fidelity, no affection, no security for the goodwill of

any one. For them all is suspicion and anxiety; for them there is no possibility of

friendship. Who can love one whom he fears, or by whom he knows that he is feared?

Yet such men have a show of friendship offered them, but it is only a fair-weather

show. If it ever happen that they fall, as it generally does, they will at once understand

how friendless they are. So they say Tarquin observed in his exile that he never knew

which of his friends were real and which sham, until he had ceased to be able to repay

either. Though what surprises me is that a man of his proud and overbearing character

should have a friend at all. And as it was his character that prevented his having

genuine friends, so it often happens in the case of men of unusually great

means—their very wealth forbids faithful friendships. For not only is Fortune blind

herself; but she generally makes those blind also who enjoy her favours. They are

carried, so to speak, beyond themselves with self-conceit and self-will; nor can

anything be more perfectly intolerable than a successful fool. You may often see it.

Men who before had pleasant manners enough undergo a complete change on

attaining power of office. They despise their old friends: devote themselves to new.

Now, can anything be more foolish than that men who have all the opportunities

which prosperity, wealth, and great means can bestow, should secure all else which

money can buy—horses, servants, splendid upholstering, and costly plate—but do not

secure friends, who are, if I may use the expression, the most valuable and beautiful

furniture of life? And yet, when they acquire the former, they know not who will

enjoy them, nor for whom they may be taking all this trouble; for they will one and all

eventually belong to the strongest: while each man has a stable and inalienable

ownership in his friendships. And even if those possessions, which are, in a manner,

the gifts of fortune, do prove permanent, life can never be anything but joyless which

is without the consolations and companionship of friends.

16. To turn to another branch of our subject. We must now endeavour to ascertain

what limits are to be observed in friendship—what is the boundary-line, so to speak,

beyond which our affection is not to go. On this point I notice three opinions, with

none of which I agree. One is that we should love our friend just as much as we love

ourselves, and no more; another, that our affection to them should exactly correspond

and equal theirs to us; a third, that a man should be valued at exactly the same rate as

he values himself. To not one of these opinions do I assent. The first, which holds that

our regard for ourselves is to be the measure of our regard for our friend, is not true;

for how many things there are which we would never have done for our own sakes,

but do for the sake of a friend! We submit to make requests from unworthy people, to

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descend even to supplication; to be sharper in invective, more violent in attack. Such

actions are not creditable in our own interests, but highly so in those of our friends.

There are many advantages too which men of upright character voluntarily forego, or

of which they are content to be deprived, that their friends may enjoy them rather than

themselves.

The second doctrine is that which limits friendship to an exact equality in mutual

good offices and good feelings. But such a view reduces friendship to a question of

figures in a spirit far too narrow and illiberal, as though the object were to have an

exact balance in a debtor and creditor account. True friendship appears to me to be

something richer and more generous than that comes to; and not to be so narrowly on

its guard against giving more than it receives. In such a matter we must not be always

afraid of something being wasted or running over in our measure, or of more than is

justly due being devoted to our friendship.

But the last limit proposed is the worst, namely, that a friend’s estimate of himself is

to be the measure of our estimate of him. It often happens that a man has too humble

an idea of himself, or takes too despairing a view of his chance of bettering his

fortune. In such a case a friend ought not to take the view of him which he takes of

himself. Rather he should do all he can to raise his drooping spirits, and lead him to

more cheerful hopes and thoughts.

We must then find some other limit. But I must first mention the sentiment which

used to call forth Scipio’s severest criticism. He often said that no one ever gave

utterance to anything more diametrically opposed to the spirit of friendship than the

author of the dictum, “You should love your friend with the consciousness that you

may one day hate him.” He could not be induced to believe that it was rightfully

attributed to Bias, who was counted as one of the Seven Sages. It was the sentiment of

some person with sinister motives or selfish ambition, or who regarded everything as

it affected his own supremacy. How can a man be friends with another, if he thinks it

possible that he may be his enemy? Why, it will follow that he must wish and desire

his friend to commit as many mistakes as possible, that he may have all the more

handles against him; and, conversely, that he must be annoyed, irritated, and jealous

at the right actions or good fortune of his friends. This maxim, then, let it be whose it

will, is the utter destruction of friendship. The true rule is to take such care in the

selection of our friends as never to enter upon a friendship with a man whom we

could under any circumstances come to hate. And even if we are unlucky in our

choice, we must put up with it—according to Scipio—in preference to making

calculations as to a future breach.

17. The real limit to be observed in friendship is this: the characters of two friends

must be stainless. There must be complete harmony of interests, purpose, and aims,

without exception. Then if the case arises of a friend’s wish (not strictly right in itself)

calling for support in a matter involving his life or reputation, we must make some

concession from the straight path—on condition, that is to say, that extreme disgrace

is not the consequence. Something must be conceded to friendship. And yet we must

not be entirely careless of our reputation, nor regard the good opinion of our fellow-

citizens as a weapon which we can afford to despise in conducting the business of our

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life, however lowering it may be to tout for it by flattery and smooth words. We must

by no means abjure virtue, which secures us affection.

But to return again to Scipio, the sole author of the discourse on friendship. He used

to complain that there was nothing on which men bestowed so little pains: that every

one could tell exactly how many goats or sheep he had, but not how many friends;

and while they took pains in procuring the former, they were utterly careless in

selecting friends, and possessed no particular marks, so to speak, or tokens by which

they might judge of their suitability for friendship. Now the qualities we ought to look

out for in making our selection are firmness, stability, constancy. There is a plentiful

lack of men so endowed, and it is difficult to form a judgment without testing. Now

this testing can only be made during the actual existence of the friendship; for

friendship so often precedes the formation of a judgment, and makes a previous test

impossible. If we are prudent then, we shall rein in our impulse to affection as we do

chariot horses. We make a preliminary trial of horses. So we should of friendship; and

should test our friends’ characters by a kind of tentative friendship. It may often

happen that the untrustworthiness of certain men is completely displayed in a small

money matter; others who are proof against a small sum are detected if it be large. But

even if some are found who think it mean to prefer money to friendship, where shall

we look for those who put friendship before office, civil or military promotions, and

political power, and who, when the choice lies between these things on the one side

and the claims of friendship on the other, do not give a strong preference to the

former? It is not in human nature to be indifferent to political power; and if the price

men have to pay for it is the sacrifice of friendship, they think their treason will be

thrown into the shade by the magnitude of the reward. This is why true friendship is

very difficult to find among those who engage in politics and the contest for office.

Where can you find the man to prefer his friend’s advancement to his own? And to

say nothing of that, think how grievous and almost intolerable it is to most men to

share political disaster. You will scarcely find anyone who can bring himself to do

that. And though what Ennius says is quite true,—“the hour of need shews the friend

indeed,”—yet it is in these two ways that most people betray their untrustworthiness

and inconstancy, by looking down on friends when they are themselves prosperous, or

deserting them in their distress. A man, then, who has shewn a firm, unshaken, and

unvarying friendship in both these contingencies we must reckon as one of a class the

rarest in the world, and all but superhuman.

18. Now, what is the quality to look out for as a warrant for the stability and

permanence of friendship? It is loyalty. Nothing that lacks this can be stable. We

should also in making our selection look out for simplicity, a social disposition, and a

sympathetic nature, moved by what moves us. These all contribute to maintain

loyalty. You can never trust a character which is intricate and tortuous. Nor, indeed, is

it possible for one to be trustworthy and firm who is unsympathetic by nature and

unmoved by what affects ourselves. We may add, that he must neither take pleasure in

bringing accusations against us himself, nor believe them when they are brought. All

these contribute to form that constancy which I have been endeavouring to describe.

And the result is, what I started by saying, that friendship is only possible between

good men.

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Now there are two characteristic features in his treatment of his friends that a good

(which may be regarded as equivalent to a wise) man will always display. First, he

will be entirely without any make-believe or pretence of feeling; for the open display

even of dislike is more becoming to an ingenuous character than a studied

concealment of sentiment. Secondly, he will not only reject all accusations brought

against his friend by another, but he will not be suspicious himself either, nor be

always thinking that his friend has acted improperly. Besides this, there should be a

certain pleasantness in word and manner which adds no little flavour to friendship. A

gloomy temper and unvarying gravity may be very impressive; but friendship should

be a little less unbending, more indulgent and gracious, and more inclined to all kinds

of good-fellowship and good-nature.

19. But here arises a question of some little difficulty. Are there any occasions on

which, assuming their worthiness, we should prefer new to old friends, just as we

prefer young to aged horses? The answer admits of no doubt whatever. For there

should be no satiety in friendship, as there is in other things. The older the sweeter, as

in wines that keep well. And the proverb is a true one, “You must eat many a peck of

salt with a man to be thorough friends with him.” Novelty, indeed, has its advantage,

which we must not despise. There is always hope of fruit, as there is in healthy blades

of corn. But age too must have its proper position; and, in fact, the influence of time

and habit is very great. To recur to the illustration of the horse which I have just now

used. Every one likes ceteris paribus to use the horse to which he has been

accustomed, rather than one that is untried and new. And it is not only in the case of a

living thing that this rule holds good, but in inanimate things also; for we like places

where we have lived the longest, even though they are mountainous and covered with

forest. But here is another golden rule in friendship: put yourself on a level with your

friend. For it often happens that there are certain superiorities, as for example Scipio’s

in what I may call our set. Now he never assumed any airs of superiority over Philus,

or Rupilius, or Mummius, or over friends of a lower rank still. For instance, he always

shewed a deference to his brother Quintus Maximus because he was his senior, who,

though a man no doubt of eminent character, was by no means his equal. He used also

to wish that all his friends should be the better for his support. This is an example we

should all follow. If any of us have any advantage in personal character, intellect, or

fortune, we should be ready to make our friends sharers and partners in it with

ourselves. For instance, if their parents are in humble circumstances, if their relations

are powerful neither in intellect nor means, we should supply their deficiencies and

promote their rank and dignity. You know the legends of children brought up as

servants in ignorance of their parentage and family. When they are recognized and

discovered to be the sons of gods or kings, they still retain their affection for the

shepherds whom they have for many years looked upon as their parents. Much more

ought this to be so in the case of real and undoubted parents. For the advantages of

genius and virtue, and in short of every kind of superiority, are never realized to their

fullest extent until they are bestowed upon our nearest and dearest.

20. But the converse must also be observed. For in friendship and relationship, just as

those who possess any superiority must put themselves on an equal footing with those

who are less fortunate, so these latter must not be annoyed at being surpassed in

genius, fortune, or rank. But most people of that sort are forever either grumbling at

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something, or harping on their claims; and especially if they consider that they have

services of their own to allege involving zeal and friendship and some trouble to

themselves. People who are always bringing up their services are a nuisance. The

recipient ought to remember them; the performer should never mention them. In the

case of friends, then, as the superior are bound to descend, so are they bound in a

certain sense to raise those below them. For there are people who make their

friendship disagreeable by imagining themselves undervalued. This generally happens

only to those who think that they deserve to be so; and they ought to be shewn by

deeds as well as by words the groundlessness of their opinion. Now the measure of

your benefits should be in the first place your own power to bestow, and in the second

place the capacity to bear them on the part of him on whom you are bestowing

affection and help. For, however great your personal prestige may be, you cannot

raise all your friends to the highest offices of the State. For instance, Scipio was able

to make Publius Rupilius consul, but not his brother Lucius. But granting that you can

give anyone anything you choose, you must have a care that it does not prove to be

beyond his powers.

As a general rule, we must wait to make up our mind about friendships till men’s

characters and years have arrived at their full strength and development. People must

not, for instance, regard as fast friends all whom in their youthful enthusiasm for

hunting or football they liked for having the same tastes. By that rule, if it were a

mere question of time, no one would have such claims on our affections as nurses and

slave-tutors. Not that they are to be neglected, but they stand on a different ground. It

is only these mature friendships that can be permanent. For difference of character

leads to difference of aims, and the result of such diversity is to estrange friends. The

sole reason, for instance, which prevents good men from making friends with bad, or

bad with good, is that the divergence of their characters and aims is the greatest

possible.

Another good rule in friendship is this: do not let an excessive affection hinder the

highest interests of your friends. This very often happens. I will go again to the region

of fable for an instance. Neoptolemus could never have taken Troy if he had been

willing to listen to Lycomedes, who had brought him up, and with many tears tried to

prevent his going there. Again, it often happens that important business makes it

necessary to part from friends: the man who tries to baulk it, because he thinks that he

cannot endure the separation, is of a weak and effeminate nature, and on that very

account makes but a poor friend. There are, of course, limits to what you ought to

expect from a friend and to what you should allow him to demand of you. And these

you must take into calculation in every case.

21. Again, there is such a disaster, so to speak, as having to break off friendship. And

sometimes it is one we cannot avoid. For at this point the stream of our discourse is

leaving the intimacies of the wise and touching on the friendship of ordinary people.

It will happen at times that an outbreak of vicious conduct affects either a man’s

friends themselves or strangers, yet the discredit falls on the friends. In such cases

friendships should be allowed to die out gradually by an intermission of intercourse.

They should, as I have been told that Cato used to say, rather be unstitched than torn

in twain; unless, indeed, the injurious conduct be of so violent and outrageous a nature

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as to make an instant breach and separation the only possible course consistent with

honour and rectitude. Again, if a change in character and aim takes place, as often

happens, or if party politics produces an alienation of feeling (I am now speaking, as I

said a short time ago, of ordinary friendships, not of those of the wise), we shall have

to be on our guard against appearing to embark upon active enmity while we only

mean to resign a friendship. For there can be nothing more discreditable than to be at

open war with a man with whom you have been intimate. Scipio, as you are aware,

had abandoned his friendship for Quintus Pompeius on my account; and again, from

differences of opinion in politics, he became estranged from my colleague Metellus.

In both cases he acted with dignity and moderation, shewing that he was offended

indeed, but without rancour.

Our first object, then, should be to prevent a breach; our second, to secure that, if it

does occur, our friendship should seem to have died a natural rather than a violent

death. Next, we should take care that friendship is not converted into active hostility,

from which flow personal quarrels, abusive language, and angry recriminations.

These last, however, provided that they do not pass all reasonable limits of

forbearance, we ought to put up with, and, in compliment to an old friendship, allow

the party that inflicts the injury, not the one that submits to it, to be in the wrong.

Generally speaking, there is but one way of securing and providing oneself against

faults and inconveniences of this sort—not to be too hasty in bestowing our affection,

and not to bestow it at all on unworthy objects.

Now, by “worthy of friendship” I mean those who have in themselves the qualities

which attract affection. This sort of man is rare; and indeed all excellent things are

rare; and nothing in the world is so hard to find as a thing entirely and completely

perfect of its kind. But most people not only recognize nothing as good in our life

unless it is profitable, but look upon friends as so much stock, caring most for those

by whom they hope to make most profit. Accordingly they never possess that most

beautiful and most spontaneous friendship which must be sought solely for itself

without any ulterior object. They fail also to learn from their own feelings the nature

and the strength of friendship. For every one loves himself, not for any reward which

such love may bring, but because he is dear to himself independently of anything else.

But unless this feeling is transferred to another, what a real friend is will never be

revealed; for he is, as it were, a second self. But if we find these two instincts shewing

themselves in animals,—whether of the air or the sea or the land, whether wild or

tame,—first, a love of self, which in fact is born in everything that lives alike; and,

secondly, an eagerness to find and attach thmselves to other creatures of their own

kind; and if this natural action is accompanied by desire and by something resembling

human love, how much more must this be the case in man by the law of his nature?

For man not only loves himself, but seeks another whose spirit he may so blend with

his own as almost to make one being of two.

22. But most people unreasonably, not to speak of modesty, want such a friend as they

are unable to be themselves, and expect from their friends what they do not

themselves give. The fair course is first to be good yourself, and then to look out for

another of like character. It is between such that the stability in friendship of which

we have been talking can be secured; when, that is to say, men who are united by

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affection learn, first of all, to rule those passions which enslave others, and in the next

place to take delight in fair and equitable conduct, to bear each other’s burdens, never

to ask each other for anything inconsistent with virtue and rectitude, and not only to

serve and love but also to respect each other. I say “respect”; for if respect is gone,

friendship has lost its brightest jewel. And this shows the mistake of those who

imagine that friendship gives a privilege to licentiousness and sin. Nature has given us

friendship as the handmaid of virtue, not as a partner in guilt: to the end that virtue,

being powerless when isolated to reach the highest objects, might succeed in doing so

in union and partnership with another. Those who enjoy in the present, or have

enjoyed in the past, or are destined to enjoy in the future such a partnership as this,

must be considered to have secured the most excellent and auspicious combination for

reaching nature’s highest good. This is the partnership, I say, which combines moral

rectitude, fame, peace of mind, serenity: all that men think desirable because with

them life is happy, but without them cannot be so. This being our best and highest

object, we must, if we desire to attain it, devote ourselves to virtue; for without virtue

we can obtain neither friendship nor anything else desirable. In fact, if virtue be

neglected, those who imagine themselves to possess friends will find out their error as

soon as some grave disaster forces them to make trial of them. Wherefore, I must

again and again repeat, you must satisfy your judgment before engaging your

affections: not love first and judge afterwards. We suffer from carelessness in many of

our undertakings: in none more than in selecting and cultivating our friends. We put

the cart before the horse, and shut the stable door when the steed is stolen, in defiance

of the old proverb. For, having mutually involved ourselves in a long-standing

intimacy or by actual obligations, all on a sudden some cause of offence arises and we

break off our friendships in full career.

23. It is this that makes such carelessness in a matter of supreme importance all the

more worthy of blame. I say “supreme importance,” because friendship is the one

thing about the utility of which everybody with one accord is agreed. That is not the

case in regard even to virtue itself; for many people speak slightingly of virtue as

though it were mere puffing and self-glorification. Nor is it the case with riches. Many

look down on riches, being content with a little and taking pleasure in poor fare and

dress. And as to the political offices for which some have a burning desire—how

many entertain such a contempt for them as to think nothing in the world more empty

and trivial!

And so on with the rest; things desirable in the eyes of some are regarded by very

many as worthless. But of friendship all think alike to a man, whether those have

devoted themselves to politics, or those who delight in science and philosophy, or

those who follow a private way of life and care for nothing but their own business, or

those lastly who have given themselves body and soul to sensuality—they all think, I

say, that without friendship life is no life, if they want some part of it, at any rate, to

be noble. For friendship, in one way or another, penetrates into the lives of us all, and

suffers no career to be entirely free from its influence. Though a man be of so churlish

and unsociable a nature as to loathe and shun the company of mankind, as we are told

was the case with a certain Timon at Athens, yet even he cannot refrain from seeking

some one in whose hearing he may disgorge the venom of his bitter temper. We

should see this most clearly, if it were possible that some god should carry us away

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from these haunts of men, and place us somewhere in perfect solitude, and then

should supply us in abundance with everything necessary to our nature, and yet take

from us entirely the opportunity of looking upon a human being. Who could steel

himself to endure such a life? Who would not lose in his loneliness the zest for all

pleasures? And indeed this is the point of the observation of, I think, Archytas of

Tarentum. I have it third hand; men who were my seniors told me that their seniors

had told them. It was this: “If a man could ascend to heaven and get a clear view of

the natural order of the universe, and the beauty of the heavenly bodies, that

wonderful spectacle would give him small pleasure, though nothing could be

conceived more delightful if he had but had some one to whom to tell what he had

seen.” So true it is that nature abhors isolation, and ever leans upon something as a

stay and support; and this is found in its most pleasing form in our closest friend.

24. But though Nature also declares by so many indications what her wish and object

and desire is, we yet in a manner turn a deaf ear and will not hear her warnings. The

intercourse between friends is varied and complex, and it must often happen that

causes of suspicion and offence arise, which a wise man will sometimes avoid, at

other times remove, at others treat with indulgence. The one possible cause of offence

that must be faced is when the interests of your friend and your own sincerity are at

stake. For instance, it often happens that friends need remonstrance and even reproof.

When these are administered in a kindly spirit they ought to be taken in good part. But

somehow or other there is truth in what my friend Terence says in his Andria:

Compliance gets us friends, plain speaking hate.

Plain speaking is a cause of trouble, if the result of it is resentment, which is poison of

friendship; but compliance is really the cause of much more trouble, because by

indulging his faults it lets a friend plunge into headlong ruin. But the man who is most

to blame is he who resents plain speaking and allows flattery to egg him on to his

ruin. On this point, then, from first to last there is need of deliberation and care. If we

remonstrate, it should be without bitterness; if we reprove, there should be no word of

insult. In the matter of compliance (for I am glad to adopt Terence’s word), though

there should be every courtesy, yet that base kind which assists a man in vice should

be far from us, for it is unworthy of a free-born man, to say nothing of a friend. It is

one thing to live with a tyrant, another with a friend. But if a man’s ears are so closed

to plain speaking that he cannot bear to hear the truth from a friend, we may give him

up in despair. This remark of Cato’s, as so many of his did, shews great acuteness:

“There are people who owe more to bitter enemies than to apparently pleasant friends:

the former often speak the truth, the latter never.” Besides, it is a strange paradox that

the recipients of advice should feel no annoyance where they ought to feel it, and yet

feel so much where they ought not. They are not at all vexed at having committed a

fault, but very angry at being reproved for it. On the contrary, they ought to be

grieved at the crime and glad of the correction.

25. Well, then, if it is true that to give and receive advice—the former with freedom

and yet without bitterness, the latter with patience and without irritation—is peculiarly

appropriate to genuine friendship, it is no less true that there can be nothing more

utterly subversive of friendship than flattery, adulation, and base compliance. I use as

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many terms as possible to brand this vice of light-minded, untrustworthy men, whose

sole object in speaking is to please without any regard to truth. In everything false

pretence is bad, for it suspends and vitiates our power of discerning the truth. But to

nothing it is so hostile as to friendship; for it destroys that frankness without which

friendship is an empty name. For the essence of friendship being that two minds

become as one, how can that ever take place if the mind of each of the separate parties

to it is not single and uniform, but variable, changeable, and complex? Can anything

be so pliable, so wavering, as the mind of a man whose attitude depends not only on

another’s feeling and wish, but on his very looks and nods?

If one says “No,” I answer “No”; if “Yes,” I answer “Yes.”

In fine, I’ve laid this task upon myself

To echo all that’s said—

to quote my old friend Terence again. But he puts these words into the mouth of a

Gnatho. To admit such a man into one’s intimacy at all is a sign of folly. But there are

many people like Gnatho, and it is when they are superior either in position or fortune

or reputation that their flatteries become mischievous, the weight of their position

making up for the lightness of their character. But if we only take reasonable care, it is

as easy to separate and distinguish a genuine from a specious friend as anything else

that is coloured and artificial from what is sincere and genuine. A public assembly,

though composed of men of the smallest possible culture, nevertheless will see clearly

the difference between a mere demagogue (that is, a flatterer and untrustworthy

citizen) and a man of principle, standing, and solidity. It was by this kind of flattering

language that Gaius Papirius the other day endeavoured to tickle the ears of the

assembled people, when proposing his law to make the tribunes re-eligible. I spoke

against it. But I will leave the personal question. I prefer speaking of Scipio. Good

heavens! how impressive his speech was, what a majesty there was in it! You would

have pronounced him, without hesitation, to be no mere henchman of the Roman

people, but their leader. However, you were there, and moreover have the speech in

your hands. The result was that a law meant to please the people was by the people’s

votes rejected. Once more to refer to myself, you remember how apparently popular

was the law proposed by Gaius Licinius Crassus “about the election to the College of

Priests” in the consulship of Quintus Maximus, Scipio’s brother, and Lucius

Mancinus. For the power of filling up their own vacancies on the part of the colleges

was by this proposal to be transferred to the people. It was this man, by the way, who

began the practice of turning towards the forum when addressing the people. In spite

of this, however, upon my speaking on the conservative side, religion gained an easy

victory over his plausible speech. This took place in my praetorship, five years before

I was elected consul, which shows that the cause was successfully maintained more

by the merits of the case than by the prestige of the highest office.

26. Now, if on a stage, such as a public assembly essentially is, where there is the

amplest room for fiction and half-truths, truth nevertheless prevails if it be but fairly

laid open and brought into the light of day, what ought to happen in the case of

friendship, which rests entirely on truthfulness? Friendship, in which, unless you both

see and show an open breast, to use a common expression, you can neither trust nor

be certain of anything—no, not even of mutual affection, since you cannot be sure of

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its sincerity. However, this flattery, injurious as it is, can hurt no one but the man who

takes it in and likes it. And it follows that the man to open his ears widest to flatterers

is he who first flatters himself and is fondest of himself. I grant you that Virtue

naturally loves herself; for she knows herself and perceives how worthy of love she is.

But I am not now speaking of absolute virtue, but of the belief men have that they

possess virtue. The fact is that fewer people are endowed with virtue than wish to be

thought to be so. It is such people that take delight in flattery. When they are

addressed in language expressly adapted to flatter their vanity, they look upon such

empty persiflage as a testimony to the truth of their own praises. It is not then

properly friendship at all when the one will not listen to the truth, and the other is

prepared to lie. Nor would the servility of parasites in comedy have seemed humorous

to us had there been no such things as braggart captains. “Is Thäis really much obliged

to me?” It would have been quite enough to answer “Much,” but he must needs say

“Immensely.” Your servile flatterer always exaggerates what his victim wishes to be

put strongly. Wherefore, though it is with those who catch at and invite it that this

flattering falsehood is especially powerful, yet men even of solider and steadier

character must be warned to be on the watch against being taken in by cunningly

disguised flattery. An open flatterer any one can detect, unless he is an absolute fool:

the covert insinuation of the cunning and the sly is what we have to be studiously on

our guard against. His detection is not by any means the easiest thing in the world, for

he often covers his servility under the guise of contradiction, and flatters by

pretending to dispute, and then at last giving in and allowing himself to be beaten, that

the person hoodwinked may think himself to have been the clearer-sighted. Now what

can be more degrading than to be thus hoodwinked? You must be on your guard

against this happening to you, like the man in the Heiress:

How have I been befooled! no drivelling dotards

On any stage were e’er so played upon.

For even on the stage we have no grosser representation of folly than that of short-

sighted and credulous old men. But somehow or other I have strayed away from the

friendship of the perfect, that is of the “wise” (meaning, of course, such “wisdom” as

human nature is capable of), to the subject of vulgar, unsubstantial friendships. Let us

then return to our original theme, and at length bring that, too, to a conclusion.

27. Well, then, Fannius and Mucius, I repeat what I said before. It is virtue, virtue,

which both creates and preserves friendship. On it depends harmony of interest,

permanence, fidelity. When Virtue has reared her head and shewn the light of her

countenance, and seen and recognised the same light in another, she gravitates

towards it, and in her turn welcomes that which the other has to shew; and from it

springs up a flame which you may call love or friendship as you please. Both words

are from the same root in Latin; and love is just the cleaving to him whom you love

without the prompting of need or any view to advantage—though this latter blossoms

spontaneously on friendship, little as you may have looked for it. It is with such

warmth of feeling that I cherished Lucius Paulus, Marcus Cato, Gaius Gallus, Publius

Nasica, Tiberius Gracchus, my dear Scipio’s father-in-law. It shines with even greater

warmth when men are of the same age, as in the case of Scipio and Lucius Furius,

Publius Rupilius, Spurius Mummius, and myself. En revanche, in my old age I find

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comfort in the affection of young men, as in the case of yourselves and Quintus

Tubero: nay more, I delight in the intimacy of such a very young man as Publius

Rutilius and Aulus Verginius. And since the law of our nature and of our life is that a

new generation is for ever springing up, the most desirable thing is that along with

your contemporaries, with whom you started in the race, you may also reach what is

to us the goal. But in view of the instability and perishableness of mortal things, we

should be continually on the look-out for some to love and by whom to be loved; for

if we lose affection and kindliness from our life, we lose all that gives it charm. For

me, indeed, though torn away by a sudden stroke, Scipio still lives and ever will live.

For it was the virtue of the man that I loved, and that has not suffered death. And it is

not my eyes only, because I had all my life a personal experience of it, that never lose

sight of it: it will shine to posterity also with undimmed glory. No one will ever

cherish a nobler ambition or a loftier hope without thinking his memory and his image

the best to put before his eyes. I declare that of all the blessings which either fortune

or nature has bestowed upon me I know none to compare with Scipio’s friendship. In

it I found sympathy in public, counsel in private business; in it too a means of

spending my leisure with unalloyed delight. Never, to the best of my knowledge, did I

offend him even in the most trivial point; never did I hear a word from him I could

have wished unsaid. We had one house, one table, one style of living; and not only

were we together on foreign service, but in our tours also and country sojourns. Why

speak of our eagerness to be ever gaining some knowledge, to be ever learning

something, on which we spent all our leisure hours far from the gaze of the world? If

the recollection and memory of these things had perished with the man, I could not

possibly have endured the regret for one so closely united with me in life and

affection. But these things have not perished; they are rather fed and strengthened by

reflexion and memory. Even supposing me to have been entirely bereft of them, still

my time of life of itself brings me no small consolation: for I cannot have much

longer now to bear this regret; and everything that is brief ought to be endurable,

however severe.

This is all I had to say on friendship. One piece of advice on parting. Make up your

minds to this. Virtue (without which friendship is impossible) is first; but next to it,

and to it alone, the greatest of all things is Friendship.

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[Back to Table of Contents]

ON OLD AGE

MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO

And should my service, Titus, ease the weight

Of care that wrings your heart, and draw the sting

Which rankles there, what guerdon shall there be?

FOR I may address you, Atticus, in the lines in which Flamininus was addressed by

the man,

who, poor in wealth, was rich in honour’s gold,

though I am well assured that you are not, as Flamininus was,

kept on the rack of care by night and day.

For I know how well ordered and equable your mind is, and am fully aware that it was

not a surname alone which you brought home with you from Athens, but its culture

and good sense. And yet I have an idea that you are at times stirred to the heart by the

same circumstances as myself. To console you for these is a more serious matter, and

must be put off to another time. For the present I have resolved to dedicate to you an

essay on Old Age. For from the burden of impending or at least advancing age,

common to us both, I would do something to relieve us both: though as to yourself I

am fully aware that you support and will support it, as you do everything else, with

calmness and philosophy. But directly I resolved to write on old age, you at once

occurred to me as deserving a gift of which both of us might take advantage. To

myself, indeed, the composition of this book has been so delightful, that it has not

only wiped away all the disagreeables of old age, but has even made it luxurious and

delightful too. Never, therefore, can philosophy be praised as highly as it deserves,

considering that its faithful disciple is able to spend every period of his life with

unruffled feelings. However, on other subjects I have spoken at large, and shall often

speak again: this book which I herewith send you is on Old Age. I have put the whole

discourse not, as Alisto of Cos did, in the mouth of Tithonus—for a mere fable would

have lacked conviction—but in that of Marcus Cato when he was an old man, to give

my essay greater weight. I represent Laelius and Scipio at his house expressing

surprise at his carrying his years so lightly, and Cato answering them. If he shall seem

to shew somewhat more learning in this discourse than he generally did in his own

books, put it down to the Greek literature of which it is known that he became an

eager student in his old age. But what need of more? Cato’s own words will at once

explain all I feel about old age.

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M. Cato. Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus (The Younger).

Gaius Laelius.

2. SCIPIO.

Many a time have I in conversation with my friend Gaius Laelius here expressed my

admiration, Marcus Cato, of the eminent, nay perfect, wisdom displayed by you

indeed at all points, but above everything because I have noticed that old age never

seemed a burden to you, while to most old men it is so hateful that they declare

themselves under a weight heavier than Aetna.

CATO.

Your admiration is easily excited, it seems, my dear Scipio and Laelius. Men, of

course, who have no resources in themselves for securing a good and happy life find

every age burdensome. But those who look for all happiness from within can never

think anything bad which nature makes inevitable. In that category before anything

else comes old age, to which all wish to attain, and at which all grumble when

attained. Such is Folly’s inconsistency and unreasonableness! They say that it is

stealing upon them faster than they expected. In the first place, who compelled them

to hug an illusion? For in what respect did old age steal upon manhood faster than

manhood upon childhood? In the next place, in what way would old age have been

less disagreeable to them if they were in their eight-hundredth year than in their

eightieth? For their past, however long, when once it was past, would have no

consolation for a stupid old age. Wherefore, if it is your wont to admire my

wisdom—and I would that it were worthy of your good opinion and of my own

surname of Sapiens—it really consists in the fact that I follow Nature, the best of

guides, as I would a god, and am loyal to her commands. It is not likely, if she has

written the rest of the play well, that she has been careless about the last act like some

idle poet. But after all some “last” was inevitable, just as to the berries of a tree and

the fruits of the earth there comes in the fulness of time a period of decay and fall. A

wise man will not make a grievance of this. To rebel against nature—is not that to

fight like the giants with the gods?

LAELIUS.

And yet, Cato, you will do us a very great favour (I venture to speak for Scipio as for

myself) if—since we all hope, or at least wish, to become old men—you would allow

us to learn from you in good time before it arrives, by what methods we may most

easily acquire the strength to support the burden of advancing age.

CATO.

I will do so without doubt, Laelius, especially if, as you say, it will be agreeable to

you both.

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LAELIUS.

We do wish very much, Cato, if it is no trouble to you, to be allowed to see the nature

of the bourne which you have reached after completing a long journey, as it were,

upon which we too are bound to embark.

3. CATO.

I will do the best I can, Laelius. It has often been my fortune to hear the complaints of

my contemporaries—like will to like, you know, according to the old

proverb—complaints to which men like C. Salinator and Sp. Albinus, who were of

consular rank and about my time, used to give vent. They were, first, that they had

lost the pleasures of the senses, without which they did not regard life as life at all;

and, secondly, that they were neglected by those from whom they had been used to

receive attentions. Such men appear to me to lay the blame on the wrong thing. For if

it had been the fault of old age, then these same misfortunes would have befallen me

and all other men of advanced years. But I have known many of them who never said

a word of complaint against old age; for they were only too glad to be freed from the

bondage of passion, and were not at all looked down upon by their friends. The fact is

that the blame for all complaints of that kind is to be charged to character, not to a

particular time of life. For old men who are reasonable and neither cross-grained nor

churlish find old age tolerable enough: whereas unreason and churlishness cause

uneasiness at every time of life.

LAELIUS.

It is as you say, Cato. But perhaps some one may suggest that it is your large means,

wealth, and high position that make you think old age tolerable: whereas such good

fortune only falls to few.

CATO.

There is something in that, Laelius, but by no means all. For instance, the story is told

of the answer of Themistocles in a wrangle with a certain Seriphian, who asserted that

he owed his brilliant position to the reputation of his country, not to his own. “If I had

been a Seriphian,” said he, “even I should never have been famous, nor would you if

you had been an Athenian. Something like this may be said of old age. For the

philosopher himself could not find old age easy to bear in the depths of poverty, nor

the fool feel it anything but a burden though he were a millionaire. You may be sure,

my dear Scipio and Laelius, that the arms best adapted to old age are culture and the

active exercise of the virtues. For if they have been maintained at every period—if

one has lived much as well as long—the harvest they produce is wonderful, not only

because they never fail us even in our last days (though that in itself is supremely

important), but also because the consciousness of a well-spent life and the recollection

of many virtuous actions are exceedingly delightful.

4. Take the case of Q. Fabius Maximus, the man, I mean, who recovered Tarentum.

When I was a young man and he an old one, I was as much attached to him as if he

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had been my contemporary. For that great man’s serious dignity was tempered by

courteous manners, nor had old age made any change in his character. True, he was

not exactly an old man when my devotion to him began, yet he was nevertheless well

on in life; for his first consulship fell in the year after my birth. When quite a stripling

I went with him in his fourth consulship as a soldier in the ranks, on the expedition

against Capua, and in the fifth year after that against Tarentum. Four years after that I

was elected Quaestor, holding office in the consulship of Tuditanus and Cethegus, in

which year, indeed, he as a very old man spoke in favour of the Cincian law “on gifts

and fees.”

Now this man conducted wars with all the spirit of youth when he was far advanced in

life, and by his persistence gradually wearied out Hannibal, when rioting in all the

confidence of youth. How brilliant are those lines of my friend Ennius on him!

For us, down beaten by the storms of fate,

One man by wise delays restored the State.

Praise or dispraise moved not his constant mood,

True to his purpose, to his country’s good!

Down ever-lengthening avenues of fame

Thus shines and shall shine still his glorious name.

Again what vigilance, what profound skill did he show in the capture of Tarentum! It

was indeed in my hearing that he made the famous retort to Salinator, who had

retreated into the citadel after losing the town: “It was owing to me, Quintus Fabius,

that you retook Tarentum.” “Quite so,” he replied with a laugh; “for had you not lost

it, I should never have recovered it.” Nor was he less eminent in civil life than in war.

In his second consulship, though his colleague would not move in the matter, he

resisted as long as he could the proposal of the tribune C. Flaminius to divide the

territory of the Picenians and Gauls in free allotments in defiance of a resolution of

the Senate. Again, though he was an augur, he ventured to say that whatever was done

in the interests of the State was done with the best possible auspices, that any laws

proposed against its interest were proposed against the auspices. I was cognisant of

much that was admirable in that great man, but nothing struck me with greater

astonishment than the way in which he bore the death of his son—a man of brilliant

character and who had been consul. His funeral speech over him is in wide

circulation, and when we read it, is there any philosopher of whom we do not think

meanly? Nor in truth was he only great in the light of day and in the sight of his

fellow-citizens; he was still more eminent in private and at home. What a wealth of

conversation! What weighty maxims! What a wide acquaintance with ancient history!

What an accurate knowledge of the science of augury! For a Roman, too, he had a

great tincture of letters. He had a tenacious memory for military history of every sort,

whether of Roman or foreign wars. And I used at that time to enjoy his conversation

with a passionate eagerness, as though I already divined, what actually turned out to

be the case, that when he died there would be no one to teach me anything.

5. What then is the purpose of such a long disquisition on Maximus? It is because you

now see that an old age like his cannot conscientiously be called unhappy. Yet it is

after all true that everybody cannot be a Scipio or a Maximus, with stormings of

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cities, with battles by land and sea, with wars in which they themselves commanded,

and with triumphs to recall. Besides this there is a quiet, pure, and cultivated life

which produces a calm and gentle old age, such as we have been told Plato’s was,

who died at his writing-desk in his eighty-first year; or like that of Isocrates, who says

that he wrote the book called The Panegyric in his ninety-fourth year, and who lived

for five years afterwards; while his master Gorgias of Leontini completed a hundred

and seven years without ever relaxing his diligence or giving up work. When some

one asked him why he consented to remain so long alive—“I have no fault,” said he,

“to find with old age.” That was a noble answer, and worthy of a scholar. For fools

impute their own frailties and guilt to old age, contrary to the practice of Ennius,

whom I mentioned just now. In the lines—

Like some brave steed that oft before

The Olympic wreath of victory bore,

Now by the weight of years oppressed,

Forgets the race, and takes his rest—

he compares his own old age to that of a high-spirited and successful race-horse. And

him indeed you may very well remember. For the present consuls Titus Flamininus

and Manius Acilius were elected in the nineteenth year after his death; and his death

occurred in the consulship of Caepio and Philippus, the latter consul for the second

time: in which year I, then sixty-six years old, spoke in favour of the Voconian law in

a voice that was still strong and with lungs still sound; while he, though seventy years

old, supported two burdens considered the heaviest of all—poverty and old age—in

such a way as to be all but fond of them.

The fact is that when I come to think it over, I find that there are four reasons for old

age being thought unhappy: First, that it withdraws us from active employments;

second, that it enfeebles the body; third, that it deprives us of nearly all physical

pleasures; fourth, that it is the next step to death. Of each of these reasons, if you will

allow me, let us examine the force and justice separately.

6.Old age withdraws us from active employments. From which of them? Do you

mean from those carried on by youth and bodily strength? Are there then no old

men’s employments to be after all conducted by the intellect, even when bodies are

weak? So then Q. Maximus did nothing; nor L. Aemilius—your father, Scipio, and

my excellent son’s father-in-law! So with other old men—the Fabricii, the Curii and

Coruncanii—when they were supporting the State by their advice and influence, they

were doing nothing! To old age Appius Claudius had the additional disadvantage of

being blind; yet it was he who, when the Senate was inclining towards a peace with

Pyrrhus and was for making a treaty, did not hesitate to say what Ennius has

embalmed in the verses:

Whither have swerved the souls so firm of yore?

Is sense grown senseless? Can feet stand no more?

And so on in a tone of the most passionate vehemence. You know the poem, and the

speech of Appius himself is extant. Now, he delivered it seventeen years after his

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second consulship, there having been an interval of ten years between the two

consulships, and he having been censor before his previous consulship. This will

show you that at the time of the war with Pyrrhus he was a very old man. Yet this is

the story handed down to us.

There is therefore nothing in the arguments of those who say that old age takes no part

in public business. They are like men who would say that a steersman does nothing in

sailing a ship, because, while some of the crew are climbing the masts, others

hurrying up and down the gangways, others pumping out the bilge water, he sits

quietly in the stern holding the tiller. He does not do what young men do; nevertheless

he does what is much more important and better. The great affairs of life are not

performed by physical strength, or activity, or nimbleness of body, but by

deliberation, character, expression of opinion. Of these old age is not only not

deprived, but, as a rule, has them in a greater degree. Unless by any chance I, who as

a soldier in the ranks, as military tribune, as legate, and as consul have been employed

in various kinds of war, now appear to you to be idle because not actively engaged in

war. But I enjoin upon the Senate what is to be done, and how. Carthage has long

been harbouring evil designs, and I accordingly proclaim war against her in good

time. I shall never cease to entertain fears about her till I hear of her having been

levelled with the ground. The glory of doing that I pray that the immortal gods may

reserve for you, Scipio, so that you may complete the task begun by your grandfather,

now dead more than thirty-two years ago; though all years to come will keep that

great man’s memory green. He died in the year before my censorship, nine years after

my consulship, having been returned consul for the second time in my own

consulship. If then he had lived to his hundredth year, would he have regretted having

lived to be old? For he would of course not have been practising rapid marches, nor

dashing on a foe, nor hurling spears from a distance, nor using swords at close

quarters—but only counsel, reason, and senatorial eloquence. And if those qualities

had not resided in us seniors, our ancestors would never have called their supreme

council a Senate. At Sparta, indeed, those who hold the highest magistracies are in

accordance with the fact actually called “elders.” But if you will take the trouble to

read or listen to foreign history, you will find that the mightiest States have been

brought into peril by young men, have been supported and restored by old. The

question occurs in the poet Naevius’s Sport:

Pray, who are those who brought your State

With such despatch to meet its fate?

There is a long answer, but this is the chief point:

A crop of brand-new orators we grew,

And foolish, paltry lads who thought they knew.

For of course rashness is the note of youth, prudence of old age.

7. But, it is said, memory dwindles. No doubt, unless you keep it in practice, or if you

happen to be somewhat dull by nature. Themistocles had the names of all his fellow-

citizens by heart. Do you imagine that in his old age he used to address Aristides as

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Lysimachus? For my part, I know not only the present generation, but their fathers

also, and their grandfathers. Nor have I any fear of losing my memory by reading

tombstones, according to the vulgar superstition. On the contrary, by reading them I

renew my memory of those who are dead and gone. Nor, in point of fact, have I ever

heard of any old man forgetting where he had hidden his money. They remember

everything that interests them: when to answer to their bail, business appointments,

who owes them money, and to whom they owe it. What about lawyers, pontiffs,

augurs, philosophers, when old? What a multitude of things they remember! Old men

retain their intellects well enough, if only they keep their minds active and fully

employed. Nor is that the case only with men of high position and great office: it

applies equally to private life and peaceful pursuits. Sophocles composed tragedies to

extreme old age; and being believed to neglect the care of his property owing to his

devotion to his art, his sons brought him into court to get a judicial decision depriving

him of the management of his property on the ground of weak intellect—just as in our

law it is customary to deprive a paterfamilias of the management of his property if he

is squandering it. Thereupon the old poet is said to have read to the judges the play he

had on hand and had just composed—the Oedipus Coloneus—and to have asked them

whether they thought that the work of a man of weak intellect. After the reading he

was acquitted by the jury. Did old age then compel this man to become silent in his

particular art, or Homer, Hesiod, Simonides, or Isocrates and Gorgias whom I

mentioned before, or the founders of schools of philosophy, Pythagoras, Democritus,

Plato, Xenocrates, or later Zeno and Cleanthus, or Diogenes the Stoic, whom you too

saw at Rome? Is it not rather the case with all these that the active pursuit of study

only ended with life?

But, to pass over these sublime studies, I can name some rustic Romans from the

Sabine district, neighbours and friends of my own, without whose presence farm work

of importance is scarcely ever performed—whether sowing, or harvesting or storing

crops. And yet in other things this is less surprising; for no one is so old as to think

that he may not live a year. But they bestow their labour on what they know does not

affect them in any case:

He plants his trees to serve a race to come,

as our poet Statius says in his Comrades. Nor indeed would a farmer, however old,

hesitate to answer any one who asked him for whom he was planting: “For the

immortal gods, whose will it was that I should not merely receive these things from

my ancestors, but should also hand them on to the next generation.”

8. That remark about the old man is better than the following:

If age brought nothing worse than this,

It were enough to mar our bliss,

That he who bides for many years

Sees much to shun and much for tears.

Yes, and perhaps much that gives him pleasure too. Besides, as to subjects for tears,

he often comes upon them in youth as well.

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A still more questionable sentiment in the same Caecilius is:

No greater misery can of age be told

Than this: be sure, the young dislike the old.

Delight in them is nearer the mark than dislike. For just as old men, if they are wise,

take pleasure in the society of young men of good parts, and as old age is rendered

less dreary for those who are courted and liked by the youth, so also do young men

find pleasure in the maxims of the old, by which they are drawn to the pursuit of

excellence. Nor do I perceive that you find my society less pleasant than I do yours.

But this is enough to show you how, so far from being listless and sluggish, old age is

even a busy time, always doing and attempting something, of course of the same

nature as each man’s taste had been in the previous part of his life. Nay, do not some

even add to their stock of learning? We see Solon, for instance, boasting in his poems

that he grows old “daily learning something new.” Or again in my own case, it was

only when an old man that I became acquainted with Greek literature, which in fact I

absorbed with such avidity—in my yearning to quench, as it were, a long-continued

thirst—that I became acquainted with the very facts which you see me now using as

precedents. When I heard what Socrates had done about the lyre I should have liked

for my part to have done that too, for the ancients used to learn the lyre but, at any

rate, I worked hard at literature.

9. Nor, again, do I now miss the bodily strength of a young man (for that was the

second point as to the disadvantages of old age) any more than as a young man I

missed the strength of a bull or an elephant. You should use what you have, and

whatever you may chance to be doing, do it with all your might. What could be

weaker than Milo of Croton’s exclamation? When in his old age he was watching

some athletes practising in the course, he is said to have looked at his arms and to

have exclaimed with tears in his eyes: “Ah well! these are now as good as dead.” Not

a bit more so than yourself, you trifler! For at no time were you made famous by your

real self, but by chest and biceps. Sext. Aelius never gave vent to such a remark, nor,

many years before him, Titus Coruncanius, nor, more recently, P. Crassus—all of

them learned juris-consults in active practice, whose knowledge of their profession

was maintained to their last breath. I am afraid an orator does lose vigour by old age,

for his art is not a matter of the intellect alone, but of lungs and bodily strength.

Though as a rule that musical ring in the voice even gains in brilliance in a certain

way as one grows old—certainly I have not yet lost it, and you see my years. Yet after

all the style of speech suitable to an old man is the quiet and unemotional, and it often

happens that the chastened and calm delivery of an old man eloquent secures a

hearing. If you cannot attain to that yourself, you might still instruct a Scipio and a

Laelius. For what is more charming than old age surrounded by the enthusiasm of

youth? Shall we not allow old age even the strength to teach the young, to train and

equip them for all the duties of life? And what can be a nobler employment? For my

part, I used to think Publius and Gnaeus Scipio and your two grandfathers, L.

Aemilius and P. Africanus, fortunate men when I saw them with a company of young

nobles about them. Nor should we think any teachers of the fine arts otherwise than

happy, however much their bodily forces may have decayed and failed. And yet that

same failure of the bodily forces is more often brought about by the vices of youth

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than of old age; for a dissolute and intemperate youth hands down the body to old age

in a worn-out state. Xenophon’s Cyrus, for instance, in his discourse delivered on his

death-bed and at a very advanced age, says that he never perceived his old age to have

become weaker than his youth had been. I remember as a boy Lucius Metellus, who

having been created Pontifex Maximus four years after his second consulship, held

that office twenty-two years, enjoying such excellent strength of body in the very last

hours of his life as not to miss his youth. I need not speak of myself; though that

indeed is an old man’s way and is generally allowed to my time of life. Don’t you see

in Homer how frequently Nestor talks of his own good qualities? For he was living

through a third generation; nor had he any reason to fear that upon saying what was

true about himself he should appear either over vain or talkative. For, as Homer says,

“from his lips flowed discourse sweeter than honey,” for which sweet breath he

wanted no bodily strength. And yet, after all, the famous leader of the Greeks

nowhere wishes to have ten men like Ajax, but like Nestor: if he could get them, he

feels no doubt of Troy shortly falling.

10. But to return to my own case: I am in my eighty-fourth year. I could wish that I

had been able to make the same boast as Cyrus; but, after all, I can say this: I am not

indeed as vigorous as I was as a private soldier in the Punic war, or as quaestor in the

same war, or as consul in Spain, and four years later when as a military tribune I took

part in the engagement at Thermopylae under the consul Manius Acilius Glabrio; but

yet, as you see, old age has not entirely destroyed my muscles, has not quite brought

me to the ground. The Senate-house does not find all my vigour gone, nor the rostra,

nor my friends, nor my clients, nor my foreign guests. For I have never given in to

that ancient and much-praised proverb:

Old when young

Is old for long.

For myself, I had rather be an old man a somewhat shorter time than an old man

before my time. Accordingly, no one up to the present has wished to see me, to whom

I have been denied as engaged. But, it may be said, I have less strength than either of

you. Neither have you the strength of the centurion T. Pontius: is he the more eminent

man on that account? Let there be only a proper husbanding of strength, and let each

man proportion his efforts to his powers. Such an one will assuredly not be possessed

with any great regret for his loss of strength. At Olympia Milo is said to have stepped

into the course carrying a live ox on his shoulders. Which then of the two would you

prefer to have given to you—bodily strength like that, or intellectual strength like that

of Pythagoras? In fine, enjoy that blessing when you have it; when it is gone, don’t

wish it back—unless we are to think that young men should wish their childhood

back, and those somewhat older their youth! The course of life is fixed, and nature

admits of its being run but in one way, and only once; and to each part of our life

there is something specially seasonable; so that the feebleness of children, as well as

the high spirit of youth, the soberness of maturer years, and the ripe wisdom of old

age—all have a certain natural advantage which should be secured in its proper

season. I think you are informed, Scipio, what your grandfather’s foreign friend

Masinissa does to this day, though ninety years old. When he has once begun a

journey on foot he does not mount his horse at all; when on horseback he never gets

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off his horse. By no rain or cold can he be induced to cover his head. His body is

absolutely free from unhealthy humours, and so he still performs all the duties and

functions of a king. Active exercise, therefore, and temperance can preserve some part

of one’s former strength even in old age.

11. Bodily strength is wanting to old age; but neither is bodily strength demanded

from old men. Therefore, both by law and custom, men of my time of life are exempt

from those duties which cannot be supported without bodily strength. Accordingly not

only are we not forced to do what we cannot do; we are not even obliged to do as

much as we can. But, it will be said, many old men are so feeble that they cannot

perform any duty in life of any sort or kind. That is not a weakness to be set down as

peculiar to old age: it is one shared by ill health. How feeble was the son of P.

Africanus, who adopted you! What weak health he had, or rather no health at all! If

that had not been the case, we should have had in him a second brilliant light in the

political horizon; for he had added a wider cultivation to his father’s greatness of

spirit. What wonder, then, that old men are eventually feeble, when even young men

cannot escape it? My dear Laelius and Scipio, we must stand up against old age and

make up for its drawbacks by taking pains. We must fight it as we should an illness.

We must look after our health, use moderate exercise, take just enough food and drink

to recruit, but not to overload, our strength. Nor is it the body alone that must be

supported, but the intellect and soul much more. For they are like lamps: unless you

feed them with oil, they too go out from old age. Again, the body is apt to get gross

from exercise; but the intellect becomes nimbler by exercising itself. For what

Caecilius means by “old dotards of the comic stage” are the credulous, the forgetful,

and the slipshod. These are faults that do not attach to old age as such, but to a

sluggish, spiritless, and sleepy old age. Young men are more frequently wanton and

dissolute than old men; but yet, as it is not all young men that are so, but the bad set

among them, even so senile folly—usually called imbecility—applies to old men of

unsound character, not to all. Appius governed four sturdy sons, five daughters, that

great establishment, and all those clients, though he was both old and blind. For he

kept his mind at full stretch like a bow, and never gave in to old age by growing slack.

He maintained not merely an influence, but an absolute command over his family: his

slaves feared him, his sons were in awe of him, all loved him. In that family, indeed,

ancestral custom and discipline were in full vigour. The fact is that old age is

respectable just as long as it asserts itself, maintains its proper rights, and is not

enslaved to any one. For as I admire a young man who has something of the old man

in him, so do I an old one who has something of a young man. The man who aims at

this may possibly become old in body—in mind he never will. I am now engaged in

composing the seventh book of my Origins. I collect all the records of antiquity. The

speeches delivered in all the celebrated cases which I have defended I am at this

particular time getting into shape for publication. I am writing treatises on augural,

pontifical, and civil law. I am, besides, studying hard at Greek, and after the manner

of the Pythagoreans—to keep my memory in working order—I repeat in the evening

whatever I have said, heard, or done in the course of each day. These are the exercises

of the intellect, these the training grounds of the mind: while I sweat and labour on

these I don’t much feel the loss of bodily strength. I appear in court for my friends; I

frequently attend the Senate and bring motions before it on my own responsibility,

prepared after deep and long reflection. And these I support by my intellectual, not

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my bodily forces. And if I were not strong enough to do these things, yet I should

enjoy my sofa—imagining the very operations which I was now unable to perform.

But what makes me capable of doing this is my past life. For a man who is always

living in the midst of these studies and labours does not perceive when old age creeps

upon him. Thus, by slow and imperceptible degrees life draws to its end. There is no

sudden breakage; it just slowly goes out.

12. The third charge against old age is that it lacks sensual pleasures. What a splendid

service does old age render, if it takes from us the greatest blot of youth! Listen, my

dear young friends, to a speech of Archytas of Tarentum, among the greatest and most

illustrious of men, which was put into my hands when as a young man I was at

Tarentum with Q. Maximus. “No more deadly curse than sensual pleasure has been

inflicted on mankind by nature, to gratify which our wanton appetites are roused

beyond all prudence or restraint. It is a fruitful source of treasons, revolutions, secret

communications with the enemy. In fact, there is no crime, no evil deed, to which the

appetite for sensual pleasures does not impel us. Fornications and adulteries, and

every abomination of that kind, are brought about by the enticements of pleasure and

by them alone. Intellect is the best gift of nature or God: to this divine gift and

endowment there is nothing so inimical as pleasure. For when appetite is our master,

there is no place for self-control; nor where pleasure reigns supreme can virtue hold

its ground. To see this more vividly, imagine a man excited to the highest conceivable

pitch of sensual pleasure. It can be doubtful to no one that such a person, so long as he

is under the influence of such excitation of the senses, will be unable to use to any

purpose either intellect, reason, or thought. Therefore nothing can be so execrable and

so fatal as pleasure; since, when more than ordinarily violent and lasting, it darkens all

the light of the soul.”

These were the words addressed by Archytas to the Samnite Caius Pontius, father of

the man by whom the consuls Spurius Postumius and Titus Veturius were beaten in

the battle of Caudium. My friend Nearchus of Tarentum, who had remained loyal to

Rome, told me that he had heard them repeated by some old men; and that Plato the

Athenian was present, who visited Tarentum, I find, in the consulship of L. Camillus

and Appius Claudius.

What is the point of all this? It is to show you that, if we were unable to scorn

pleasure by the aid of reason and philosophy, we ought to have been very grateful to

old age for depriving us of all inclination for that which it was wrong to do. For

pleasure hinders thought, is a foe to reason, and, so to speak, blinds the eyes of the

mind. It is, moreover, entirely alien to virtue. I was sorry to have to expel Lucius,

brother of the gallant Titus Flamininus, from the Senate seven years after his

consulship; but I thought it imperative to affix a stigma on an act of gross sensuality.

For when he was in Gaul as consul, he had yielded to the entreaties of his paramour at

a dinner-party to behead a man who happened to be in prison condemned on a capital

charge. When his brother Titus was Censor, who preceded me, he escaped; but I and

Flaccus could not countenance an act of such criminal and abandoned lust, especially

as, besides the personal dishonour, it brought disgrace on the Government.

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13. I have often been told by men older than myself, who said that they had heard it as

boys from old men, that Gaius Fabricius was in the habit of expressing astonishment

at having heard, when envoy at the headquarters of king Pyrrhus, from the Thessalian

Cineas, that there was a man of Athens who professed to be a “philosopher,” and

affirmed that everything we did was to be referred to pleasure. When he told this to

Manius Curius and Publius Decius, they used to remark that they wished that the

Samnites and Pyrrhus himself would hold the same opinion. It would be much easier

to conquer them, if they had once given themselves over to sensual indulgences.

Manius Curius had been intimate with P. Decius, who four years before the former’s

consulship had devoted himself to death for the Republic. Both Fabricius and

Coruncanius knew him also, and from the experience of their own lives, as well as

from the action of P. Decius, they were of opinion that there did exist something

intrinsically noble and great, which was sought for its own sake, and at which all the

best men aimed, to the contempt and neglect of pleasure. Why then do I spend so

many words on the subject of pleasure? Why, because, far from being a charge

against old age, that it does not much feel the want of any pleasures, it is its highest

praise.

But, you will say, it is deprived of the pleasures of the table, the heaped up board, the

rapid passing of the wine-cup. Well, then, it is also free from headache, disordered

digestion, broken sleep. But if we must grant pleasure something, since we do not find

it easy to resist its charms,—for Plato, with happy inspiration, calls pleasure “vice’s

bait,” because of course men are caught by it as fish by a hook,—yet, although old

age has to abstain from extravagant banquets, it is still capable of enjoying modest

festivities. As a boy I often used to see Gaius Duilius the son of Marcus, then an old

man, returning from a dinner-party. He thoroughly enjoyed the frequent use of torch

and flute-player, distinctions which he had assumed though unprecedented in the case

of a private person. It was the privilege of his glory. But why mention others? I will

come back to my own case. To begin with, I have always remained a member of a

“club”—clubs, you know, were established in my quaestorship on the reception of the

Magna Mater from Ida. So I used to dine at their feast with the members of my

club—on the whole with moderation, though there was a certain warmth of

temperament natural to my time of life; but as that advances there is a daily decrease

of all excitement. Nor was I, in fact, ever wont to measure my enjoyment even of

these banquets by the physical pleasures they gave more than by the gathering and

conversation of friends. For it was a good idea of our ancestors to style the presence

of guests at a dinner-table—seeing that it implied a community of enjoyment—a

convivium, “a living together.” It is a better term than the Greek words which mean “a

drinking together,” or, “an eating together.” For they would seem to give the

preference to what is really the least important part of it.

14. For myself, owing to the pleasure I take in conversation, I enjoy even banquets

that begin early in the afternoon, and not only in company with my

contemporaries—of whom very few survive—but also with men of your age and with

yourselves. I am thankful to old age, which has increased my avidity for conversation,

while it has removed that for eating and drinking. But if anyone does enjoy

these—not to seem to have proclaimed war against all pleasure without exception,

which is perhaps a feeling inspired by nature—I fail to perceive even in these very

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pleasures that old age is entirely without the power of appreciation. For myself, I take

delight even in the old-fashioned appointment of master of the feast; and in the

arrangement of the conversation, which according to ancestral custom is begun from

the last place on the left-hand couch when the wine is brought in; as also in the cups

which, as in Xenophon’s banquet, are small and filled by driblets; and in the

contrivance for cooling in summer, and for warming by the winter sun or winter fire.

These things I keep up even among my Sabine countrymen, and every day have a full

dinner-party of neighbours, which we prolong as far into the night as we can with

varied conversation.

But you may urge—there is not the same tingling sensation of pleasure in old men.

No doubt; but neither do they miss it so much. For nothing gives you uneasiness

which you do not miss. That was a fine answer of Sophocles to a man who asked him,

when in extreme old age, whether he was still a lover. “Heaven forbid!” he replied; “I

was only too glad to escape from that, as though from a boorish and insane master.”

To men indeed who are keen after such things it may possibly appear disagreeable

and uncomfortable to be without them; but to jaded appetites it is pleasanter to lack

than to enjoy. However, he cannot be said to lack who does not want: my contention

is that not to want is the pleasanter thing.

But even granting that youth enjoys these pleasures with more zest; in the first place,

they are insignificant things to enjoy, as I have said; and in the second place, such as

age is not entirely without, if it does not possess them in profusion. Just as a man gets

greater pleasure from Ambivius Turpio if seated in the front row at the theatre than if

he was in the last, yet, after all, the man in the last row does get pleasure; so youth,

because it looks at pleasures at closer quarters, perhaps enjoys itself more, yet even

old age, looking at them from a distance, does enjoy itself well enough. Why, what

blessings are these—that the soul, having served its time, so to speak, in the

campaigns of desire and ambition, rivalry and hatred, and all the passions, should live

in its own thoughts, and, as the expression goes, should dwell apart! Indeed, if it has

in store any of what I may call the food of study and philosophy, nothing can be

pleasanter than an old age of leisure. We were witnesses to C. Gallus—a friend of

your father’s, Scipio—intent to the day of his death on mapping out the sky and land.

How often did the light surprise him while still working out a problem begun during

the night! How often did night find him busy on what he had begun at dawn! How he

delighted in predicting for us solar and lunar eclipses long before they occurred! Or

again in studies of a lighter nature, though still requiring keenness of intellect, what

pleasure Naevius took in his Punic War! Plautus in his Truculentus and Pseudolus! I

even saw Livius Andronicus, who, having produced a play six years before I was

born—in the consulship of Cento and Tuditanus—lived till I had become a young

man. Why speak of Publius Licinius Crassus’s devotion to pontifical and civil law, or

of the Publius Scipio of the present time, who within these last few days has been

created Pontifex Maximus? And yet I have seen all whom I have mentioned ardent in

these pursuits when old men. Then there is Marcus Cethegus, whom Ennius justly

called “Persuasion’s Marrow”—with what enthusiasm did we see him exert himself in

oratory even when quite old! What pleasures are there in feasts, games, or mistresses

comparable to pleasures such as these? And they are all tastes, too, connected with

learning, which in men of sense and good education grow with their growth. It is

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indeed an honourable sentiment which Solon expresses in a verse which I have quoted

before—that he grew old learning many a fresh lesson every day. Than that

intellectual pleasure none certainly can be greater.

15. I come now to the pleasures of the farmer, in which I take amazing delight. These

are not hindered by any extent of old age, and seem to me to approach nearest to the

ideal wise man’s life. For he has to deal with the earth, which never refuses its

obedience, nor ever returns what it has received without usury; sometimes, indeed,

with less, but generally with greater interest. For my part, however, it is not merely

the thing produced, but the earth’s own force and natural productiveness that delight

me. For having received in its bosom the seed scattered broadcast upon it, softened

and broken up, she first keeps it concealed therein (hence the harrowing which

accomplishes this gets its name from a word meaning “to hide”); next, when it has

been warmed by her heat and close pressure, she splits it open and draws from it the

greenery of the blade. This, supported by the fibres of the root, little by little grows

up, and held upright by its jointed stalk is enclosed in sheaths, as being still immature.

When it has emerged from them it produces an ear of corn arranged in order, and is

defended against the pecking of the smaller birds by a regular palisade of spikes.

Need I mention the starting, planting, and growth of vines? I can never have too much

of this pleasure—to let you into the secret of what gives my old age repose and

amusement. For I say nothing here of the natural force which all things propagated

from the earth possess—the earth which from that tiny grain in a fig, or the grape-

stone in a grape, or the most minute seeds of the other cereals and plants, produces

such huge trunks and boughs. Mallet-shoots, slips, cuttings, quicksets, layers—are

they not enough to fill anyone with delight and astonishment? The vine by nature is

apt to fall, and unless supported drops down to the earth; yet in order to keep itself

upright it embraces whatever it reaches with its tendrils as though they were hands.

Then as it creeps on, spreading itself in intricate and wild profusion, the dresser’s art

prunes it with the knife and prevents it growing a forest of shoots and expanding to

excess in every direction. Accordingly at the beginning of spring in the shoots which

have been left there protrudes at each of the joints what is termed an “eye.” From this

the grape emerges and shows itself; which, swollen by the juice of the earth and the

heat of the sun, is at first very bitter to the taste, but afterwards grows sweet as it

matures; and being covered with tendrils is never without a moderate warmth, and yet

is able to ward off the fiery heat of the sun. Can anything be richer in product or more

beautiful to contemplate? It is not its utility only, as I said before, that charms me, but

the method of its cultivation and the natural process of its growth: the rows of

uprights, the cross-pieces for the tops of the plants, the tying up of the vines and their

propagation by layers, the pruning, to which I have already referred, of some shoots,

the setting of others. I need hardly mention irrigation, or trenching and digging the

soil, which much increase its fertility. As to the advantages of manuring I have spoken

in my book on agriculture. The learned Hesiod did not say a single word on this

subject, though he was writing on the cultivation of the soil; yet Homer, who in my

opinion was many generations earlier, represents Laertes as softening his regret for

his son by cultivating and manuring his farm. Nor is it only in cornfields and

meadows and vineyards and plantations that a farmer’s life is made cheerful. There

are the garden and the orchard, the feeding of sheep, the swarms of bees, endless

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varieties of flowers. Nor is it only planting out that charms: there is also

grafting—surely the most ingenious invention ever made by husbandmen.

16. I might continue my list of the delights of country life; but even what I have said I

think is somewhat over long. However, you must pardon me; for farming is a very

favourite hobby of mine, and old age is naturally rather garrulous—for I would not be

thought to acquit it of all faults.

Well, it was in a life of this sort that Manius Curius, after celebrating triumphs over

the Samnites, the Sabines, and Pyrrhus, spent his last days. When I look at his

villa—for it is not far from my own—I never can enough admire the man’s own

frugality or the spirit of the age. As Curius was sitting at his hearth the Samnites, who

brought him a large sum of gold, were repulsed by him; for it was not, he said, a fine

thing in his eyes to possess gold, but to rule those who possessed it. Could such a high

spirit fail to make old age pleasant?

But to return to farmers—not to wander from my own mètier. In those days there

were senators, i. e. old men, on their farms. For L. Quinctius Cincinnatus was actually

at the plough when word was brought him that he had been named Dictator. It was by

his order as Dictator, by the way, that C. Servilius Ahala, the Master of the Horse,

seized and put to death Spurius Maelius when attempting to obtain royal power.

Curius as well as other old men used to receive their summonses to attend the Senate

in their farm-houses, from which circumstance the summoners were called viatores or

“travellers.” Was these men’s old age an object of pity who found their pleasure in the

cultivation of the land? In my opinion, scarcely any life can be more blessed, not

alone from its utility (for agriculture is beneficial to the whole human race), but also

as much from the mere pleasure of the thing, to which I have already alluded, and

from the rich abundance and supply of all things necessary for the food of man and

for the worship of the gods above. So, as these are objects of desire to certain people,

let us make our peace with pleasure. For the good and hard-working farmer’s wine-

cellar and oil-store, as well as his larder, are always well filled, and his whole farm-

house is richly furnished. It abounds in pigs, goats, lambs, fowls, milk, cheese, and

honey. Then there is the garden, which the farmers themselves call their “second

flitch.” A zest and flavour is added to all these by hunting and fowling in spare hours.

Need I mention the greenery of meadows, the rows of trees, the beauty of vineyard

and olive-grove? I will put it briefly: nothing can either furnish necessaries more

richly, or present a fairer spectacle, than well-cultivated land. And to the enjoyment of

that, old age does not merely present no hindrance—it actually invites and allures to

it. For where else can it better warm itself, either by basking in the sun or by sitting by

the fire, or at the proper time cool itself more wholesomely by the help of shade or

water? Let the young keep their arms then to themselves, their horses, spears, their

foils and ball, their swimmingbaths and running path. To us old men let them, out of

the many forms of sport, leave dice and counters; but even that as they choose, since

old age can be quite happy without them.

17. Xenophon’s books are very useful for many purposes. Pray go on reading them

with attention, as you have ever done. In what ample terms is agriculture lauded by

him in the book about husbanding one’s property, which is called Oeconomicus! But

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to show you that he thought nothing so worthy of a prince as the taste for cultivating

the soil, I will translate what Socrates says to Critobulus in that book:

“When that most gallant Lacedaemonian Lysander came to visit the Persian prince

Cyrus at Sardis, so eminent for his character and the glory of his rule, bringing him

presents from his allies, he treated Lysander in all ways with courteous familiarity and

kindness, and, among other things, took him to see a certain park carefully planted.

Lysander expressed admiration of the height of the trees and the exact arrangement of

their rows in the quincunx, the careful cultivation of the soil, its freedom from weeds,

and the sweetness of the odours exhaled from the flowers, and went on to say that

what he admired was not the industry only, but also the skill of the man by whom this

had been planned and laid out. Cyrus replied: ‘Well, it was I who planned the whole

thing; these rows are my doing, the laying out is all mine; many of the trees were even

planted by own hand.’ Then Lysander, looking at his purple robe, the brilliance of his

person, and his adornment Persian fashion with gold and many jewels, said: ‘People

are quite right, Cyrus, to call you happy, since the advantages of high fortune have

been joined to an excellence like yours.’ ”

This kind of good fortune, then, it is in the power of old men to enjoy; nor is age any

bar to our maintaining pursuits of every other kind, and especially of agriculture, to

the very extreme verge of old age. For instance, we have it on record that M. Valerius

Corvus kept it up to his hundredth year, living on his land and cultivating it after his

active career was over, though between his first and sixth consulships there was an

interval of six and forty years. So that he had an official career lasting the number of

years which our ancestors defined as coming between birth and the beginning of old

age. Moreover, that last period of his old age was more blessed than that of his middle

life, inasmuch as he had greater influence and less labour. For the crowning grace of

old age is influence.

How great was that of L. Caecilius Metellus! How great that of Atilius Calatinus, over

whom the famous epitaph was placed, “Very many classes agree in deeming this to

have been the very first man of the nation”! The line cut on his tomb is well known. It

is natural, then, that a man should have had influence, in whose praise the verdict of

history is unanimous. Again, in recent times, what a great man was Publius Crassus,

Pontifex Maximus, and his successor in the same office, M. Lepidus! I need scarcely

mention Paulus or Africanus, or, as I did before, Maximus. It was not only their

senatorial utterances that had weight: their least gesture had it also. In fact, old age,

especially when it has enjoyed honours, has an influence worth all the pleasures of

youth put together.

18. But throughout my discourse remember that my panegyric applies to an old age

that has been established on foundations laid by youth. From which may be deduced

what I once said with universal applause, that it was a wretched old age that had to

defend itself by speech. Neither white hairs nor wrinkles can at once claim influence

in themselves: it is the honourable conduct of earlier days that is rewarded by

possessing influence at the last. Even things generally regarded as trifling and matters

of course—being saluted, being courted, having way made for one, people rising

when one approaches, being escorted to and from the forum, being referred to for

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advice—all these are marks of respect, observed among us and in other

States—always most sedulously where the moral tone is highest. They say that

Lysander the Spartan, whom I have mentioned before, used to remark that Sparta was

the most dignified home for old age; for that nowhere was more respect paid to years,

nowhere was old age held in higher honour. Nay, the story is told of how when a man

of advanced years came into the theatre at Athens when the games were going on, no

place was given him anywhere in that large assembly by his own countrymen; but

when he came near the Lacedaemonians, who as ambassadors had a fixed place

assigned to them, they rose as one man out of respect for him, and gave the veteran a

seat. When they were greeted with rounds of applause from the whole audience, one

of them remarked: “The Athenians know what is right, but will not do it.”

There are many excellent rules in our augural college, but among the best is one

which affects our subject—that precedence in speech goes by seniority; and augurs

who are older are preferred not only to those who have held higher office, but even to

those who are actually in possession of imperium. What then are the physical

pleasures to be compared with the reward of influence? Those who have employed it

with distinction appear to me to have played the drama of life to its end, and not to

have broken down in the last act like unpractised players.

But, it will be said, old men are fretful, fidgety, ill-tempered, and disagreeable. If you

come to that, they are also avaricious. But these are faults of character, not of the time

of life. And, after all, fretfulness and the other faults I mentioned admit of some

excuse—not, indeed, a complete one, but one that may possibly pass muster: they

think themselves neglected, looked down upon, mocked. Besides, with bodily

weakness every rub is a source of pain. Yet all these faults are softened both by good

character and good education. Illustrations of this may be found in real life, as also on

the stage in the case of the brothers in the Adelphi. What harshness in the one, what

gracious manners in the other! The fact is that, just as it is not every wine, so it is not

every life, that turns sour from keeping. Serious gravity I approve of in old age, but,

as in other things, it must be within due limits: bitterness I can in no case approve.

What the object of senile avarice may be I cannot conceive. For can there be anything

more absurd than to seek more journey money, the less there remains of the journey?

19. There remains the fourth reason, which more than anything else appears to

torment men of my age and keep them in a flutter—the nearness of death, which, it

must be allowed, cannot be far from an old man. But what a poor dotard must he be

who has not learnt in the course of so long a life that death is not a thing to be feared?

Death, that is either to be totally disregarded, if it entirely extinguishes the soul, or is

even to be desired, if it brings him where he is to exist forever. A third alternative, at

any rate, cannot possibly be discovered. Why then should I be afraid if I am destined

either not to be miserable after death or even to be happy? After all, who is such a

fool as to feel certain—however young he may be—that he will be alive in the

evening? Nay, that time of life has many more chances of death than ours. Young

men more easily contract diseases; their illnesses are more serious; their treatment has

to be more severe. Accordingly, only a few arrive at old age. If that were not so, life

would be conducted better and more wisely; for it is in old men that thought, reason,

and prudence are to be found; and if there had been no old men, States would never

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have existed at all. But I return to the subject of the imminence of death. What sort of

charge is this against old age, when you see that it is shared by youth? I had reason in

the case of my excellent son—as you had, Scipio, in that of your brothers, who were

expected to attain the highest honours—to realize that death is common to every time

of life. Yes, you will say; but a young man expects to live long; an old man cannot

expect to do so. Well, he is a fool to expect it. For what can be more foolish than to

regard the uncertain as certain, the false as true? “An old man has nothing even to

hope.” Ah, but it is just there that he is in a better position than a young man, since

what the latter only hopes he has obtained. The one wishes to live long; the other has

lived long.

And yet, good heaven! what is “long” in a man’s life? For grant the utmost limit: let

us expect an age like that of the King of the Tartessi. For there was, as I find recorded,

a certain Agathonius at Gades who reigned eighty years and lived a hundred and

twenty. But to my mind nothing seems even long in which there is any “last,” for

when that arrives, then all the past has slipped away—only that remains to which you

have attained by virtue and righteous actions. Hours indeed, and days and months and

years depart, nor does past time ever return, nor can the future be known. Whatever

time each is granted for life, with that he is bound to be content. An actor, in order to

earn approval, is not bound to perform the play from beginning to end; let him only

satisfy the audience in whatever act he appears. Nor need a wise man go on to the

concluding “plaudite.” For a short term of life is long enough for living well and

honourably. But if you go farther, you have no more right to grumble than farmers do

because the charm of the spring season is past and the summer and autumn have

come. For the word “spring” in a way suggests youth, and points to the harvest to be:

the other seasons are suited for the reaping and storing of the crops. Now the harvest

of old age is, as I have often said, the memory and rich store of blessings laid up in

earlier life. Again, all things that accord with nature are to be counted as good. But

what can be more in accordance with nature than for old men to die? A thing, indeed,

which also befalls young men, though nature revolts and fights against it.

Accordingly, the death of young men seems to me like putting out a great fire with a

deluge of water; but old men die like a fire going out because it has burnt down of its

own nature without artificial means. Again, just as apples when unripe are torn from

trees, but when ripe and mellow drop down, so it is violence that takes life from

young men, ripeness from old. This ripeness is so delightful to me, that, as I approach

nearer to death, I seem as it were to be sighting land, and to be coming to port at last

after a long voyage.

20. Again, there is no fixed borderline for old age, and you are making a good and

proper use of it as long as you can satisfy the call of duty and disregard death. The

result of this is, that old age is even more confident and courageous than youth. That

is the meaning of Solon’s answer to the tyrant Pisistratus. When the latter asked him

what he relied upon in opposing him with such boldness, he is said to have replied,

“On my old age.” But that end of life is the best, when, without the intellect or senses

being impaired, Nature herself takes to pieces her own handiwork which she also put

together. Just as the builder of a ship or a house can break them up more easily than

any one else, so the nature that knit together the human frame can also best unfasten

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it. Moreover, a thing freshly glued together is always difficult to pull asunder; if old,

this is easily done.

The result is that the short time of life to them is not to be grasped at by old men with

greedy eagerness, or abandoned without cause. Pythagoras forbids us, without an

order from our commander, that is God, to desert life’s fortress and outpost. Solon’s

epitaph, indeed, is that of a wise man, in which he says that he does not wish his death

to be unaccompanied by the sorrow and lamentations of his friends. He wants, I

suppose, to be beloved by them. But I rather think Ennius says better:

None grace me with their tears, nor weeping loud

Make sad my funeral rites!

He holds that a death is not a subject for mourning when it is followed by

immortality.

Again, there may possibly be some sensation of dying—and that only for a short time,

especially in the case of an old man: after death, indeed, sensation is either what one

would desire, or it disappears altogether. But to disregard death is a lesson which must

be studied from our youth up; for unless that is learnt, no one can have a quiet mind.

For die we certainly must, and that too without being certain whether it may not be

this very day. As death, therefore, is hanging over our head every hour, how can a

man ever be unshaken in soul if he fears it?

But on this theme I don’t think I need much enlarge: when I remember what Lucius

Brutus did, who was killed while defending his country; or the two Decii, who

spurred their horses to a gallop and met a voluntary death; or M. Atilius Regulus, who

left his home to confront a death of torture, rather than break the word which he had

pledged to the enemy; or the two Scipios, who determined to block the Carthaginian

advance even with their own bodies; or your grandfather Lucius Paulus, who paid

with his life for the rashness of his colleague in the disgrace at Cannae; or M.

Marcellus, whose death not even the most bloodthirsty of enemies would allow to go

without the honour of burial. It is enough to recall that our legions (as I have recorded

in my Origins) have often marched with cheerful and lofty spirit to ground from

which they believed that they would never return. That, therefore, which young

men—not only uninstructed, but absolutely ignorant—treat as of no account, shall

men who are neither young nor ignorant shrink from in terror? As a general truth, as it

seems to me, it is weariness of all pursuits that creates weariness of life. There are

certain pursuits adapted to childhood: do young men miss them? There are others

suited to early manhood: does that settled time of life called “middle age” ask for

them? There are others, again, suited to that age, but not looked for in old age. There

are, finally, some which belong to old age. Therefore, as the pursuits of the earlier

ages have their time for disappearing, so also have those of old age. And when that

takes place, a satiety of life brings on the ripe time for death.

21. For I do not see why I should not venture to tell you my personal opinion as to

death, of which I seem to myself to have a clearer vision in proportion as I am nearer

to it. I believe, Scipio and Laelius, that your fathers—those illustrious men and my

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dearest friends—are still alive, and that too with a life which alone deserves the name.

For as long as we are imprisoned in this framework of the body, we perform a certain

function and laborious work assigned us by fate. The soul, in fact, is of heavenly

origin, forced down from its home in the highest, and, so to speak, buried in earth, a

place quite opposed to its divine nature and its immortality. But I suppose the

immortal gods to have sown souls broadcast in human bodies, that there might be

some to survey the world, and while contemplating the order of the heavenly bodies

to imitate it in the unvarying regularity of their life. Nor is it only reason and

arguments that have brought me to this belief, but the great fame and authority of the

most distinguished philosophers. I used to be told that Pythagoras and the

Pythagoreans—almost natives of our country, who in old times had been called the

Italian school of philosophers—never doubted that we had souls drafted from the

universal Divine intelligence. I used besides to have pointed out to me the discourse

delivered by Socrates on the last day of his life upon the immortality of the

soul—Socrates who was pronounced by the oracle at Delphi to be the wisest of men. I

need say no more. I have convinced myself, and I hold—in view of the rapid

movement of the soul, its vivid memory of the past and its prophetic knowledge of the

future, its many accomplishments, its vast range of knowledge, its numerous

discoveries—that a nature embracing such varied gifts cannot itself be mortal. And

since the soul is always in motion and yet has no external source of motion, for it is

self-moved, I conclude that it will also have no end to its motion, because it is not

likely ever to abandon itself. Again, since the nature of the soul is not composite, nor

has in it any admixture that is not homogeneous and similar, I conclude that it is

indivisible, and, if indivisible, that it cannot perish. It is again a strong proof of men

knowing most things before birth, that when mere children they grasp innumerable

facts with such speed as to show that they are not then taking them in for the first

time, but remembering and recalling them. This is roughly Plato’s argument.

22. Once more in Xenophon we have the elder Cyrus on his deathbed speaking as

follows:—

“Do not suppose, my dearest sons, that when I have left you I shall be nowhere and no

one. Even when I was with you, you did not see my soul, but knew that it was in this

body of mine from what I did. Believe then that it is still the same, even though you

see it not. The honours paid to illustrious men had not continued to exist after their

death, had the souls of these very men not done something to make us retain our

recollection of them beyond the ordinary time. For myself, I never could be persuaded

that souls while in mortal bodies were alive, and died directly they left them; nor, in

fact, that the soul only lost all intelligence when it left the unintelligent body. I believe

rather that when, by being liberated from all corporeal admixture, it has begun to be

pure and undefiled, it is then that it becomes wise. And again, when man’s natural

frame is resolved into its elements by death, it is clearly seen whither each of the other

elements departs: for they all go to the place from which they came: but the soul alone

is invisible alike when present and when departing. Once more, you see that nothing

is so like death as sleep. And yet it is in sleepers that souls most clearly reveal their

divine nature; for they foresee many events when they are allowed to escape and are

left free. This shows what they are likely to be when they have completely freed

themselves from the fetters of the body. Wherefore, if these things are so, obey me as

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a god. But if my soul is to perish with my body, nevertheless do you from awe of the

gods, who guard and govern this fair universe, preserve my memory by the loyalty

and piety of your lives.”

23. Such are the words of the dying Cyrus. I will now, with your good leave, look at

home. No one, my dear Scipio, shall ever persuade me that your father Paulus and

your two grandfathers Paulus and Africanus, or the father of Africanus, or his uncle,

or many other illustrious men not necessary to mention, would have attempted such

lofty deeds as to be remembered by posterity, had they not seen in their minds that

future ages concerned them. Do you suppose—to take an old man’s privilege of a

little self-praise—that I should have been likely to undertake such heavy labours by

day and night, at home and abroad, if I had been destined to have the same limit to my

glory as to my life? Had it not been much better to pass an age of ease and repose

without any labour or exertion? But my soul, I know not how, refusing to be kept

down, ever fixed its eyes upon future ages, as though from a conviction that it would

begin to live only when it had left the body. But had it not been the case that souls

were immortal, it would not have been the souls of all the best men that made the

greatest efforts after an immortality of fame.

Again, is there not the fact that the wisest man ever dies with the greatest

cheerfulness, the most unwise with the least? Don’t you think that the soul which has

the clearer and longer sight sees that it is starting for better things, while the soul

whose vision is dimmer does not see it? For my part, I am transported with the desire

to see your fathers, who were the object of my reverence and affection. Nor is it only

those whom I knew that I long to see; it is those also of whom I have been told and

have read, whom I have myself recorded in my history. When I am setting out for

that, there is certainly no one who will find it easy to draw me back, or boil me up

again like second Pelios. Nay, if some god should grant me to renew my childhood

from my present age and once more to be crying in my cradle, I would firmly refuse;

nor should I in truth be willing, after having, as it were, run the full course, to be

recalled from the winning-crease to the barriers. For what blessing has life to offer?

Should we not rather say what labour? But granting that it has, at any rate it has after

all a limit either to enjoyment or to existence. I don’t wish to depreciate life, as many

men and good philosophers have often done; nor do I regret having lived, for I have

done so in a way that lets me think that I was not born in vain. But I quit life as I

would an inn, not as I would a home. For nature has given us a place of entertainment,

not of residence.

Oh glorious day when I shall set out to join that heavenly conclave and company of

souls, and depart from the turmoil and impurities of this world! For I shall not go to

join only those whom I have before mentioned, but also my son Cato, than whom no

better man was ever born, nor one more conspicuous for piety. His body was burnt by

me, though mine ought, on the contrary, to have been burnt by him; but his spirit, not

abandoning, but ever looking back upon me, has certainly gone whither he saw that I

too must come. I was thought to bear that loss heroically, not that I really bore it

without distress, but I found my own consolation in the thought that the parting and

separation between us was not to be for long.

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It is by these means, my dear Scipio,—for you said that you and Laelius were wont to

express surprise on this point,—that my old age sits lightly on me, and is not only not

oppressive but even delightful. But if I am wrong in thinking the human soul

immortal, I am glad to be wrong; nor will I allow the mistake which gives me so

much pleasure to be wrested from me as long as I live. But if when dead, as some

insignificant philosophers think, I am to be without sensation, I am not afraid of dead

philosophers deriding my errors. Again, if we are not to be immortal, it is nevertheless

what a man must wish—to have his life end at its proper time. For nature puts a limit

to living as to everything else. Now, old age is as it were the playing out of the drama,

the full fatigue of which we should shun, especially when we also feel that we have

had more than enough of it.

This is all I had to say on old age. I pray that you may arrive at it, that you may put

my words to a practical test.

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[Back to Table of Contents]

LETTERS OF CICERO

translated by

E. S. SHUCKBURGH

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[Back to Table of Contents]

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

Theletters of Cicero are of a very varied character. They range from the most

informal communications with members of his family to serious and elaborate

compositions which are practically treatises in epistolary form. A very large

proportion of them were obviously written out of the mood of the moment, with no

thought of the possibility of publication; and in these the style is comparatively

relaxed and colloquial. Others, addressed to public characters, are practically of the

same nature as his speeches, discussions of political questions intended to influence

public opinion, and performing a function in the Roman life of the time closely

analogous to that fulfilled at the present day by articles in the great reviews, or

editorials in prominent journals.

In the case of both of these two main groups the interest is two-fold: personal and

historical, though it is naturally in the private letters that we find most light thrown

on the character of the writer. In spite of the spontaneity of these epistles there exists

a great difference of opinion among scholars as to the personality revealed by them,

and both in the extent of the divergence of view and in the heat of the controversy we

are reminded of modern discussions of the characters of men such as Gladstone or

Roosevelt. It has been fairly said that there is on the whole more chance of justice to

Cicero from the man of the world who understands how the stress and change of

politics lead a statesman into apparently inconsistent utterances than from the

professional scholar who subjects these utterances to the severest logical scrutiny,

without the illumination of practical experience.

Many sides of Cicero’s life other than the political are reflected in the letters. From

them we can gather a picture of how an ambitious Roman gentleman of some

inherited wealth took to the legal profession as the regular means of becoming a

public figure; of how his fortune might be increased by fees, by legacies from friends,

clients, and even complete strangers who thus sought to confer distinction on

themselves; of how the governor of a province could become rich in a year; of how

the sons of Roman men of wealth gave trouble to their tutors, were sent to Athens, as

to a university in our day, and found an allowance of over $4,000 a year insufficient

for their extravagances. Again, we see the greatest orator of Rome divorce his wife

after thirty years, apparently because she had been indiscreet or unscrupulous in

money matters, and marry at the age of sixty-three his own ward, a young girl whose

fortune he admitted was the main attraction. The coldness of temper suggested by

these transactions is contradicted in turn by Cicero’s romantic affection for his

daughter Tullia, whom he is never tired of praising for her cleverness and charm, and

whose death almost broke his heart.

Most of Cicero’s letters were written in ink on paper or parchment with a reed pen; a

few on tablets of wood or ivory covered with wax, the marks being cut with a stylus.

The earlier letters he wrote with his own hand, the later were, except in rare cases,

dictated to a secretary. There was, of course, no postal service, so the epistles were

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carried by private messengers or by the couriers who were constantly traveling

between the provincial officials and the capital.

Apart from the letters to Atticus, the collection, arrangement, and publication of

Cicero’s correspondence seems to have been due to Tiro, the learned freedman who

served him as secretary, and to whom some of the letters are addressed. Titus

Pomponius Atticus, who edited the large collection of the letters written to himself,

was a cultivated Roman who lived more than twenty years in Athens for purposes of

study. His zeal for cultivation was combined with the successful pursuit of wealth;

and though Cicero relied on him for aid and advice in public as well as private

matters, their friendship did not prevent Atticus from being on good terms with men of

the opposite party.

Generous, amiable, and cultured, Atticus was not remarkable for the intensity of his

devotion either to principles or persons. “That he was the lifelong friend of Cicero,”

says Professor Tyrrell, “is the best title which Atticus has to remembrance. As a man

he was kindly, careful, and shrewd, but nothing more: there was never anything grand

or noble in his character. He was the quintessence of prudent mediocrity.”

The period covered by the letters of Cicero is one of the most interesting and

momentous in the history of the world, and these letters afford a picture of the chief

personages and most important events of that age from the pen of a man who was not

only himself in the midst of the conflict, but who was a consummate literary artist.

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LETTERS

MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO

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To Atticus (At Athens)

Rome, July

THE state of things in regard to my candidature, in which I know that you are

supremely interested, is this, as far as can be as yet conjectured. The only person

actually canvassing is P. Sulpicius Galba. He meets with a good old-fashioned refusal

without reserve or disguise. In the general opinion this premature canvass of his is not

unfavourable to my interests; for the voters generally give as a reason for their refusal

that they are under obligations to me. So I hope my prospects are to a certain degree

improved by the report getting about that my friends are found to be numerous. My

intention was to begin my own canvass just at the very time that Cincius tells me that

your servant starts with this letter, namely, in the campus at the time of the tribunician

elections on the 17th of July. My fellow candidates, to mention only those who seem

certain, are Galba and Antonius and Q. Cornificius. At this I imagine you smiling or

sighing. Well, to make you positively smite your forehead, there are people who

actually think that Cæsonius will stand. I don’t think Aquilius will, for he openly

disclaims it and has alleged as an excuse his health and his leading position at the bar.

Catiline will certainly be a candidate, if you can imagine a jury finding that the sun

does not shine at noon. As for Aufidius and Palicanus, I don’t think you will expect to

hear from me about them. Of the candidates for this year’s election Cæsar is

considered certain. Thermus is looked upon as the rival of Silanus. These latter are so

weak both in friends and reputation that it seems pas impossible to bring in Curius

over their heads. But no one else thinks so. What seems most to my interests is that

Thermus should get in with Cæsar. For there is none of those at present canvassing

who, if left over to my year, seems likely to be a stronger candidate, from the fact that

he is commissioner of the via Flaminia, and when that has been finished, I shall be

greatly relieved to have seen him elected consul this election. Such in outline is the

position of affairs in regard to candidates up to date. For myself I shall take the

greatest pains to carry out all the duties of a candidate, and perhaps, as Gaul seems to

have a considerable voting power, as soon as business at Rome has come to a

standstill I shall obtain a libera legatio and make an excursion in the course of

September to visit Piso, but so as not to be back later than January. When I have

ascertained the feelings of the nobility I will write you word. Everything else I hope

will go smoothly, at any rate while my competitors are such as are now in town. You

must undertake to secure for me the entourage of our friend Pompey, since you are

nearer than I. Tell him I shall not be annoyed if he doesn’t come to my election. So

much for that business. But there is a matter for which I am very anxious that you

should forgive me. Your uncle Cæcilius having been defrauded of a large sum of

money by P. Varius, began an action against his cousin A. Caninius Satyrus for the

property which (as he alleged) the latter had received from Varius by a collusive sale.

He was joined in this action by the other creditors, among whom were Lucullus and P.

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Scipio, and the man whom they thought would be official receiver if the property was

put up for sale, Lucius Pontius; though it is ridiculous to be talking about a receiver at

this stage in the proceedings. Cæcilius asked me to appear for him against Satyrus.

Now, scarcely a day passes that Satyrus does not call at my house. The chief object of

his attentions is L. Domitius, but I am next in his regard. He has been of great service

both to myself and to my brother Quintus in our elections. I was very much

embarrassed by my intimacy with Satyrus as well as that with Domitius, on whom the

success of my election depends more than on anyone else. I pointed out these facts to

Cæcilius; at the same time I assured him that if the case had been one exclusively

between himself and Satyrus, I would have done what he wished. As the matter

actually stood, all the creditors being concerned—and that two men of the highest

rank, who, without the aid of anyone specially retained by Cæcilius, would have no

difficulty in maintaining their common cause—it was only fair that he should have

consideration both for my private friendship and my present situation. He seemed to

take this somewhat less courteously than I could have wished, or than is usual among

gentlemen; and from that time forth he has entirely withdrawn from the intimacy with

me which was only of a few days’ standing. Pray forgive me, and believe that I was

prevented by nothing but natural kindness from assailing the reputation of a friend in

so vital a point at a time of such very great distress, considering that he had shewn me

every sort of kindness and attention. But if you incline to the harsher view of my

conduct, take it that the interests of my canvass prevented me. Yet, even granting that

to be so, I think you should pardon me, “since not for sacred beast or oxhide shield.”

You see in fact the position I am in, and how necessary I regard it, not only to retain

but even to acquire all possible sources of popularity. I hope I have justified myself in

your eyes, I am at any rate anxious to have done so. The Hermathena you sent I am

delighted with: it has been placed with such charming effect that the whole

gymnasium seems arranged specially for it. I am exceedingly obliged to you.

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To Atticus (At Athens)

Rome, July

I have to inform you that on the day of the election of L. Iulius Cæsar and C. Marcius

Figulus to the consulship, I had an addition to my family in the shape of a baby boy.

Terentia doing well.

Why such a time without a letter from you? I have already written to you fully about

my circumstances. At this present time I am considering whether to undertake the

defence of my fellow candidate, Catiline. We have a jury to our minds with full

consent of the prosecutor. I hope that if he is acquitted he will be more closely united

with me in the conduct of our canvass; but if the result be otherwise I shall bear it

with resignation. Your early return is of great importance to me, for there is a very

strong idea prevailing that some intimate friends of yours, persons of high rank, will

be opposed to my election. To win me their favour I see that I shall want you very

much. Wherefore be sure to be in Rome in January, as you have agreed to be.

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III

To Cn. Pompeius Magnus

Rome

M. Tullius Cicero, son of Marcus, greets Cn. Pompeius, son of Cneius, Imperator.

If you and the army are well I shall be glad. From your official despatch I have, in

common with everyone else, received the liveliest satisfaction; for you have given us

that strong hope of peace, of which, in sole reliance on you, I was assuring everyone.

But I must inform you that your old enemies—now posing as your friends—have

received a stunning blow by this despatch, and, being disappointed in the high hopes

they were entertaining, are thoroughly depressed. Though your private letter to me

contained a somewhat slight expression of your affection, yet I can assure you it gave

me pleasure: for there is nothing in which I habitually find greater satisfaction than in

the consciousness of serving my friend; and if on any occasion I do not meet with an

adequate return, I am not at all sorry to have the balance of kindness in my favour. Of

this I feel no doubt—even if my extraordinary zeal in your behalf has failed to unite

you to me—that the interests of the state will certainly effect a mutual attachment and

coalition between us. To let you know, however, what I missed in your letter I will

write with the candour which my own disposition and our common friendship

demand. I did expect some congratulation in your letter on my achievements, for the

sake at once of the ties between us and of the Republic. This I presume to have been

omitted by you from a fear of hurting anyone’s feelings. But let me tell you that what

I did for the salvation of the country is approved by the judgment and testimony of the

whole world. You are a much greater man that Africanus, but I am not much inferior

to Lælius either; and when you come home you will recognize that I have acted with

such prudence and spirit, that you will not now be ashamed of being coupled with me

in politics as well as in private friendship.

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IV (A I, 17)

To Atticus (In Epirus)

Rome, 5 December

Your letter, in which you inclose copies of his letters, has made me realize that my

brother Quintus’s feelings have undergone many alternations, and that his opinions

and judgments have varied widely from time to time. This has not only caused me all

the pain which my extreme affection for both of you was bound to bring, but it has

also made me wonder what can have happened to cause my brother Quintus such deep

offence, or such an extraordinary change of feeling. And yet I was already aware, as I

saw that you also, when you took leave of me, were beginning to suspect, that there

was some lurking dissatisfaction, that his feelings were wounded, and that certain

unfriendly suspicions had sunk deep into his heart. On trying on several previous

occasions, but more eagerly than ever after the allotment of his province, to assuage

these feelings, I failed to discover on the one hand that the extent of his offence was

so great as your letter indicates; but on the other I did not make as much progress in

allaying it as I wished. However, I consoled myself with thinking that there would be

no doubt of his seeing you at Dyrrachium, or somewhere in your part of the country:

and, if that happened, I felt sure and fully persuaded that everything would be made

smooth between you, not only by conversation and mutual explanation, but by the

very sight of each other in such an interview. For I need not say in writing to you,

who knows it quite well, how kind and sweet-tempered my brother is, as ready to

forgive as he is sensitive in taking offence. But it most unfortunately happened that

you did not see him anywhere. For the impression he had received from the artifices

of others had more weight with him than duty or relationship, or the old affection so

long existing between you, which ought to have been the strongest influence of all.

And yet, as to where the blame for this misunderstanding resides, I can more easily

conceive than write: since I am afraid that, while defending my own relations, I

should not spare yours. For I perceive that, though no actual wound was inflicted by

members of the family, they yet could at least have cured it. But the root of the

mischief in this case, which perhaps extends farther than appears, I shall more

conveniently explain to you when we meet. As to the letter he sent to you from

Thessalonica, and about the language which you suppose him to have used both at

Rome among your friends and on his journey, I don’t know how far the matter went,

but my whole hope of removing this unpleasantness rests on your kindness. For if you

will only make up your mind to believe that the best men are often those whose

feelings are most easily irritated and appeased, and that this quickness, so to speak,

and sensitiveness of disposition are generally signs of a good heart; and lastly—and

this is the main thing—that we must mutually put up with each other’s gaucheries

(shall I call them?), or faults, or injurious acts, then these misunderstandings will, I

hope, be easily smoothed away. I beg you to take this view, for it is the dearest wish

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of my heart (which is yours as no one else’s can be) that there should not be one of

my family or friends who does not love you and is not loved by you.

That part of your letter was entirely superfluous, in which you mention what

opportunities of doing good business in the provinces or the city you let pass at other

times as well as in the year of my consulship: for I am thoroughly persuaded of your

unselfishness and magnanimity, nor did I ever think that there was any difference

between you and me except in our choice of a career. Ambition led me to seek official

advancement, while another and perfectly laudable resolution led you to seek an

honourable privacy. In the true glory, which is founded on honesty, industry, and

piety, I place neither myself nor anyone else above you. In affection towards myself,

next to my brother and immediate family, I put you first. For indeed, indeed I have

seen and thoroughly appreciated how your anxiety and joy have corresponded with

the variations of my fortunes. Often has your congratulation added a charm to praise,

and your consolation a welcome antidote to alarm. Nay, at this moment of your

absence, it is not only your advice—in which you excel—but the interchange of

speech—in which no one gives me so much delight as you do—that I miss most, shall

I say in politics, in which circumspection is always incumbent on me, or in my

forensic labour, which I formerly sustained with a view to official promotion, and

nowadays to maintain my position by securing popularity, or in the mere business of

my family? In all these I missed you and our conversations before my brother left

Rome, and still more do I miss them since. Finally, neither my work nor rest, neither

my business nor leisure, neither my affairs in the forum or at home, public or private,

can any longer do without your most consolatory and affectionate counsel and

conversation. The modest reserve which characterizes both of us has often prevented

my mentioning these facts; but on this occasion it was rendered necessary by that part

of your letter in which you expressed a wish to have yourself and your character “put

straight” and “cleared” in my eyes. Yet, in the midst of all this unfortunate alienation

and anger on his part, there is yet one fortunate circumstance—that your

determination of not going to a province was known to me and your other friends, and

had been at various times asserted by yourself; so that your not being with him may

be attributed to your personal tastes and judgment, not to the quarrel and rupture

between you. So those ties which have been broken will be restored, and ours which

have been so religiously preserved will retain all their old inviolability. At Rome I

find politics in a shaky condition; everything is unsatisfactory and foreboding change.

For I have no doubt you have been told that our friends, the equites, are all but

alienated from the senate. Their first grievance was the promulgation of a bill on the

authority of the senate for the trial of such as had taken bribes for giving a verdict. I

happened not to be in the house when that decree was passed, but when I found that

the equestrian order was indignant at it, and yet refrained from openly saying so, I

remonstrated with the senate, as I thought, in very impressive language, and was very

weighty and eloquent considering the unsatisfactory nature of my cause. But here is

another piece of almost intolerable coolness on the part of the equites, which I have

not only submitted to, but have even put in as good a light as possible! The companies

which had contracted with the censors for Asia complained that in the heat of the

competition they had taken the contract at an excessive price; they demanded that the

contract should be annulled. I led in their support, or rather, I was second, for it was

Crassus who induced them to venture on this demand. The case is scandalous, the

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demand a disgraceful one, and a confession of rash speculation. Yet there was a very

great risk that, if they got no concession, they would be completely alienated from the

senate. Here again I came to the rescue more than anyone else, and secured them a

full and very friendly house, in which I, on the 1st and 2nd of December, delivered

long speeches on the dignity and harmony of the two orders. The business is not yet

settled, but the favourable feeling of the senate has been made manifest: for no one

had spoken against it except the consul-designate, Metellus; while our hero Cato had

still to speak, the shortness of the day having prevented his turn being reached. Thus I,

in the maintenance of my steady policy, preserve to the best of my ability that

harmony of the orders which was originally my joiner’s work; but since it all now

seems in such a crazy condition, I am constructing what I may call a road towards the

maintenance of our power, a safe one I hope, which I cannot fully describe to you in a

letter, but of which I will nevertheless give you a hint. I cultivate close intimacy

withPompey. I foresee what you will say. I will use all necessary precautions, and I

will write another time at greater length about my schemes for managing the

Republic. You must know that Lucceius has it in his mind to stand for the consulship

at once; for there are said to be only two candidates in prospect. Cæsar is thinking of

coming to terms with him by the agency of Arrius, and Bibulus also thinks he may

effect a coalition with him by means of C. Piso. You smile? This is no laughing

matter, believe me. What else shall I write to you? What? I have plenty to say, but

must put it off to another time. If you mean to wait till you hear, let me know. For the

moment I am satisfied with a modest request, though it is what I desire above

everything—that you should come to Rome as soon as possible.

5 December.

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To Terentia, Tulliola, And Young Cicero (At Rome)

Brundisium, 29 April

Yes, I do write to you less often than I might, because, though I am always wretched,

yet when I write to you or read a letter from you, I am in such floods of tears that I

cannot endure it. Oh, that I had clung less to life! I should at least never have known

real sorrow, or not much of it, in my life. Yet if fortune has reserved for me any hope

of recovering at any time any position again, I was not utterly wrong to do so: if these

miseries are to be permanent, I only wish, my dear, to see you as soon as possible and

to die in your arms, since neither gods, whom you have worshipped with such pure

devotion, nor men, whom I have ever served, have made us any return. I have been

thirteen days at Brundisium in the house of M. Lænius Flaccus, a very excellent man,

who has despised the risk to his fortunes and civil existence in comparison to keeping

me safe, nor has been induced by the penalty of a most iniquitous law to refuse me the

rights and good offices of hospitality and friendship. May I sometime have the

opportunity of repaying him! Feel gratitude I always shall. I set out from Brundisium

on the 29th of April, and intend going through Macedonia to Cyzicus. What a fall!

What a disaster! What can I say? Should I ask you to come—a woman of weak health

and broken spirit? Should I refrain from asking you? Am I to be without you, then? I

think the best course is this: if there is any hope of my restoration, stay to promote it

and push the thing on: but if, as I fear, it proves hopeless, pray come to me by any

means in your power. Be sure of this, that if I have you I shall not think myself wholly

lost. But what is to become of my darling Tullia? You must see to that now: I can

think of nothing. But certainly, however things turn out, we must do everything to

promote that poor little girl’s married happiness and reputation. Again, what is my

boy Cicero to do? Let him, at any rate, be ever in my bosom and in my arms. I can’t

write more. A fit of weeping hinders me. I don’t know how you have got on; whether

you are left in possession of anything, or have been, as I fear, entirely plundered. Piso,

as you say, I hope will always be our friend. As to the manumission of the slaves you

need not be uneasy. To begin with, the promise made to yours was that you would

treat them according as each severally deserved. So far Orpheus has behaved well,

besides him no one very markedly so. With the rest of the slaves the arrangement is

that, if my property is forfeited, they should become my freedmen, supposing them to

be able to maintain at law that status. But if my property remained in my ownership,

they were to continue slaves, with the exception of a very few. But these are trifles.

To return to your advice, that I should keep up my courage and not give up hope of

recovering my position, I only wish that there were any good grounds for entertaining

such a hope. As it is, when, alas! shall I get a letter from you? Who will bring it me? I

would have waited for it at Brundisium, but the sailors would not allow it, being

unwilling to lose a favourable wind. For the rest, put as dignified a face on the matter

as you can, my dear Terentia. Our life is over: we have had our day: it is not any fault

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of ours that has ruined us, but our virtue. I have made no false step, except in not

losing my life when I lost my honours. But since our children preferred my living, let

us bear everything else, however intolerable. And yet I, who encourage you, cannot

encourage myself. I have sent that faithful fellow Clodius Philhetærus home, because

he was hampered with weakness of the eyes. Sallustius seems likely to outdo

everybody in his attentions. Pescennius is exceedingly kind to me; and I have hopes

that he will always be attentive to you. Sicca had said that he would accompany me;

but he has left Brundisium. Take the greatest care of your health, and believe me that I

am more affected by your distress than my own. My dear Terentia, most faithful and

best of wives, and my darling little daughter, and that last hope of my race, Cicero,

good-bye!

29 April, from Brundisium.

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To His Brother Quintus (On His Way To Rome)

Thessalonica, 15 June

Brother! Brother! Brother! did you really fear that I had been induced by some angry

feeling to send slaves to you without a letter? Or even that I did not wish to see you? I

to be angry with you! Is it possible for me to be angry with you? Why, one would

think that it was you that brought me low! Your enemies, your unpopularity, that

miserably ruined me, and not I that unhappily ruined you! The fact is, the much-

praised consulate of mine has deprived me of you, of children, country, fortune; from

you I should hope it will have taken nothing but myself. Certainly on your side I have

experienced nothing but what was honourable and gratifying: on mine you have grief

for my fall and fear for your own, regret, mourning, desertion. I not wish to see you?

The truth is rather that I was unwilling to be seen by you. For you would not have

seen your brother—not the brother you had left, not the brother you knew, not him to

whom you had with mutual tears bidden farewell as he followed you on your

departure for your province: not a trace even or faint image of him, but rather what I

may call the likeness of a living corpse. And oh that you had sooner seen me or heard

of me as a corpse! Oh that I could have left you to survive, not my life merely, but my

undiminished rank! But I call all the gods to witness that the one argument which

recalled me from death was, that all declared that to some extent your life depended

upon mine. In which matter I made an error and acted culpably. For if I had died, that

death itself would have given clear evidence of my fidelity and love to you. As it is, I

have allowed you to be deprived of my aid, though I am alive, and with me still living

to need the help of others; and my voice, of all others, to fail when dangers threatened

my family, which had so often been successfully used in the defence of the merest

strangers. For as to the slaves coming to you without a letter, the real reason (for you

see that it was not anger) was a deadness of my faculties, and a seemingly endless

deluge of tears and sorrows. How many tears do you suppose these very words have

cost me? As many as I know they will cost you to read them! Can I ever refrain from

thinking of you or ever think of you without tears? For when I miss you, is it only a

brother that I miss? Rather it is a brother of almost my own age in the charm of his

companionship, a son in his consideration for my wishes, a father in the wisdom of

his advice! What pleasure did I ever have without you, or you without me? And what

must my case be when at the same time I miss a daughter: How affectionate! how

modest! how clever! The express image of my face, of my speech, of my very soul!

Or again a son, the prettiest boy, the very joy of my heart? Cruel inhuman monster

that I am, I dismissed him from my arms better schooled in the world than I could

have wished: for the poor child began to understand what was going on. So, too, your

own son, your own image, whom my little Cicero loved as a brother, and was now

beginning to respect as an elder brother! Need I mention also how I refused to allow

my unhappy wife—the truest of helpmates—to accompany me, that there might be

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some one to protect the wrecks of the calamity which had fallen on us both, and guard

our common children? Nevertheless, to the best of my ability, I did write a letter to

you, and gave it to your freedman Philogonus, which, I believe, was delivered to you

later on; and in this I repeat the advice and entreaty, which had been already

transmitted to you as a message from me by my slaves, that you should go on with

your journey and hasten to Rome. For, in the first place, I desired your protection, in

case there were any of my enemies whose cruelty was not yet satisfied by my fall. In

the next place, I dreaded the renewed lamentation which our meeting would cause:

while I could not have borne your departure, and was afraid of the very thing you

mention in your letter—that you would be unable to tear yourself away. For these

reasons the supreme pain of not seeing you—and nothing more painful or more

wretched could, I think, have happened to the most affectionate and united of

brothers—was a less misery than would have been such a meeting followed by such a

parting. Now, if you can, though I, whom you always regarded as a brave man, cannot

do so, rouse yourself and collect your energies in view of any contest you may have to

confront. I hope, if my hope has anything to go upon, that your own spotless character

and the love of your fellow citizens, and even remorse for my treatment, may prove a

certain protection to you. But if it turns out that you are free from personal danger,

you will doubtless do whatever you think can be done for me. In that matter, indeed,

many write to me at great length and declare they have hopes; but I personally cannot

see what hope there is, since my enemies have the greatest influence, while my

friends have in some cases deserted, in others even betrayed me, fearing perhaps in

my restoration a censure on their own treacherous conduct. But how matters stand

with you I would have you ascertain and report to me. In any case I shall continue to

live as long as you shall need me, in view of any danger you may have to undergo:

longer than that I cannot go in this kind of life. For there is neither wisdom nor

philosophy with sufficient strength to sustain such a weight of grief. I know that there

has been a time for dying, more honourable and more advantageous; and this is not

the only one of my many omissions; which, if I should choose to bewail, I should

merely be increasing your sorrow and emphasizing my own stupidity. But one thing I

am not bound to do, and it is in fact impossible—remain in a life so wretched and so

dishonoured any longer than your necessities, or some well-grounded hope, shall

demand. For I, who was lately supremely blessed in brother, children, wife, wealth,

and in the very nature of that wealth, while in position, influence, reputation, and

popularity, I was inferior to none, however, distinguished—I cannot, I repeat, go on

longer lamenting over myself and those dear to me in a life of such humiliation as

this, and in a state of such utter ruin. Wherefore, what do you mean by writing to me

about negotiating a bill of exchange? As though I were not now wholly dependent on

your means! And that is just the very thing in which I see and feel, to my misery, of

what a culpable act I have been guilty in squandering to no purpose the money which

I received from the treasury in your name, while you have to satisfy your creditors out

of the very vitals of yourself and your son. However, the sum mentioned in your letter

has been paid to M. Antonius, and the same amount to Cæpio. For me the sum at

present in my hands is sufficient for what I contemplate doing. For in either

case—whether I am restored or given up in despair—I shall not want any more

money. For yourself, if you are molested, I think you should apply to Crassus and

Calidius. I don’t know how far Hortensius is to be trusted. Myself, with the most

elaborate presence of affection and the closest daily intimacy, he treated with the most

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utter want of principle and the most consummate treachery, and Q. Arrius helped him

in it: acting under whose advice, promises, and injunctions, I was left helpless to fall

into this disaster. But this you will keep dark for fear they might injure you. Take care

also—and it is on this account that I think you should cultivate Hortensius himself by

means of Pomponius—that the epigram on the lex Aurelia attributed to you when

candidate for the ædileship is not proved by false testimony to be yours. For there is

nothing that I am so afraid of as that, when people understand how much pity for me

your prayers and your acquittal will rouse, they may attack you with all the greater

violence. Messalla I reckon as really attached to you: Pompey I regard as still

pretending only. But may you never have to put these things to the test! And that

prayer I would have offered to the gods had they not ceased to listen to prayers of

mine. However, I do pray that they may be content with these endless miseries of

ours; among which, after all, there is no discredit for any wrong thing done—sorrow

is the beginning and end, sorrow that punishment is most severe when our conduct

has been most unexceptionable. As to my daughter and yours and my young Cicero,

why should I recommend them to you, my dear brother? Rather I grieve that their

orphan state will cause you no less sorrow than it does me. Yet as long as you are

uncondemned they will not be fatherless. The rest, by my hopes of restoration and the

privilege of dying in my fatherland, my tears will not allow me to write! Terentia also

I would ask you to protect, and to write me word on every subject. Be as brave as the

nature of the case admits.

Thessalonica, 13 June.

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VII

To Atticus (In Epirus)

Rome (September)

Directly I arrived at Rome, and there was anyone to whom I could safely intrust a

letter for you, I thought the very first thing I ought to do was to congratulate you in

your absence on my return. For I knew, to speak candidly, that though in giving me

advice you had not been more courageous or far-seeing than myself, nor—considering

my devotion to you in the past—too careful in protecting me from disaster, yet that

you—though sharing in the first instance in my mistake, or rather madness, and in my

groundless terror—had nevertheless been deeply grieved at our separation, and had

bestowed immense pains, zeal, care, and labour in securing my return. Accordingly, I

can truly assure you of this, that in the midst of supreme joy and the most gratifying

congratulations, the one thing wanting to fill my cup of happiness to the brim is the

sight of you, or rather your embrace; and if I ever forfeit that again, when I have once

got possession of it, and if, too, I do not exact the full delights of your charming

society that have fallen into arrear in the past, I shall certainly consider myself

unworthy of this renewal of my good fortune.

In regard to my political position, I have resumed what I thought there would be the

utmost difficulty in recovering—my brilliant standing at the bar, my influence in the

senate, and a popularity with the loyalists even greater than I desired. In regard,

however, to my private property—as to which you are well aware to what an extent it

has been crippled, scattered, and plundered—I am in great difficulties, and stand in

need, not so much of your means (which I look upon as my own), as of your advice

for collecting and restoring to a sound state the fragments that remain. For the present,

though I believe everything finds its way to you in the letters of your friends, or even

by messengers and rumour, yet I will write briefly what I think you would like to

learn from my letters above all others. On the 4th of August I started from

Dyrrachium, the very day on which the law about me was carried. I arrived at

Brundisium on the 5th of August. There my dear Tulliola met me on what was her

own birthday, which happened also to be the name-day of the colony of Brundisium

and of the temple of Safety, near your house. This coincidence was noticed and

celebrated with warm congratulations by the citizens of Brundisium. On the 8th of

August, while still at Brundisium, I learnt by a letter from Quintus that the law had

been passed at the comitia centuriata with a surprising enthusiasm on the part of all

ages and ranks, and with an incredible influx of voters from Italy. I then commenced

my journey, amidst the compliments of the men of highest consideration at

Brundisium, and was met at every point by legates bearing congratulations. My

arrival in the neighbourhood of the city was the signal for every soul of every order

known to my nomenclator coming out to meet me, except those enemies who could

not either dissemble or deny the fact of their being such. On my arrival at the Porta

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Capena, the steps of the temples were already thronged from top to bottom by the

populace; and while their congratulations were displayed by the loudest possible

applause, a similar throng and similar applause accompanied me right up to the

Capitol, and in the forum and on the Capitol itself there was again a wonderful crowd.

Next day, in the senate, that is, the 5th of September, I spoke my thanks to the

senators. Two days after that—there having been a very heavy rise in the price of

corn, and great crowds having flocked first to the theatre and then to the senate-house,

shouting out, at the instigation of Clodius, that the scarcity of corn was my

doing—meetings of the senate being held on those days to discuss the corn question,

and Pompey being called upon to undertake the management of its supply in the

common talk not only of the plebs, but of the aristocrats also, and being himself

desirous of the commission, when the people at large called upon me by name to

support a decree to that effect, I did so, and gave my vote in a carefully-worded

speech. The other consulars, except Messalla and Afranius, having absented

themselves on the ground that they could not vote with safety to themselves, a decree

of the senate was passed in the sense of my motion, namely, that Pompey should be

appealed to to undertake the business, and that a law should be proposed to that effect.

This decree of the senate having been publicly read, and the people having, after the

senseless and new-fangled custom that now prevails, applauded the mention of my

name, I delivered a speech. All the magistrates present, except one prætor and two

tribunes, called on me to speak. Next day a full senate, including all the consulars,

granted everything that Pompey asked for. Having demanded fifteen legates, he

named me first in the list, and said that he should regard me in all things as a second

self. The consuls drew up a law by which complete control over the corn-supply for

five years throughout the whole world was given to Pompey. A second law is drawn

up by Messius, granting him power over all money, and adding a fleet and army, and

an imperium in the provinces superior to that of their governors. After that our

consular law seems moderate indeed: that of Messius is quite intolerable. Pompey

professes to prefer the former; his friends the latter. The consulars led by Favonius

murmur: I hold my tongue, the more so that the pontifices have as yet given no

answer in regard to my house. If they annul the consecration I shall have a splendid

site. The consuls, in accordance with a decree of the senate, will value the cost of the

building that stood upon it; but if the pontifices decide otherwise, they will pull down

the Clodian building, give out a contract in their own name (for a temple), and value

to me the cost of a site and house. So our affairs are

“For happy though but ill, for ill not worst.”

In regard to money matters I am, as you know, much embarrassed. Besides, there are

certain domestic troubles, which I do not intrust to writing. My brother Quintus I love

as he deserves for his eminent qualities of loyalty, virtue, and good faith. I am longing

to see you, and beg you to hasten your return, resolved not to allow me to be without

the benefit of your advice. I am on the threshold, as it were, of a second life. Already

certain persons who defended me in my absence begin to nurse a secret grudge at me

now that I am here, and to make no secret of their jealousy. I want you very much.

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VIII

To His Brother Quintus (In Sardinia)

Rome, 12 February

I have already told you the earlier proceedings; now let me describe what was done

afterwards. The legations were postponed from the 1st of February to the 13th. On the

former day our business was not brought to a settlement. On the 2nd of February Milo

appeared for trial. Pompey came to support him. Marcellus spoke on being called

upon by me. We came off with flying colours. The case was adjourned to the 7th.

Meanwhile (in the senate), the legations having been postponed to the 13th, the

business of allotting the quæstors and furnishing the outfit of the prætors was brought

before the house. But nothing was done, because many speeches were interposed

denouncing the state of the Republic. Gaius Cato published his bill for the recall of

Lentulus, whose son thereon put on mourning. On the 7th Milo appeared. Pompey

spoke, or rather wished to speak. For as soon as he got up Clodius’s ruffians raised a

shout, and throughout his whole speech he was interrupted, not only by hostile cries,

but by personal abuse and insulting remarks. However, when he had finished his

speech—for he shewed great courage in these circumstances, he was not cowed, he

said all he had to say, and at times had by his commanding presence even secured

silence for his words—well, when he had finished, up got Clodius. Our party received

him with such a shout—for they had determined to pay him out—that he lost all

presence of mind, power of speech, or control over his countenance. This went on up

to two o’clock—Pompey having finished his speech at noon—and every kind of

abuse, and finally epigrams of the most outspoken indecency were uttered against

Clodius and Clodia. Mad and livid with rage Clodius, in the very midst of the

shouting, kept putting questions to his claque: “Who was it who was starving the

commons to death?” His ruffians answered, “Pompey.” “Who wanted to be sent to

Alexandria?” They answered, “Pompey.” “Who did they wish to go?” They answered,

“Crassus.” The latter was present at the time with no friendly feelings to Milo. About

three o’clock, as though at a given signal, the Clodians began spitting at our men.

There was an outburst of rage. They began a movement for forcing us from our

ground. Our men charged: his ruffians turned tail. Clodius was pushed off the rostra:

and then we too made our escape for fear of mischief in the riot. The senate was

summoned into the Curia: Pompey went home. However, I did not myself enter the

senate-house, lest I should be obliged either to refrain from speaking on matters of

such gravity, or in defending Pompey (for he was being attacked by Bibulus, Curio,

Favonius, and Servilius the younger) should give offence to the loyalists. The

business was adjourned to the next day. Clodius fixed the Quirinalia (17th of

February) for his prosecution. On the 8th the senate met in the temple of Apollo, that

Pompey might attend. Pompey made an impressive speech. That day nothing was

concluded. On the 9th in the temple of Apollo a degree passed the senate “that what

had taken place on the 7th of February was treasonable.” On this day Cato warmly

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inveighed against Pompey, and throughout his speech arraigned him as though he

were at the bar. He said a great deal about me, to my disgust, though it was in very

laudatory terms. When he attacked Pompey’s perfidy to me, he was listened to in

profound silence on the part of my enemies. Pompey answered him boldly with a

palpable allusion to Crassus, and said outright that “he would take better precautions

to protect his life than Africanus had done, whom C. Carbo had assassinated.”

Accordingly, important events appear to me to be in the wind. For Pompey

understands what is going on, and imparts to me that plots are being formed against

his life, that Gaius Cato is being supported by Crassus, that money is being supplied

to Clodius, that both are backed by Crassus and Curio, as well as by Bibulus and his

other detractors: that he must take extraordinary precautions to prevent being

overpowered by that demagogue—with a people all but wholly alienated, a nobility

hostile, a senate ill-affected, and the younger men corrupt. So he is making his

preparations and summoning men from the country. On his part, Clodius is rallying

his gangs: a body of men is being got together for the Quirinalia. For that occasion we

are considerably in a majority, owing to the forces brought up by Pompey himself:

and a large contingent is expected from Picenum and Gallia, to enable us to throw out

Cato’s bills also about Milo and Lentulus.

On the 10th of February an indictment was lodged against Sestius for bribery by the

informer Cn. Nerius, of the Pupinian tribe, and on the same day by a certain M.

Tullius for riot. He was ill. I went at once, as I was bound to do. to his house, and put

myself wholly at his service: and that was more than people expected, who thought

that I had good cause for being angry with him. The result is that my extreme

kindness and grateful disposition are made manifest both to Sestius himself and to all

the world, and I shall be as good as my word. But this same informer Nerius also

named Cn. Lentulus Vatia and C. Cornelius to the commissioners. On the same day a

decree passed the senate “that political clubs and associations should be broken up,

and that a law in regard to them should be brought in, enacting that those who did not

break off from them should be liable to the same penalty as those convicted of riot.”

On the 11th of February I spoke in defence of Bestia on a charge of bribery before the

prætor Cn. Domitius, in the middle of the forum and in a very crowded court; and in

the course of my speech I came to the incident of Sestius, after receiving many

wounds in the temple of Castor, having been preserved by the aid of Bestia. Here I

took occasion to pave the way beforehand for a refutation of the charges which are

being got up against Sestius, and I passed a well-deserved encomium upon him with

the cordial approval of everybody. He was himself very much delighted with it. I tell

you this because you have often advised me in your letters to retain the friendship of

Sestius. I am writing this on the 12th of February before daybreak; the day on which I

am to dine with Pomponius on the occasion of his wedding.

Our position in other respects is such as you used to cheer my despondency by telling

me it would be—one of great dignity and popularity: this is a return to old times for

you and me effected, my brother, by your patience, high character, loyalty, and, I may

also add, your conciliatory manners. The house of Licinius, near the grove of Piso,

has been taken for you. But, as I hope, in a few months’ time, after the 1st of July, you

will move into your own. Some excellent tenants, the Lamiæ, have taken your house

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in Carinæ. I have received no letter from you since the one dated Olbia. I am anxious

to hear how you are and what you find to amuse you, but above all to see you yourself

as soon as possible. Take care of your health, my dear brother, and though it is winter

time, yet reflect that after all it is Sardinia that you are in.

15 February.

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To Atticus (Returning From Epirus)

Antium (April)

It will be delightful if you come to see us here. You will find that Tyrannio has made

a wonderfully good arrangement of my books, the remains of which are better than I

had expected. Still, I wish you would send me a couple of your library slaves for

Tyrannio to employ as gluers, and in other subordinate work, and tell them to get

some fine parchment to make title-pieces, which you Greeks, I think, call “sillybi.”

But all this is only if not inconvenient to you. In any case, be sure you come yourself,

if you can halt for a while in such a place, and can persuade Pilia to accompany you.

For that is only fair, and Tulia is anxious that she should come. My word! You have

purchased a fine troop! Your gladiators, I am told, fight superbly. If you had chosen to

let them out you would have cleared your expenses by the last two spectacles. But we

will talk about this later on. Be sure to come, and, as you love me, see about the

library slaves.

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To L. Lucceius

Arpinum (April)

I have often tried to say to you personally what I am about to write, but was prevented

by a kind of almost clownish bashfulness. Now that I am not in your presence I shall

speak out more boldly: a letter does not blush. I am inflamed with an inconceivably

ardent desire, and one, as I think, of which I have no reason to be ashamed, that in a

history written by you my name should be conspicuous and frequently mentioned with

praise. And though you have often shewn me that you meant to do so, yet I hope you

will pardon my impatience. For the style of your composition, though I had always

entertained the highest expectations of it, has yet surpassed my hopes, and has taken

such a hold upon me, or rather has so fired my imagination, that I was eager to have

my achievements as quickly as possible put on record in your history. For it is not

only the thought of being spoken of by future ages that makes me snatch at what

seems a hope of immortality, but it is also the desire of fully enjoying in my lifetime

an authoritative expression of your judgment, or a token of your kindness for me, or

the charm of your genius. Not, however, that while thus writing I am unaware under

what heavy burdens you are labouring in the portion of history you have undertaken,

and by this time have begun to write. But because I saw that your history of the Italian

and Civil Wars was now all but finished, and because also you told me that you were

already embarking upon the remaining portions of your work, I determined not to lose

my chance for the want of suggesting to you to consider whether you preferred to

weave your account of me into the main context of your history, or whether, as many

Greek writers have done—Callisthenes, the Phocian War; Timæus, the war of

Pyrrhus; Polybius, that of Numantia; all of whom separated the wars I have named

from their main narratives—you would, like them, separate the civil conspiracy from

public and external wars. For my part, I do not see that it matters much to my

reputation, but it does somewhat concern my impatience, that you should not wait till

you come to the proper place, but should at once anticipate the discussion of that

question as a whole and the history of that epoch. And at the same time, if your whole

thoughts are engaged on one incident and one person, I can see in imagination how

much fuller your material will be, and how much more elaborately worked out. I am

quite aware, however, what little modesty I display, first, in imposing on you so heavy

a burden (for your engagements may well prevent your compliance with my request),

and in the second place, in asking you to shew me off to advantage. What if those

transactions are not in your judgment so very deserving of commendation? Yet, after

all, a man who has once passed the border-line of modesty had better put a bold face

on it and be frankly impudent. And so I again and again ask you outright, both to

praise those actions of mine in warmer terms than you perhaps feel, and in that respect

to neglect the laws of history. I ask you, too, in regard to the personal predilection, on

which you wrote in a certain introductory chapter in the most gratifying and explicit

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terms—and by which you shew that you were as incapable of being diverted as

Xenophon’s Hercules by Pleasure—not to go against it, but to yield to your affection

for me a little more than truth shall justify. But if I can induce you to undertake this,

you will have, I am persuaded, matter worthy of your genius and your wealth of

language. For from the beginning of the conspiracy to my return from exile it appears

to me that a moderate-sized monograph might be composed, in which you will, on the

one hand, be able to utilize your special knowledge of civil disturbances, either in

unravelling the causes of the revolution or in proposing remedies for evils, blaming

meanwhile what you think deserves denunciation, and establishing the righteousness

of what you approve by explaining the principles on which they rest: and on the other

hand, if you think it right to be more outspoken (as you generally do), you will bring

out the perfidy, intrigues, and treachery of many people towards me. For my

vicissitudes will supply you in your composition with much variety, which has in

itself a kind of charm, capable of taking a strong hold on the imagination of readers,

when you are the writer. For nothing is better fitted to interest a reader than variety of

circumstance and vicissitudes of fortune, which, though the reverse of welcome to us

in actual experience, will make very pleasant reading: for the untroubled recollection

of a past sorrow has a charm of its own. To the rest of the world, indeed, who have

had no trouble themselves, and who look upon the misfortunes of others without any

suffering of their own, the feeling of pity is itself a source of pleasure. For what man

of us is not delighted, though feeling a certain compassion too, with the death-scene

of Epaminondas at Mantinea? He, you know, did not allow the dart to be drawn from

his body until he had been told, in answer to his question, that his shield was safe, so

that in spite of the agony of his wound he died calmly and with glory. Whose interest

is not roused and sustained by the banishment and return of Themistocles? Truly the

mere chronological record of the annals has very little charm for us—little more than

the entries in the fasti: but the doubtful and varied fortunes of a man, frequently of

eminent character, involve feelings of wonder, suspense, joy, sorrow, hope, fear: if

these fortunes are crowned with a glorious death, the imagination is satisfied with the

most fascinating delight which reading can give. Therefore it will be more in

accordance with my wishes if you come to the resolution to separate from the main

body of your narrative, in which you embrace a continuance history of events, what I

may call the drama of my actions and fortunes: for it includes varied acts, and shifting

scenes both of policy and circumstance. Nor am I afraid of appearing to lay snares for

your favour by flattering suggestions, when I declare that I desire to be complimented

and mentioned with praise by you above all other writers. For you are not the man to

be ignorant of your own powers, or not to be sure that those who withhold their

admiration of you are more to be accounted jealous, than those who praise you

flatterers. Nor, again, am I so senseless as to wish to be consecrated to an eternity of

fame by one who, in so consecrating me, does not also gain for himself the glory

which rightfully belongs to genius. For the famous Alexander himself did not wish to

be painted by Apelles, and to have his statue made by Lysippus above all others,

merely from personal favour to them, but because he thought that their art would be a

glory at once to them and to himself. And, indeed, those artists used to make images

of the person known to strangers: but if such had never existed, illustrious men would

yet be no less illustrious. The Spartan Agesilaus, who would not allow a portrait of

himself to be painted or a statue made, deserves to be quoted as an example quite as

much as those who have taken trouble about such representations: for a single

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pamphlet of Xenophon’s in praise of that king has proved much more effective than

all the portraits and statues of them all. And, moreover, it will more redound to my

present exultation and the honour of my memory to have found my way into your

history, than if I had done so into that of others, in this, that I shall profit not only by

the genius of the writer—as Timoleon did by that of Timæus, Themistocles by that of

Herodotus—but also by the authority of a man of a most illustrious and well-

established character, and one well known and of the first repute for his conduct in the

most important and weighty matters of state; so that I shall seem to have gained not

only the fame which Alexander on his visit to Sigeum said had been bestowed on

Achilles by Homer, but also the weighty testimony of a great and illustrious man. For

I like that saying of Hector in Nævius, who not only rejoices that he is “praised,” but

adds, “and by one who has himself been praised.” But if I fail to obtain my request

from you, which is equivalent to saying, if you are by some means prevented—for I

hold it to be out of the question that you would refuse a request of mine—I shall

perhaps be forced to do what certain persons have often found fault with, write my

own panegyric, a thing, after all, which has a precedent of many illustrious men. But

it will not escape your notice that there are the following drawbacks in a composition

of that sort: men are bound, when writing of themselves, both to speak with greater

reserve of what is praiseworthy, and to omit what calls for blame. Added to which

such writing carries less conviction, less weight; many people, in fine, carp at it, and

say that the heralds at the public games are more modest, far after having placed

garlands on the other recipients and proclaimed their names in a loud voice, when

their own turn comes to be presented with a garland before the games break up, they

call in the services of another herald, that they may not declare themselves victors

with their own voice. I wish to avoid all this, and, if you undertake my cause, I shall

avoid it: and, accordingly, I ask you this favour. But why, you may well ask, when

you have already often assured me that you intended to record in your book with the

utmost minuteness the policy and events of my consulship, do I now make this

request to you with such earnestness and in so many words? The reason is to be found

in that burning desire, of which I spoke at the beginning of my letter, for something

prompt: because I am in a flutter of impatience, both that men should learn what I am

from your book, while I am still alive, and that I may myself in my lifetime have the

full enjoyment of my little bit of glory. What you intend doing on this subject I should

like you to write me word, if not troublesome to you. For if you do undertake the

subject, I will put together some notes of all occurrences: but if you put me off to

some future time, I will talk the matter over with you. Meanwhile, do not relax your

efforts, and thoroughly polish what you have already on the stocks, and—continue to

love me.

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To M. Fadius Gallus

Rome (May)

I had only just arrived from Arpinum when your letter was delivered to me; and from

the same bearer I received a letter from Avianius, in which there was this most liberal

offer, that when he came to Rome he would enter my debt to him on whatever day I

chose. Pray put yourself in my place: is it consistent with your modesty or mine, first

to prefer a request as to the day, and then to ask more than a year’s credit? But, my

dear Gallus, everything would have been easy, if you had bought the things I wanted,

and only up to the price that I wished. However, the purchases which, according to

your letter, you have made shall not only be ratified by me, but with gratitude besides:

for I fully understand that you have displayed zeal and affection in purchasing

(because you thought them worthy of me) things which pleased yourself—a man, as I

have ever thought, of the most fastidious judgment in all matters of taste. Still, I

should like Damasippus to abide by his decision: for there is absolutely none of those

purchases that I care to have. But you, being unacquainted with my habits, have

bought four or five of your selection at a price at which I do not value any statues in

the world. You compare your Bacchæ with Metellus’s Muses. Where is the likeness?

To begin with, I should never have considered the Muses worth all that money, and I

think all the Muses would have approved my judgment: still, it would have been

appropriate to a library, and in harmony with my pursuits. But Bacchæ! What place is

there in my house for them? But, you will say, they are pretty. I know them very well

and have often seem them. I would have commissioned you definitely in the case of

statues known to me, if I had decided on them. The sort of statues that I am

accustomed to buy are such as may adorn a place in a palæstra after the fashion of

gymnasia. What, again, have I, the promoter of peace, to do with a statue of Mars? I

am glad there was not a statue of Saturn also: for I should have thought these two

statues had brought me debt! I should have preferred some representation of Mercury:

I might then, I suppose, have made a more favourable bargain with Arrianus. You say

you meant the table-stand for yourself; well, if you like it, keep it. But if you have

changed your mind I will, of course, have it. For the money you have laid out, indeed,

I would rather have purchased a place of call at Tarracina, to prevent my being always

a burden on my host. Altogether I perceive that the fault is with my freedman, whom I

had distinctly commissioned to purchase certain definite things, and also with Iunius,

whom I think you know, an intimate friend of Avianius. I have constructed some new

sitting-rooms in a miniature colonnade on my Tusculan property. I want to ornament

them with pictures: for if I take pleasure in anything of that sort it is in painting.

However, if I am to have what you have bought, I should like you to inform me where

they are, when they are to be fetched, and by what kind of conveyance. For if

Damasippus doesn’t abide by his decision, I shall look for some would-be

Damasippus, even at a loss.

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As to what you say about the house, as I was going out of town I intrusted the matter

to my daughter Tullia: for it was at the very hour of my departure that I got your

letter. I also discussed the matter with your friend Nicias, because he is, as you know,

intimate with Cassius. On my return, however, before I got your last letter, I asked

Tullia what she had done. She said that she had approached Licinia (though I think

Cassius is not very intimate with his sister), and that she at once said that she could

venture, in the absence of her husband (Dexius is gone to Spain), to change houses

without his being there and knowing about it. I am much gratified that you should

value association with me and my domestic life so highly, as, in the first place, to take

a house which would enable you to live not only near me, but absolutely with me,

and, in the second place, to be in such a hurry to make this change of residence. But,

upon my life, I do not yield to you in eagerness for that arrangement. So I will try

every means in my power. For I see the advantage to myself, and, indeed, the

advantages to us both. If I succeed in doing anything, I will let you know. Mind you

also write me word back on everything, and let me know, if you please, when I am to

expect you.

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XII

To M. Marius (At Cumæ)

Rome (October?)

If some bodily pain or weakness of health has prevented your coming to the games, I

put it down to fortune rather than your own wisdom: but if you have made up your

mind that these things which the rest of the world admires are only worthy of

contempt, and, though your health would have allowed of it, you yet were unwilling

to come, then I rejoice at both facts—that you were free from bodily pain, and that

you had the sound sense to disdain what others causelessly admire. Only I hope that

some fruit of your leisure may be forthcoming, a leisure, indeed, which you had a

splendid opportunity of enjoying to the full, seeing that you were left almost alone in

your lovely country. For I doubt not that in that study of yours, from which you have

opened a window into the Stabian waters of the bay, and obtained a view of Misenum,

you have spent the morning hours of those days in light reading, while those who left

you there were watching the ordinary farces half asleep. The remaining parts of the

day, too, you spent in the pleasures which you had yourself arranged to suit your own

taste, while we had to endure whatever had met with the approval of Spurius Mæcius.

On the whole, if you care to know, the games were most splendid, but not to your

taste. I judge from my own. For, to begin with, as a special honour to the occasion,

those actors had come back to the stage who, I thought, had left it for their own.

Indeed, your favourite, my friend Æsop, was in such a state no one could say a word

against his retiring from the profession. On beginning to recite the oath his voice

failed him at the words “If I knowingly deceive.” Why should I go on with the story?

You know all about the rest of the games, which hadn’t even that amount of charm

which games on a moderate scale generally have: for the spectacle was so elaborate as

to leave no room for cheerful enjoyment, and I think you need feel no regret at having

missed it. For what is the pleasure of a train of six hundred mules in the

“Clytemnestra,” or three thousand bowls in the “Trojan Horse,” or gay-coloured

armour of infantry and cavalry in some battle? These things roused the admiration of

the vulgar; to you they would have brought no delight. But if during those days you

listened to your reader Protogenes, so long at least as he read anything rather than my

speeches, surely you had far greater pleasure than any one of us. For I don’t suppose

you wanted to see Greek or Oscan plays, especially as you can see Oscan farces in

your senate-house over there, while you are so far from liking Greeks, that you

generally won’t even go along the Greek road to your villa. Why, again, should I

suppose you to care about missing the athletes, since you disdained the gladiators? in

which even Pompey himself confesses that he lost his trouble and his pains. There

remain the two wild-beast hunts, lasting five days, magnificent—nobody denies

it—and yet, what pleasure can it be to a man of refinement, when either a weak man

is torn by an extremely powerful animal, or a splendid animal is transfixed by a

hunting spear? Things which, after all, if worth seeing, you have often seen before;

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nor did I, who was present at the games, see anything the least new. The last day was

that of the elephants, on which there was a great deal of astonishment on the part of

the vulgar crowd, but no pleasure whatever. Nay, there was even a certain feeling of

compassion aroused by it, and a kind of belief created that that animal has something

in common with mankind. However, for my part, during this day, while the theatrical

exhibitions were on, lest by chance you should think me too blessed, I almost split my

lungs in defending your friend Caninius Gallus. But if the people were as indulgent to

me as they were to Æsop, I would, by heaven, have been glad to abandon my

profession and live with you and others like us. The fact is I was tired of it before,

even when both age and ambition stirred me on, and when I could also decline any

defence that I didn’t like; but now, with things in the state that they are, there is no life

worth having. For, on the one hand, I expect no profit of my labour; and, on the other,

I am sometimes forced to defend men who have been no friends to me, at the request

of those to whom I am under obligations. Accordingly, I am on the look-out for every

excuse for at last managing my life according to my own taste, and I loudly applaud

and vehemently approve both you and your retired plan of life: and as to your

infrequent appearances among us, I am the more resigned to that because, were you in

Rome, I should be prevented from enjoying the charm of your society, and so would

you of mine, if I have any, by the overpowering nature of my engagements; from

which, if I get any relief—for entire release I don’t expect—I will give even you, who

have been studying nothing else for many years, some hints as to what it is to live a

life of cultivated enjoyment. Only be careful to nurse your weak health and to

continue your present care of it, so that you may be able to visit my country houses

and make excursions with me in my litter. I have written you a longer letter than

usual, from superabundance, not of leisure, but of affection, because, if you

remember, you asked me in one of your letters to write you something to prevent you

feeling sorry at having missed the games. And if I have succeeded in that, I am glad:

if not, I yet console myself with this reflexion, that in future you will both come to the

games and come to see me, and will not leave your hope of enjoyment dependent on

my letters.

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XIII

To His Brother Quintus (In The Country)

Rome (February)

Your note by its strong language has drawn out this letter. For as to what actually

occurred on the day of your start, it supplied me with absolutely no subject for

writing. But as when we are together we are never at a loss for something to say, so

ought our letters at times to digress into loose chat. Well then, to begin, the liberty of

the Tenedians has received short shrift, no one speaking for them except myself,

Bibulus, Calidius, and Favonius. A complimentary reference to you was made by the

legates from Magnesia and Sipylum, they saying that you were the man who alone

had resisted the demand of L. Sestius Pansa. On the remaining days of this business in

the senate, if anything occurs which you ought to know, or even if there is nothing, I

will write you something every day. On the 12th I will not fail you or Pomponius. The

poems of Lucretius are as you say—with many flashes of genius, yet very technical.

But when you return, . . . if you succeed in reading the Empedoclea of Sallustius, I

shall regard you as a hero, yet scarcely human.

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XIV

To His Brother Quintus (In Britain)

Arpinum And Rome, 28 September

After extraordinary hot weather—I never remember greater heat—I have refreshed

myself at Arpinum, and enjoyed the extreme loveliness of the river during the days of

the games, having left my tribesmen under the charge of Philotimus. I was at

Arcanum on the 10th of September. There I found Mescidius and Philoxenus, and saw

the water, for which they were making a course not far from your villa, running quite

nicely, especially considering the extreme drought, and they said they were going to

collect it in much greater abundance. Everything is right with Herus. In your Manilian

property I came across Diphilus outdoing himself in dilatoriness. Still, he had nothing

left to construct, except baths, and a promenade, and an aviary. I liked that villa very

much, because its paved colonnade gives it an air of very great dignity. I never

appreciated this till now that the colonnade itself has been all laid open, and the

columns have been polished. It all depends—and this I will look to—upon the

stuccoing being prettily done. The pavements seemed to be being well laid. Certain of

the ceilings I did not like, and ordered them to be changed. As to the place in which

they say that you write word that a small entrance hall is to be built—namely, in the

colonnade—I liked it better as it is. For I did not think there was space sufficient for

an entrance hall; nor is it usual to have one, except in those buildings which have a

larger court; nor could it have bedrooms and apartments of that kind attached to it. As

it is, from the very beauty of its arched roof, it will serve as an admirable summer

room. However, if you think differently, write back word as soon as possible. In the

bath I have moved the hot chamber to the other corner of the dressing-room, because

it was so placed that its steampipe was immediately under the bedrooms. A fair-sized

bed-room and a lofty winter one I admired very much, for they were both spacious

and well-situated—on the side of the promenade nearest to the bath. Diphilus had

placed the columns out of the perpendicular, and not opposite each other. These, of

course, he shall take down; he will learn some day to use the plumb-line and measure.

On the whole, I hope Diphilus’s work will be completed in a few months: for Cæsius,

who was with me at the time, keeps a very sharp look-out upon him.

Thence I started straight along the via Vitularia to your Fufidianum, the estate which

we bought for you a few weeks ago at Arpinum for 100,000 sesterces (about £800). I

never saw a shadier spot in summer—water springs in many parts of it, and abundant

into the bargain. In short, Cæsius thought that you would easily irrigate fifty iugera of

the meadow land. For my part, I can assure you of this, which is more in my line, that

you will have a villa marvellously pleasant, with the addition of a fish-pond, spouting

fountains, a palæstra, and a shrubbery. I am told that you wish to keep this Bovillæ

estate. You will determine as you think good. Calvus said that, even if the control of

the water were taken from you, and the right of drawing it off were established by the

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vendor, and thus an easement were imposed on that property, we could yet maintain

the price in case we wish to sell. He said that he had agreed with you to do the work at

three sesterces a foot, and that he had stepped it, and made it three miles. It seemed to

me more. But I will guarantee that the money could nowhere be better laid out. I had

sent for Cillo from Venafrum, but on that very day four of his fellow servants and

apprentices had been crushed by the falling in of a tunnel at Venafrum. On the 13th of

September I was at Laterium. I examined the road, which appeared to me to be so

good as to seem almost like a high road, except a hundred and fifty paces—for I

measured it myself from the little bridge at the temple of Furina, in the direction of

Satricum. There they had put down dust, not gravel (this shall be changed), and that

part of the road is a very steep incline. But I understood that it could not be taken in

any other direction, particularly as you did not wish it to go through the property of

Locusta or Varro. The latter alone had made the road very well where it skirted his

own property. Locusta hadn’t touched it; but I will call on him at Rome, and think I

shall be able to stir him up, and at the same time I think I shall ask M. Tarus, who is

now at Rome, and whom I am told promised to allow you to do so, about making a

watercourse through his property. I much approved of your steward Nicephorius, and

I asked him what orders you had given about that small building at Laterium, about

which you spoke to me. He told me in answer that he had himself contracted to do the

work for sixteen sestertia (about £128), but that you had afterwards made many

additions to the work, but nothing to the price, and that he had therefore given it up. I

quite approve, by Hercules, of your making the additions you had determined upon;

although the villa as it stands seems to have the air of a philosopher, meant to rebuke

the extravagance of other villas. Yet, after all, that addition will be pleasing. I praised

your landscape gardener: he has so covered everything with ivy, both the foundation-

wall of the villa and the spaces between the columns of the walk, that, upon my word,

those Greek statues seemed to be engaged in fancy gardening, and to be shewing off

the ivy. Finally, nothing can be cooler or more mossy than the dressing-room of the

bath. That is about all I have to say about country matters. The gardener, indeed, as

well as Philotimus and Cincius are pressing on the ornamentation of your town house;

but I also often look in upon it myself, as I can do without difficulty. Wherefore don’t

be at all anxious about that.

As to your always asking me about your son, of course I “excuse you”; but I must ask

you to “excuse” me also, for I don’t allow that you love him more than I do. And oh

that he had been with me these last few days at Arpinum, as he had himself set his

heart on being, and as I had no less done! As to Pomponia, please write and say that,

when I go out of town anywhere, she is to come with me and bring the boy. I’ll do

wonders with him, if I get him to myself when I am at leisure: for at Rome there is no

time to breathe. You know I formerly promised to do so for nothing. What do you

expect with such a reward as you promise me? I now come to your letters which I

received in several packets when I was at Arpinum. For I received three from you in

one day, and, indeed, as it seemed, despatched by you at the same time—one of

considerable length, in which your first point was that my letter to you was dated

earlier than that to Cæsar. Oppius at times cannot help this: the reason is that, having

settled to send letter-carriers, and having received a letter from me, he is hindered by

something turning up, and obliged to despatch them later than he had intended; and I

don’t take the trouble to have the day altered on a letter which I have once handed to

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him. You write about Cæsar’s extreme affection for us. This affection you must on

your part keep warm, and I for mine will endeavour to increase it by every means in

my power. About Pompey, I am carefully acting, and shall continue to act, as you

advise. That my permission to you to stay longer is a welcome one, though I grieve at

your absence and miss you exceedingly, I am yet partly glad. What you can be

thinking of in sending for such people as Hippodamus and some others, I do not

understand. There is not one of those fellows that won’t expect a present from you

equal to a suburban estate. However, there is no reason for your classing my friend

Trebatius with them. I sent him to Cæsar, and Cæsar has done all I expected. If he has

not done quite what he expected himself, I am not bound to make it up to him, and I

in like manner free and absolve you from all claims on his part. Your remark, that you

are a greater favourite with Cæsar every day, is a source of undying satisfaction to

me. As to Balbus, who, as you say, promotes that state of things, he is the apple of my

eye. I am indeed glad that you and my friend Trebonius like each other. As to what

you say about the military tribuneship, I, indeed, asked for it definitely for Curtius,

and Cæsar wrote back definitely to say that there was one at Curtius’s service, and

chided me for my modesty in making the request. If I have asked one for anyone

else—as I told Oppius to write and tell Cæsar—I shall not be at all annoyed by a

refusal, since those who pester me for letters are annoyed at a refusal from me. I like

Curtius, as I have told him, not only because you asked me to do so, but from the

character you gave of him; for from your letter I have gathered the zeal he shewed for

my restoration. As for the British expedition, I conclude from your letter that we have

no occasion either for fear or exultation. As to public affairs, about which you wish

Tiro to write to you, I have written to you hitherto somewhat more carelessly than

usual, because I knew that all events, small or great, were reported to Cæsar. I have

now answered your longest letter.

Now hear what I have to say to your small one. The first point is about Clodius’s

letter to Cæsar. In that matter I approve of Cæsar’s policy, in not having given way to

your request so far as to write a single word to that Fury. The next thing is about the

speech of Calventius “Marius.” I am surprised at your saying that you think I ought to

answer it, particularly as, while no one is likely to read that speech, unless I write an

answer to it, every schoolboy learns mine against him as an exercise. My books, all of

which you are expecting, I have begun, but I cannot finish them for some days yet.

The speeches for Scaurus and Plancius which you clamour for I have finished. The

poem to Cæsar, which I had begun, I have cut short. I will write what you ask me for,

since your poetic springs are running dry, as soon as I have time.

Now for the third letter. It is very pleasant and welcome news to hear from you that

Balbus is soon coming to Rome, and so well accompanied! and will stay with me

continuously till the 15th of May. As to your exhorting me in the same letter, as in

many previous ones, to ambition and labour, I shall, of course, do as you say: but

when am I to enjoy any real life?

Your fourth letter reached me on the 13th of September, dated on the 10th of August

from Britain. In it there was nothing new except about your Erigona, and if I get that

from Oppius I will write and tell you what I think of it. I have no doubt I shall like it.

Oh yes! I had almost forgotten to remark as to the man who, you say in your letter,

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had written to Cæsar about the applause given to Milo—I am not unwilling that Cæsar

should think that it was as warm as possible. And in point of fact it was so, and yet

that applause, which is given to him, seems in a certain sense to be given to me.

I have also received a very old letter, but which was late in coming into my hands, in

which you remind me about the temple of Tellus and the colonnade of Catulus. Both

of these matters are being actively carried out. At the temple of Tellus I have even got

your statue placed. So, again, as to your reminder about a suburban villa and gardens,

I was never very keen for one, and now my town house has all the charm of such a

pleasure-ground. On my arrival in Rome on the 18th of September I found the roof on

your house finished: the part over the sitting-rooms, which you did not wish to have

many gables, now slopes gracefully towards the roof of the lower colonnade. Our boy,

in my absence, did not cease working with his rhetoric master. You have no reason

for being anxious about his education, for you know his ability, and I see his

application. Everything else I take it upon myself to guarantee, with full

consciousness that I am bound to make it good.

As yet there are three parties prosecuting Gabinius: first, L. Lentulus, son of the

flamen, who has entered a prosecution for lèse majesté; secondly, Tib. Nero with

good names at the back of his indictment; thirdly, C. Memmius the tribune in

conjunction with L. Capito. He came to the walls of the city on the 19th of September,

undignified and neglected to the last degree. But in the present state of the law courts

I do not venture to be confident of anything. As Cato is unwell, he has not yet been

formally indicted for extortion. Pompey is trying hard to persuade me to be reconciled

to him, but as yet he has not yet succeeded at all, nor, if I retain a shred of liberty, will

he succeed. I am very anxious for a letter from you. You say that you have been told

that I was a party to the coalition of the consular candidates—it is a lie. The compacts

made in that coalition afterwards made public by Memmius, were of such a nature

that no loyal man ought to have been a party to them; nor at the same time was it

possible for me to be a party to a coalition from which Messalla was excluded, who is

thoroughly satisfied with my conduct in every particular, as also, I think, is Memmius.

To Domitius himself I have rendered many services, which he desired and asked of

me. I have put Scaurus under a heavy obligation by my defence of him. It is as yet

very uncertain both when the elections will be and who will be consuls.

Just as I was folding up this epistle letter-carriers arrived from you and Cæsar (20th

September) after a journey of twenty days. How anxious I was! How painfully I was

affected by Cæsar’s most kind letter! But the kinder it was, the more sorrow did his

loss occasion me. But to turn to your letter. To begin with, I reiterate my approval of

your staying on, especially as, according to your account, you have consulted Cæsar

on the subject. I wonder that Oppius has anything to do with Publius for I advised

against it. Farther on in your letter you say that I am going to be made legatus to

Pompey on the 13th of September: I have heard nothing about it, and I wrote to Cæsar

to tell him that neither Vibullius nor Oppius had delivered his message to Pompey

about my remaining at home. Why, I know not. However, it was I who restrained

Oppius from doing so, because it was Vibullius who should take the leading part in

that matter: for with him Cæsar had communicated personally, with Oppius only by

letter. I indeed can have no “second thoughts” in matters connected with Cæsar. He

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comes next after you and our children in my regard, and not much after. I think I act

in this with deliberate judgment, for I have by this time good cause for it, yet warm

personal feeling no doubt does influence me also.

Just as I had written these last words—which are by my own hand—your boy came in

to dine with me, as Pomponia was dining out. He gave me your letter to read, which

he had received shortly before—a truly Aristophanic mixture of jest and earnest, with

which I was greatly charmed. He gave me also your second letter, in which you bid

him cling to my side as a mentor. How delighted he was with those letters! And so

was I. Nothing could be more attractive than that boy, nothing more affectionate to

me!—This, to explain its being in another handwriting, I dictated to Tiro while at

dinner.

Your letter gratified Annalis very much, as shewing that you took an active interest in

his concerns, and yet assisted him with exceedingly candid advice. Publius Servilius

the elder, from a letter which he said he had received from Cæsar, declares himself

highly obliged to you for having spoken with the greatest kindness and earnestness of

his devotion to Cæsar. After my return to Rome from Arpinum I was told that

Hippodamus had started to join you. I cannot say that I was surprised at his having

acted so discourteously as to start to join you without a letter from me: I only say that,

that I was annoyed. For I had long resolved, from an expression in your letter, that if I

had anything I wished conveyed to you with more than usual care, I should give it to

him: for, in truth, into a letter like this, which I send you in an ordinary way, I usually

put nothing that, if it fell into certain hands, might be a source of annoyance. I reserve

myself for Minucius and Salvius and Labeo. Labeo will either be starting late or will

stay here altogether. Hippodamus did not even ask me whether he could do anything

for me. T. Penarius sends me a kind letter about you: says that he is exceedingly

charmed with your literary pursuits, conversation, and above all by your dinners. He

was always a favourite of mine, and I see a good deal of his brother. Wherefore

continue, as you have begun, to admit the young man to your intimacy.

From the fact of this letter having been in hand during many days, owing to the delay

of the letter-carriers, I have jotted down in it many various things at odd times, as, for

instance, the following: Titus Anicius has mentioned to me more than once that he

would not hesitate to buy a suburban property for you, if he found one. In these

remarks of his I find two things surprising: first, that when you write to him about

buying a suburban property, you not only don’t write to me to that effect, but write

even in a contrary sense; and, secondly, that in writing to him you totally forget his

letters which you shewed me at Tusculum, and as totally the rule of Epicharmus,

“Notice how he has treated another”: in fact, that you have quite forgotten, as I think,

the lesson conveyed by the expression of his face, his conversation, and his spirit. But

this is your concern. As to a suburban property, be sure to let me know your wishes,

and at the same time take care that that fellow doesn’t get you into trouble. What else

have I to say? Anything? Yes, there is this: Gabinius entered the city by night on the

27th of September, and to-day, at two o’clock, when he ought to have appeared on his

trial for lèse majesté, in accordance with the edict of C. Alfius, he was all but crushed

to the earth by a great and unanimous demonstration of the popular hatred. Nothing

could exceed his humiliating position. However, Piso comes next to him. So I think of

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introducing a marvellous episode into my second book—Apollo declaring in the

council of the gods what sort of return that of the two commanders was to be, one of

whom had lost, and the other sold his army. From Britain I have a letter of Cæsar’s

dated the 1st of September, which reached me on the 27th, satisfactory enough as far

as the British expedition is concerned, in which, to prevent my wondering at not

getting one from you, he tells me that you were not with him when he reached the

coast. To that letter I made no reply, not even a formal congratulation, on account of

his mourning. Many, many wishes, dear brother, for your health.

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To P. Lentulus Spinther (In Cilicia)

Rome (October)

M. Cicero desires his warmest regards to P. Lentulus, imperator. Your letter was very

gratifying to me, from which I gathered that you fully appreciated my devotion to

you: for why use the word kindness, when even the word “devotion” itself, with all its

solemn and holy associations, seems too weak to express my obligations to you? As

for your saying that my services to you are gratefully accepted, it is you who in your

overflowing affection make things, which cannot be omitted without criminal

negligence, appear deserving of even gratitude. However, my feelings towards you

would have been much more fully known and conspicuous, if, during all this time that

we have been separated, we had been together, and together at Rome. For precisely in

what you declare your intention of doing—what no one is more capable of doing, and

what I confidently look forward to from you—that is to say, in speaking in the senate,

and in every department of public life and political activity, we should together have

been in a very strong position (what my feelings and position are in regard to politics I

will explain shortly, and will answer the questions you ask), and at any rate I should

have found in you a supporter, at once most warmly attached and endowed with

supreme wisdom, while in me you would have found an adviser, perhaps not the most

unskilful in the world, and at least both faithful and devoted to your interests.

However, for your own sake, of course, I rejoice, as I am bound to do, that you have

been greeted with the title of imperator, and are holding your province and victorious

army after a successful campaign. But certainly, if you had been here, you would have

enjoyed to a fuller extent and more directly the benefit of the services which I am

bound to render you. Moreover, in taking vengeance on those whom you know in

some cases to be your enemies, because you championed the cause of my recall, in

others to be jealous of the splendid position and renown which that measure brought

you, I should have done you yeoman’s service as your associate. However, that

perpetual enemy of his own friends, who, in spite of having been honoured with the

highest compliments on your part, has selected you of all people for the object of his

impotent and enfeebled violence, has saved me the trouble by punishing himself. For

he has made attempts, the disclosure of which has left him without a shred, not only

of political position, but even of freedom of action. And though I should have

preferred that you should have gained your experience in my case alone, rather than in

your own also, yet in the midst of my regret I am glad that you have learnt what the

fidelity of mankind is worth, at no great cost to yourself, which I learnt at the price of

excessive pain. And I think that I have now an opportunity presented me, while

answering the questions you have addressed to me, of also explaining my entire

position and view. You say in your letter that you have been informed that I have

become reconciled to Cæsar and Appius, and you add that you have no fault to find

with that. But you express a wish to know what induced me to defend and compliment

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Vatinius. In order to make my explanation plainer I must go a little farther back in the

statement of my policy and its grounds.

Well, Lentulus! At first—after the success of your efforts for my recall—I looked

upon myself as having been restored not alone to my friends, but to the Republic also;

and seeing that I owed you an affection almost surpassing belief, and every kind of

service, however great and rare, that could be bestowed on your person, I thought that

to the Republic, which had much assisted you in restoring me, I at least was bound to

entertain the feeling which I had in old times shewed merely from the duty incumbent

on all citizens alike, and not as an obligation incurred by some special kindness to

myself. That these were my sentiments I declared to the senate when you were consul,

and you had yourself a full view of them in our conversations and discussions. Yet

from the very first my feelings were hurt by many circumstances, when, on your

mooting the question of the full restoration of my position, I detected the covert

hatred of some and the equivocal attachment of others. For you received no support

from either in regard to my monuments, or the illegal violence by which, in common

with my brother, I had been driven from my house; nor, by heaven, did they shew the

goodwill which I had expected in regard to those matters which, though necessary to

me owing to the shipwreck of my fortune, were yet regarded by me as least

valuable—I mean as to indemnifying me for my losses by decree of the senate. And

though I saw all this—for it was not difficult to see—yet their present conduct did not

affect me with so much bitterness as what they had done for me did with gratitude.

And therefore, though according to your own assertion and testimony I was under

very great obligation to Pompey, and though I loved him not only for his kindness,

but also from my own feelings, and, so to speak, from my unbroken admiration of

him, nevertheless, without taking any account of his wishes, I abode by all my old

opinions in politics. With Pompey sitting in court, upon his having entered the city to

give evidence in favour of Sestius, and when the witness Vatinius had asserted that,

moved by the good fortune and success of Cæsar, I had begun to be his friend, I said

that I preferred the fortune of Bibulus, which he thought a humiliation, to the triumphs

and victories of everybody else; and I said during the examination of the same

witness, in another part of my speech, that the same men had prevented Bibulus from

leaving his house as had forced me from mine: my whole cross-examination, indeed,

was nothing but a denunciation of his tribuneship; and in it I spoke throughout with

the greatest freedom and spirit about violence, neglect of omens, grants of royal titles.

Nor, indeed, in the support of this view is it only of late that I have spoken: I have

done so consistently on several occasions in the senate. Nay, even in the consulship of

Marcellinus and Philippus, on the 5th of April the senate voted on my motion that the

question of the Campanian land should be referred to a full meeting of the senate on

the 15th of May. Could I more decidedly invade the stronghold of his policy, or shew

more clearly that I forgot my own present interests, and remembered my former

political career? On my delivery of this proposal a great impression was made on the

minds not only of those who were bound to have been impressed, but also of those of

whom I had never expected it. For, after this decree had passed in accordance with my

motion, Pompey, without shewing the least sign of being offended with me, started

for Sardinia and Africa, and in the course of that journey visited Cæsar at Luca. There

Cæsar complained a great deal about my motion, for he had already seen Crassus at

Ravenna also, and had been irritated by him against me. It was well known that

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Pompey was much vexed at this, as I was told by others, but learnt most definitely

from my brother. For when Pompey met him in Sardinia, a few days after leaving

Luca, he said: “You are the very man I want to see; nothing could have happened

more conveniently. Unless you speak very strongly to your brother Marcus, you will

have to pay up what you guaranteed on his behalf.” I need not go on. He grumbled a

great deal: mentioned his own service to me: recalled what he had again and again

said to my brother himself about the “acts” of Cæsar, and what my brother had

undertaken in regard to me; and called my brother himself to witness that what he had

done in regard to my recall he had done with the consent of Cæsar: and asked him to

commend to me the latter’s policy and claims, that I should not attack, even if I would

not or could not support them. My brother having conveyed these remarks to me, and

Pompey having, nevertheless, sent Vibullius to me with a message, begging me not to

commit myself on the question of the Campanian land till his return, I reconsidered

my position and begged the state itself, as it were, to allow me, who had suffered and

done so much for it, to fulfil the duty which gratitude to my benefactors and the

pledge which my brother had given demanded, and to suffer one whom it had ever

regarded as an honest citizen to shew himself an honest man. Moreover, in regard to

all those motions and speeches of mine which appeared to be giving offence to

Pompey, the remarks of a particular set of men, whose names you must surely guess,

kept on being reported to me; who, while in public affairs they were really in

sympathy with my policy, and had always been so, yet said that they were glad that

Pompey was dissatisfied with me, and that Cæsar would be very greatly exasperated

against me. This in itself was vexatious to me: but much more so was the fact that

they used, before my very eyes, so to embrace, fondle, make much of, and kiss my

enemy—mine do I say? rather the enemy of the laws, of the law courts, of peace, of

his country, of all loyal men!—that they did not indeed rouse my bile, for I have

utterly lost all that, but imagined they did. In these circumstances, having, as far as is

possible for human prudence, thoroughly examined my whole position, and having

balanced the items of the account, I arrived at a final result of all my reflexions,

which, as well as I can, I will now briefly put before you.

If I had seen the Republic in the hands of bad or profligate citizens, as we know

happened during the supremacy of Cinna, and on some other occasions, I should not

under the pressure, I don’t say of rewards, which are the last things to influence me,

but even of danger, by which, after all, the bravest men are moved, have attached

myself to their party, not even if their services to me had been of the very highest

kind. As it is, seeing that the leading statesman in the Republic was Pompey, a man

who had gained this power and renown by the most eminent services to the state and

the most glorious achievements, and one of whose position I had been a supporter

from my youth up, and in my prætorship and consulship an active promoter also, and

seeing that this same statesman had assisted me, in his own person by the weight of

his influence and the expression of his opinion, and, in conjunction with you, by his

counsels and zeal, and that he regarded my enemy as his own supreme enemy in the

state—I did not think that I need fear the reproach of inconsistency, if in some of my

senatorial votes I somewhat changed my standpoint, and contributed my zeal to the

promotion of the dignity of a most distinguished man, and one to whom I am under

the highest obligations. In this sentiment I had necessarily to include Cæsar, as you

see, for their policy and position were inseparably united. Here I was greatly

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influenced by two things—the old friendship which you know that I and my brother

Quintus have had with Cæsar, and his own kindness and liberality, of which we have

recently had clear and unmistakable evidence both by his letters and his personal

attentions. I was also strongly affected by the Republic itself, which appeared to me to

demand, especially considering Cæsar’s brilliant successes, that there should be no

quarrel maintained with these men, and indeed to forbid it in the strongest manner

possible. Moreover, while entertaining these feelings, I was above all shaken by the

pledge which Pompey had given for me to Cæsar, and my brother to Pompey.

Besides, I was forced to take into consideration the state maxim so divinely expressed

by our master Plato—“Such as are the chief men in a republic, such are ever wont to

be the other citizens.” I called to mind that in my consulship, from the very 1st of

January, such a foundation was laid of encouragement for the senate, that no one

ought to have been surprised that on the 5th of December there was so much spirit and

such commanding influence in that house. I also remember that when I became a

private citizen up to the consulship of Cæsar and Bibulus, when the opinions

expressed by me had great weight in the senate, the feeling among all the loyalists

was invariable. Afterwards, while you were holding the province of hither Spain with

imperium and the Republic had no genuine consuls, but mere hucksters of provinces,

mere slaves and agents of sedition, an accident threw my head as an apple of discord

into the midst of contending factions and civil broils. And in that hour of danger,

though a unanimity was displayed on the part of the senate that was surprising, on the

part of all Italy surpassing belief, and of all the loyalists unparalleled, in standing forth

in my defence, I will not say what happened—for the blame attaches to many, and is

of various shades of turpitude—I will only say briefly that it was not the rank and file,

but the leaders, that played me false. And in this matter, though some blame does

attach to those who failed to defend me, no less attaches to those who abandoned me:

and if those who were frightened deserve reproach, if there are such, still more are

those to be blamed who pretended to be frightened. At any rate, my policy is justly to

be praised for refusing to allow my fellow citizens (preserved by me and ardently

desiring to preserve me) to be exposed while bereft of leaders to armed slaves, and for

preferring that it should be made manifest how much force there might be in the

unanimity of the loyalists, if they had been permitted to champion my cause before I

had fallen, when after that fall they had proved strong enough to raise me up again.

And the real feelings of these men you not only had the penetration to see, when

bringing forward my case, but the power to encourage and keep alive. In promoting

which measure—I will not merely not deny, but shall always remember also and

gladly proclaim it—you found certain men of the highest rank more courageous in

securing my restoration than they had been in preserving me from my fall: and, if they

had chosen to maintain that frame of mind, they would have recovered their own

commanding position along with my salvation. For when the spirit of the loyalists had

been renewed by your consulship, and they had been roused from their dismay by the

extreme firmness and rectitude of your official conduct; when, above all, Pompey’s

support had been secured; and when Cæsar, too, with all the prestige of his brilliant

achievements, after being honoured with unique and unprecedented marks of

distinction and compliments by the senate, was now supporting the dignity of the

house, there could have been no opportunity for a disloyal citizen of outraging the

Republic.

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But now notice, I beg, what actually ensued. First of all, that intruder upon the

women’s rites, who had shewn no more respect for the Bona Dea than for his three

sisters, secured immunity by the votes of those men who, when a tribune wished by a

legal action to exact penalties from a seditious citizen by the agency of the loyalists,

deprived the Republic of what would have been hereafter a most splendid precedent

for the punishment of sedition. And these same persons, in the case of the monument,

which was not mine, indeed—for it was not erected from the proceeds of spoils won

by me, and I had nothing to do with it beyond giving out the contract for its

construction—well, they allowed this monument of the senate’s to have branded upon

it the name of a public enemy, and an inscription written in blood. That those men

wished my safety rouses my liveliest gratitude, but I could have wished that they had

not chosen to take my bare safety into consideration, like doctors, but, like trainers,

my strength and complexion also! As it is, just as Apelles perfected the head and bust

of his Venus with the most elaborate art, but left the rest of her body in the rough, so

certain persons only took pains with my head, and left the rest of my body unfinished

and unworked. Yet in this matter I have falsified the expectation, not only of the

jealous, but also of the downright hostile, who formerly conceived a wrong opinion

from the case of Quintus Metellus, son of Lucius—the most energetic and gallant man

in the world, and in my opinion of surpassing courage and firmness—who, people

say, was much cast down and dispirited after his return from exile. Now, in the first

place, we are asked to believe that a man who accepted exile with entire willingness

and remarkable cheerfulness, and never took any pains at all to get recalled, was

crushed in spirit about an affair in which he had shewn more firmness and constancy

than anyone else, even than the pre-eminent M. Scaurus himself! But, again, the

account they had received, or rather the conjectures they were indulging in about him,

they now transferred to me, imagining that I should be more than usually broken in

spirit: whereas, in fact, the Republic was inspiring me with even greater courage than

I had ever had before, by making it plain that I was the one citizen it could not do

without; and by the fact that while a bill proposed by only one tribune had recalled

Metellus, the whole state had joined as one man in recalling me—the senate leading

the way, the whole of Italy following after, eight of the tribunes publishing the bill, a

consul putting the question at the centuriate assembly, all orders and individuals

pressing it on, in fact, with all the forces at its command. Nor is it the case that I

afterwards made any pretension, or am making any at this day, which can justly

offend anyone, even the most malevolent: my only effort is that I may not fail either

my friends or those more remotely connected with me in either active service, or

counsel, or personal exertion. This course of life perhaps offends those who fix their

eyes on the glitter and show of my professional position, but are unable to appreciate

its anxieties and laboriousness.

Again, they make no concealment of their dissatisfaction on the ground that in the

speeches which I make in the senate in praise of Cæsar I am departing from my old

policy. But while giving explanations on the points which I put before you a short

time ago, I will not keep till the last the following, which I have already touched

upon. You will not find, my dear Lentulus, the sentiments of the loyalists the same as

you left them—strengthened by my consulship, suffering relapse at intervals

afterwards, crushed down before your consulship, revived by you: they have now

been abandoned by those whose duty it was to have maintained them: and this fact

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they, who in the old state of things as it existed in our day used to be called

Optimates, not only declare by look and expression of countenance, by which a false

pretence is easiest supported, but have proved again and again by their actual

sympathies and votes. Accordingly, the entire view and aim of wise citizens, such as I

wish both to be and to be reckoned, must needs have undergone a change. For that is

the maxim of that same great Plato, whom I emphatically regard as my master:

“Maintain a political controversy only so far as you can convince your fellow citizens

of its justice: never offer violence to parent or fatherland.” He, it is true, alleges this as

his motive for having abstained from politics, because, having found the Athenian

people all but in its dotage, and seeing that it could not be ruled by persuasion, or by

anything short of compulsion, while he doubted the possibility of persuasion, he

looked upon compulsion as criminal. My position was different in this: as the people

was not in its dotage, nor the question of engaging in politics still an open one for me,

I was bound hand and foot. Yet I rejoiced that I was permitted in one and the same

cause to support a policy at once advantageous to myself and acceptable to every

loyalist. An additional motive was Cæsar’s memorable and almost superhuman

kindness to myself and my brother, who thus would have deserved my support

whatever he undertook; while as it is, considering his great success and his brilliant

victories, he would seem, even if he had not behaved to me as he has, to claim a

panegyric from me. For I would have you believe that, putting you aside, who were

the authors of my recall, there is no one by whose good offices I would not only

confess, but would even rejoice, to have been so much bound.

Having explained this matter to you, the questions you ask about Vatinius and Crassus

are easy to answer. For, since you remark about Appius, as about Cæsar, “that you

have no fault to find,” I can only say that I am glad you approve my policy. But as to

Vatinius, in the first place there had been in the interval a reconciliation effected

through Pompey, immediately after his election to the prætorship, though I had, it is

true, impugned his candidature in some very strong speeches in the senate, and yet not

so much for the sake of attacking him as of defending and complimenting Cato.

Again, later on, there followed a very pressing request from Cæsar that I should

undertake his defence. But my reason for testifying to his character I beg you will not

ask, either in the case of this defendant or of others, lest I retaliate by asking you the

same question when you come home: though I can do so even before you return: for

remember for whom you sent a certificate of character from the ends of the earth.

However, don’t be afraid, for those same persons are praised by myself, and will

continue to be so. Yet, after all, there was also the motive spurring me on to undertake

his defence, of which, during the trial, when I appeared for him, I remarked that I was

doing just what the parasite in the Eunuchus advised the captain to do:

“As oft as she names Phædria, you retort

With Pamphila. If ever she suggest,

‘Do let us have in Phædria to our revel:’

Quoth you, ‘And let us call on Pamphila

To sing a song.’ If she shall praise his looks,

Do you praise hers to match them: and, in fine,

Give tit for tat, that you may sting her soul.”

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So I asked the jurors, since certain men of high rank, who, had also done me very

great favours, were much enamoured of my enemy, and often under my very eyes in

the senate now took him aside in grave consultation, now embraced him familiarly

and cheerfully—since these men had their Publius, to grant me another Publius, in

whose person I might repay a slight attack by a moderate retort. And, indeed, I am

often as good as my word, with the applause of gods and men. So much for Vatinius.

Now about Crassus. I thought I had done much to secure his gratitude in having, for

the sake of the general harmony, wiped out by a kind of voluntary act of oblivion all

his very serious injuries, when he suddenly undertook the defence of Gabinius, whom

only a few days before he had attacked with the greatest bitterness. Nevertheless, I

should have borne that, if he had done so without casting any offensive reflexions on

me. But on his attacking me, though I was only arguing and not inveighing against

him, I fired up not only, I think, with the passion of the moment—for that perhaps

would not have been so hot—but the smothered wrath at his many wrongs to me, of

which I thought I had wholly got rid, having, unconsciously to myself, lingered in my

soul, it suddenly shewed itself in full force. And it was at this precise time that certain

persons (the same whom I frequently indicate by a sign or hint), while declaring that

they had much enjoyed my outspoken style, and had never before fully realized that I

was restored to the Republic in all my old character, and when my conduct of that

controversy had gained me much credit outside the house also, began saying that they

were glad both that he was now my enemy, and that those who were involved with

him would never be my friends. So when their ill-natured remarks were reported to

me by men of most respectable character, and when Pompey pressed me as he had

never done before to be reconciled to Crassus, and Cæsar wrote to say that he was

exceedingly grieved at that quarrel, I took into consideration not only my

circumstances, but my natural inclination: and Crassus, that our reconciliation might,

as it were, be attested to the Roman people, started for his province, it might almost

be said, from my hearth. For he himself named a day and dined with me in the

suburban villa of my son-in-law Crassipes. On this account, as you say that you have

been told, I supported his cause in the senate, which I had undertaken on Pompey’s

strong recommendation, as I was bound in honour to do.

I have now told you with what motives I have supported each measure and cause, and

what my position is in politics as far as I take any part in them: and I would wish you

to make sure of this—that I should have entertained the same sentiments, if I had been

still perfectly uncommitted and free to choose. For I should not have thought it right

to fight against such overwhelming power, nor to destroy the supremacy of the most

distinguished citizens, even if it had been possible; nor, again, should I have thought

myself bound to abide by the same view, when circumstances were changed and the

feelings of the loyalists altered, but rather to bow to circumstances. For the

persistence in the same view has never been regarded as a merit in men eminent for

their guidance of the helm of state; but as in steering a ship one secret of the art is to

run before the storm, even if you cannot make the harbour; yet, when you can do so

by tacking about, it is folly to keep to the course you have begun rather than by

changing it to arrive all the same at the destination you desire: so while we all ought

in the administration of the state to keep always in view the object I have very

frequently mentioned, peace combined with dignity, we are not bound always to use

the same language, but to fix our eyes on the same object. Wherefore, as I laid down a

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little while ago, if I had had as free a hand as possible in everything, I should yet have

been no other than I now am in politics. When, moreover, I am at once induced to

adopt these sentiments by the kindness of certain persons, and driven to do so by the

injuries of others, I am quite content to think and speak about public affairs as I

conceive best conduces to the interests both of myself and of the Republic. Moreover,

I make this declaration the more openly and frequently, both because my brother

Quintus is Cæsar’s legate, and because no word of mine, however trivial, to say

nothing of any act, in support of Cæsar has ever transpired, which he has not received

with such marked gratitude, as to make me look upon myself as closely bound to him.

Accordingly, I have the advantage of his popularity, which you know to be very great,

and his material resources, which you know to be immense, as though they were my

own. Nor do I think that I could in any other way have frustrated the plots of

unprincipled persons against me, unless I had now combined with those protections,

which I have always possessed, the goodwill also of the men in power. I should, to the

best of my belief, have followed this same line of policy even if I had had you here.

For I well know the reasonableness and soberness of your judgment: I know your

mind, while warmly attached to me, to be without a tinge of malevolence to others,

but on the contrary as open and candid as it is great and lofty. I have seen certain

persons conduct themselves towards you as you might have seen the same persons

conduct themselves towards me. The same things that have annoyed me would

certainly have annoyed you. But whenever I shall have the enjoyment of your

presence, you will be the wise critic of all my plans: you who took thought for my

safety will also do so for my dignity. Me, indeed, you will have as the partner and

associate in all your actions, sentiments, wishes—in fact, in everything; nor shall I

ever in all my life have any purpose so steadfastly before me, as that you should

rejoice more and more warmly every day that you did me such eminent service.

As to your request that I would send you any books I have written since your

departure, there are some speeches, which I will give Menocritus, not so very many,

so don’t be afraid! I have also written—for I am now rather withdrawing from oratory

and returning to the gentler Muses, which now give me greater delight than any

others, as they have done since my earliest youth—well, then, I have written in the

Aristotelian style, at least that was my aim, three books in the form of a discussion in

dialogue “On the Orator,” which, I think, well be of some service to your Lentulus.

For they differ a good deal from the current maxims, and embrace a discussion on the

whole oratorical theory of the ancients, both that of Aristotle and Isocrates. I have also

written in verse three books “On my own Times,” which I should have sent you some

time ago, if I had thought they ought to be published—for they are witnesses, and will

be eternal witnesses, of your services to me and of my affection—but I refrained

because I was afraid, not of those who might think themselves attacked, for I have

been very sparing and gentle in that respect, but of my benefactors, of whom it were

an endless task to mention the whole list. Nevertheless, the books, such as they are, if

I find anyone to whom I can safely commit them, I will take care to have conveyed to

you: and as far as that part of my life and conduct is concerned, I submit it entirely to

your judgment. All that I shall succeed in accomplishing in literature or in

learning—my old favourite relaxations—I shall with the utmost cheerfulness place

before the bar of your criticism, for you have always had a fondness for such things.

As to what you say in your letter about your domestic affairs, and all you charge me

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to do, I am so attentive to them that I don’t like being reminded, can scarcely bear,

indeed, to be asked without a very painful feeling. As to your saying, in regard to

Quintus’s business, that you could not do anything last summer, because you were

prevented by illness from crossing to Cilicia, but that you will now do everything in

your power to settle it, I may tell you that the fact of the matter is that, if he can annex

this property, my brother thinks that he will owe to you the consolidation of this

ancestral estate. I should like you to write about all your affairs, and about the studies

and training of your son Lentulus (whom I regard as mine also) as confidentially and

as frequently as possible, and to believe that there never has been anyone either dearer

or more congenial to another than you are to me, and that I will not only make you

feel that to be the case, but will make all the world and posterity itself to the latest

generation aware of it.

Appius used some time back to repeat in conversation, and afterwards said openly,

even in the senate, that if he were allowed to carry a law in the comitia curiata, he

would draw lots with his colleague for their provinces; but if no curiatian law were

passed, he would make an arrangement with his colleague and succeed you: that a

curiatian law was a proper thing for a consul, but was not a necessity: that since he

was in possession of a province by a decree of the senate, he should have imperium in

virtue of the Cornelian law until such time as he entered the city. I don’t know what

your several connexions write to you on the subject: I understand that opinion varies.

There are some who think that you can legally refuse to quit your province, because

your successor is named without a curiatian law: some also hold that, even if you do

quit it, you may leave some one behind you to conduct its government. For myself, I

do not feel so certain about the point of law—although there is not much doubt even

about that—as I do of this, that it is for your greatest honour, dignity, and

independence, which I know you always value above everything, to hand over your

province to a successor without any delay, especially as you cannot thwart his

greediness without rousing suspicion of your own. I regard my duty as twofold—to let

you know what I think, and to defend what you have done.

P.S.—I had written the above when I received your letter about the publicani, to

whom I could not but admire the justice of your conduct. I could have wished that you

had been able by some lucky chance to avoid running counter to the interests and

wishes of that order, whose honour you have always promoted. For my part, I shall

not cease to defend your decrees: but you know the ways of that class of men; you are

aware how bitterly hostile they were to the famous Q. Scævola himself. However, I

advise you to reconcile that order to yourself, or at least soften its feelings, if you can

by any means do so. Though difficult, I think it is, nevertheless, not beyond the reach

of your sagacity.

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XVI

To C. Trebatius Testa (In Gaul)

Rome (November)

In the “Trojan Horse,” just at the end, you remember the words, “Too late they learn

wisdom.” You, however, old man, were wise in time. Those first snappy letters of

yours were foolish enough, and then—! I don’t at all blame you for not being over-

curious in regard to Britain. For the present, however, you seem to be in winter

quarters somewhat short of warm clothing, and therefore not caring to stir out:

“Not here and there, but everywhere,

Be wise and ware:

No sharper steel can warrior bear.”

If I had been by way of dining out, I would not have failed your friend Cn. Octavius;

to whom, however, I did remark upon his repeated invitations, “Pray, who are you?”

But, by Hercules, joking apart, he is a pretty fellow: I could have wished you had

taken him with you! Let me know for certain what you are doing and whether you

intend coming to Italy at all this winter. Balbus has assured me that you will be rich.

Whether he speaks after the simple Roman fashion, meaning that you will be well

supplied with money, or according to the Stoic dictum, that “all are rich who can

enjoy the sky and the earth,” I shall know hereafter. Those who come from your part

accuse you of pride, because they say you won’t answer men who put questions to

you. However, there is one thing that will please you: they all agree in saying that

there is no better lawyer than you at Samarobriva!

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XVII

To Atticus (At Rome)

Minturnæ, May

Yes, I saw well enough what your feelings were as I parted from you; what mine were

I am my own witness. This makes it all the more incumbent on you to prevent an

additional decree being passed, so that this mutual regret of ours may not last more

than a year. As to Annius Saturninus, your measures are excellent. As to the

guarantee, pray, during your stay at Rome, give it yourself. You will find several

guarantees on purchase, such as those of the estates of Memmius, or rather of Attilius.

As to Oppius, that is exactly what I wished, and especially your having engaged to

pay him the 800 sestertia (about £6,400), which I am determined shall be paid in any

case, even if I have to borrow to do so, rather than wait for the last day of getting in

my own debts.

I now come to that last line of your letter written crossways, in which you give me a

word of caution about your sister. The facts of the matter are these. On arriving at my

place at Arpinum, my brother came to see me, and our first subject of conversation

was yourself, and we discussed it at great length. After this I brought the conversation

round to what you and I had discussed at Tusculum, on the subject of your sister. I

never saw anything so gentle and placable as my brother was on that occasion in

regard to your sister: so much so, indeed, that if there had been any cause of quarrel

on the score of expense, it was not apparent. So much for that day. Next day we

started from Arpinum. A country festival caused Quintus to stop at Arcanum; I

stopped at Aquinum; but we lunched at Arcanum. You know his property there. When

we got there Quintus said, in the kindest manner, “Pomponia, do you ask the ladies in,

I will invite the men.” Nothing, as I thought, could be more courteous, and that, too,

not only in the actual words, but also in his intention and the expression of face. But

she, in the hearing of us all, exclaimed, “I am only a stranger here!” The origin of that

was, as I think, the fact that Statius had preceded us to look after the luncheon.

Thereupon Quintus said to me, “There, that’s what I have to put up with every day!”

You will say, “Well, what does that amount to?” A great deal, and, indeed, she had

irritated even me: her answer had been given with such unnecessary acrimony, both of

word and look. I concealed my annoyance. We all took our places at table except her.

However, Quintus sent her dishes from the table, which she declined. In short, I

thought I never saw anything better tempered than my brother, or crosser than your

sister: and there were many particulars which I omit that raised my bile more than did

that of Quintus himself. I then went on to Aquinum; Quintus stopped at Arcanum, and

joined me early the next day at Aquinum. He told me that she had refused to sleep

with him, and when on the point of leaving she behaved just as I had seen her. Need I

say more? You may tell her herself that in my judgment she shewed a marked want of

kindness on that day. I have told you this story at greater length, perhaps, than was

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necessary, to convince you that you, too, have something to do in the way of giving

her instruction and advice.

There only remains for me to beg you to complete all my commissions before leaving

town; to give Pomptinus a push, and make him start; to let me know as soon as you

have left town, and to believe that, by heaven, there is nothing I love and find more

pleasure in than yourself. I said a most affectionate good-bye to that best of men, A.

Torquatus, at Minturnæ, to whom I wish you would remark, in the course of

conversation, that I have mentioned him in my letter.

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XVIII

To M. Porcius Cato (At Rome)

Cilicia (January)

Your own immense prestige and my unvarying belief in your consummate virtue have

convinced me of the great importance it is to me that you should be acquainted with

what I have accomplished, and that you should not be ignorant of the equity and

disinterestedness with which I protected our allies and governed my province. For if

you knew these facts, I thought I should with greater ease secure your approval of my

wishes.

Having entered my province on the last day of July, and seeing that the time of year

made it necessary for me to make all haste to the army, I spent but two days at

Laodicea, four at Apamea, three at Synnada, and the same at Philomelium. Having

held largely attended assizes in these towns, I freed a great number of cities from very

vexatious tributes, excessive interest, and fraudulent debt. Again, the army having

before my arrival been broken up by something like a mutiny, and five

cohorts—without a legate or a military tribune, and, in fact, actually without a single

centurion—having taken up its quarters at Philomelium, while the rest of the army

was in Lycaonia, I ordered my legate M. Anneius to bring those five cohorts to join

the main army; and, having thus got the whole army together into one place, to pitch a

camp at Iconium in Lycaonia. This order having been energetically executed by him, I

arrived at the camp myself on the 24th of August, having meanwhile, in accordance

with the decree of the senate, collected in the intervening days a strong body of

reserve men, a very adequate force of cavalry, and a contingent of volunteers from the

free peoples and allied sovereigns. While this was going on, and when, after

reviewing the army, I had on the 28th of August begun my march to Cilicia, some

legates sent to me by the sovereign of Commagene announced, with every sign of

panic, yet not without some foundation, that the Parthians had entered Syria. On

hearing this I was rendered very anxious both for Syria and my own province, and, in

fact, for all the rest of Asia. Accordingly, I made up my mind that I must lead the

army through the district of Cappadocia, which adjoins Cilicia. For if I had gone

straight down into Cilicia, I could easily indeed have held Cilicia itself, owing to the

natural strength of Mount Amanus—for there are only two defiles opening into Cilicia

from Syria, both of which are capable of being closed by insignificant garrisons

owing to their narrowness, nor can anything be imagined better fortified than is

Cilicia on the Syrian side—but I was disturbed for Cappadocia, which is quite open

on the Syrian side, and is surrounded by kings, who, even if they are our friends in

secret, nevertheless do not venture to be openly hostile to the Parthians. Accordingly,

I pitched my camp in the extreme south of Cappadocia at the town of Cybistra, not far

from Mount Taurus, with the object at once of covering Cilicia, and of thwarting the

designs of the neighbouring tribes by holding Cappadocia. Meanwhile, in the midst of

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this serious commotion and anxious expectation of a very formidable war king

Deiotarus, who has with good reason been always highly honoured in your judgment

and my own, as well as that of the senate—a man distinguished for his goodwill and

loyalty to the Roman people, as well as for his eminent courage and wisdom—sent

legates to tell me that he was on his way to my camp in full force. Much affected by

his zeal and kindness, I sent him a letter of thanks, and urged him to hasten. However,

being detained at Cybistra five days while maturing my plan of campaign, I rescued

king Ariobarzanes, whose safety had been intrusted to me by the senate on your

motion, from a plot that, to his surprise, had been formed against him: and I not only

saved his life, but I took pains also to secure that his royal authority should be

respected. Metras and Athenæus (the latter strongly commended to me by yourself),

who had been exiled owing to the persistent enmity of queen Athenais, I restored to a

position of the highest influence and favour with the king. Then, as there was danger

of serious hostilities arising in Cappadocia in case the priest, as it was thought likely

that he would do, defended himself with arms—for he was a young man, well

furnished with horse and foot and money, and relying on those all who desired

political change of any sort—I contrived that he should leave the kingdom: and that

the king, without civil war or an appeal to arms, with the full authority of the court

thoroughly secured, should hold the kingdom with proper dignity.

Meanwhile, I was informed by despatches and messengers from many sides, that the

Parthians and Arabs had approached the town of Antioch in great force, and that a

large body of their horsemen, which had crossed into Cilicia, had been cut to pieces

by some squadrons of my cavalry and the prætorian cohort then on garrison duty at

Epiphanea. Wherefore, seeing that the forces of the Parthians had turned their backs

upon Cappadocia, and were not far from the frontiers of Cilicia, I led my army to

Amanus with the longest forced marches I could. Arrived there, I learnt that the

enemy had retired from Antioch, and that Bibulus was at Antioch. I thereupon

informed Deiotarus, who was hurrying to join me with a large and strong body of

horse and foot, and with all the forces he could muster, that I saw no reason for his

leaving his own dominions, and that in case of any new event, I would immediately

write and send to him. And as my intention in coming had been to relieve both

provinces, should occasion arise, so now I proceeded to do what I had all along made

up my mind was greatly to the interest of both provinces, namely, to reduce Amanus,

and to remove from that mountain an eternal enemy. So I made a feint of retiring from

the mountain and making for other parts of Cilicia: and having gone a day’s march

from Amanus and pitched a camp, on the 12th of October, towards evening, at

Epiphanea, with my army in light marching order I effected such a night march, that

by dawn on the 13th I was already ascending Amanus. Having formed the cohorts and

auxiliaries into several columns of attack—I and my legate Quintus (my brother)

commanding one, my legate C. Pomptinus another, and my legates M. Anneius and L.

Tullius the rest—we surprised most of the inhabitants, who, being cut off from all

retreat, were killed or taken prisoners. But Erana, which was more like a town than a

village, and was the capital of Amanus, as also Sepyra and Commoris, which offered

a determined and protracted resistance from before daybreak till four in the

afternoon—Pomptinus being in command in that part of Amanus—we took, after

killing a great number of the enemy, and stormed and set fire to several fortresses.

After these operations we lay encamped for four days on the spurs of Amanus, near

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the Aræ Alexandri, and all that time we devoted to the destruction of the remaining

inhabitants of Amanus, and devastating their lands on that side of the mountain which

belongs to my province. Having accomplished this, I led the army away to

Pindenissus, a town of the Eleutherocilices. And since this town was situated on a

very lofty and strongly fortified spot, and was inhabited by men who have never

submitted even to the kings, and since they were offering harbourage to deserters, and

were eagerly expecting the arrival of the Parthians, I thought it of importance to the

prestige of the empire to suppress their audacity, in order that there might be less

difficulty in breaking the spirits of all such as were anywhere disaffected to our rule. I

encircled them with a stockade and trench: I beleagured them with six forts and huge

camps: I assaulted them by the aid of earth-works, pent-houses, and towers: and

having employed numerous catapults and bowmen, with great personal labour, and

without troubling the allies or costing them anything, I reduced them to such

extremities that, after every region of their town had been battered down or fired, they

surrendered to me on the fifty-seventh day. Their next neighbours were the people of

Tebra, no less predatory and audacious: from them after the capture of Pindenissus I

received hostages. I then dismissed the army to winter quarters; and I put my brother

in command, with orders to station the men in villages that had either been captured

or were disaffected.

Well now, I would have you feel convinced that, should a motion be brought before

the senate on these matters, I shall consider that the highest possible compliment has

been paid me, if you give your vote in favour of a mark of honour being bestowed

upon me. And as to this, though I am aware that in such matters men of the most

respectable character are accustomed to ask and to be asked, yet I think in your case

that it is rather a reminder than a request which is called for from me. For it is you

who have on very many occasions complimented me in votes which you delivered,

who have praised me to the skies in conversation, in panegyric, in the most laudatory

speeches in senate and public meeting: you are the man to whose words I ever

attached such weight as to hold myself in possession of my utmost ambition, if your

lips joined the chorus of my praise. It was you finally, as I recollect, who said, when

voting against a supplicatio in honour of a certain illustrious and noble person, that

you would have voted for it, if the motion had related to what he had done in the city

as consul. It was you, too, who voted for granting me a supplicatio, though only a

civilian, not as had been done in many instances, “for good services to the state,” but,

as I remember, “for having saved the state.” I pass over your having shared the hatred

I excited, the dangers I ran, all the storms that I have encountered, and your having

been entirely ready to have shared them much more fully if I had allowed it; and

finally your having regarded my enemy as your own; of whose death even—thus

shewing me clearly how much you valued me—you manifested your approval by

supporting the cause of Milo in the senate. On the other hand, I have borne a

testimony to you, which I do not regard as constituting any claim on your gratitude,

but as a frank expression of genuine opinion: for I did not confine myself to a silent

admiration of your eminent virtues—who does not admire them? But in all forms of

speech, whether in the senate or at the bar; in all kinds of writing, Greek or Latin; in

fine, in all the various branches of my literary activity, I proclaimed your superiority

not only to contemporaries, but also to those of whom we have heard in history.

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You will ask, perhaps, why I place such value on this or that modicum of

congratulation or compliment from the senate. I will be frank with you, as our

common tastes and mutual good services, our close friendship, nay, the intimacy of

our fathers demand. If there ever was anyone by natural inclination, and still more, I

think, by reason and reflexion, averse from the empty praise and comments of the

vulgar, I am certainly the man. Witness my consulship, in which, as in the rest of my

life, I confess that I eagerly pursued the objects capable of producing true glory: mere

glory for its own sake I never thought a subject for ambition. Accordingly, I not only

passed over a province after the votes for its outfit had been taken, but also with it an

almost certain hope of a triumph; and finally the priesthood, though, as I think you

will agree with me, I could have obtained it without much difficulty, I did not try to

get. Yet after my unjust disgrace—always stigmatized by you as a disaster to the

Republic, and rather an honour than a disaster to myself—I was anxious that some

very signal marks of the approbation of the senate and Roman people should be put

on record. Accordingly, in the first place, I did subsequently wish for the augurship,

about which I had not troubled myself before; and the compliment usually paid by the

senate in the case of success in war, though passed over by me in old times, I now

think an object to be desired. That you should approve and support this wish of mine,

in which you may trace a strong desire to heal the wounds inflicted upon me by my

disgrace, though I a little while ago declared that I would not ask it, I now do

earnestly ask of you: but only on condition that you shall not think my humble

services paltry and insignificant, but of such a nature and importance, that many for

far less signal successes have obtained the highest honours from the senate. I have,

too, I think, noticed this—for you know how attentively I ever listen to you—that in

granting or withholding honours you are accustomed to look not so much to the

particular achievements as to the character, the principles and conduct of

commanders. Well, if you apply this test to my case, you will find that, with a weak

army, my strongest support against the threat of a very formidable war has been my

equity and purity of conduct. With these as my aids I accomplished what I never

could have accomplished by any amount of legions: among the allies I have created

the warmest devotion in place of the most extreme alienation; the most complete

loyalty in place of the most dangerous disaffection; and their spirits fluttered by the

prospect of change I have brought back to feelings of affection for the old rule.

But I have said too much of myself, especially to you, in whom singly the grievances

of all our allies alike find a listener. You will learn the truth from those who think

themselves restored to life by my administration. And while all with nearly one

consent will praise me in your hearing as I most desire to be praised, so will your two

chief client states—the island of Cyprus and the kingdom of Cappadocia—have

something to say to you about me also. So, too, I think, will Deiotarus, who is

attached to you with special warmth. Now, if these things are above the common run,

and if in all ages it has been rarer to find men capable of conquering their own desires

than capable of conquering an enemy’s army, it is quite in harmony with your

principles, when you find these rarer and more difficult virtues combined with success

in war, to regard that success itself as more complete and glorious.

I have only one last resource—philosophy: and to make her plead for me, as though I

doubted the efficacy of a mere request: philosophy, the best friend I have ever had in

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all my life, the greatest gift which has been bestowed by the gods upon mankind. Yes!

this common sympathy in tastes and studies—our inseparable devotion and

attachment to which from boyhood have caused us to become almost unique examples

of men bringing that true and ancient philosophy (which some regard as only the

employment of leisure and idleness) down to the forum, the council chamber, and the

very camp itself—pleads the cause of my glory with you: and I do not think a Cato

can, with a good conscience, say her nay. Wherefore I would have you convince

yourself that, if my despatch is made the ground of paying me this compliment with

your concurrence, I shall consider that the dearest wish of my heart has been fulfilled

owing at once to your influence and to your friendship.

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XIX

To Atticus (In Epirus)

Laodicea, 22 February

I received your letter on the fifth day before the Terminalia (19th of February) at

Laodicea. I was delighted to read it, for it teemed with affection, kindness, and an

active and obliging temper. I will, therefore, answer it sentence by sentence—for such

is your request—and I will not introduce an arrangement of my own, but will follow

your order.

You say that the last letter you had of mine was from Cybistra, dated 21st September,

and you want to know which of yours I have received. Nearly all you mention, except

the one that you say that you delivered to Lentulus’s messengers at Equotuticus and

Brundisium. Wherefore your industry has not been thrown away, as you fear, but has

been exceedingly well laid out, if, that is to say, your object was to give me pleasure.

For I have never been more delighted with anything. I am exceedingly glad that you

approve of my self-restraint in the case of Appius, and of my independence even in

the case of Brutus: and I had thought that it might be somewhat otherwise. For

Appius, in the course of his journey, had sent me two or three rather querulous letters,

because I rescinded some of his decisions. It is exactly as if a doctor, upon a patient

having been placed under another doctor, should choose to be angry with the latter if

he changed some of his prescriptions. Thus Appius, having treated the province on the

system of depletion, bleeding, and removing everything he could, and having handed

it over to me in the last state of exhaustion, he cannot bear seeing it treated by me on

the nutritive system. Yet he is sometimes angry with me, at other times thanks me; for

nothing I ever do is accompanied with any reflexion upon him. It is only the

dissimilarity of my system that annoys him. For what could be a more striking

difference—under his rule a province drained by charges for maintenance and by

losses, under mine, not a penny exacted either from private persons or public bodies?

Why speak of his præfecti, staff, and legates? Or even of acts of plunder,

licentiousness, and insult? While as things actually are, no private house, by Hercules,

is governed with so much system, or on such strict principles, nor is so well

disciplined, as is my whole province. Some of Appius’s friends put a ridiculous

construction on this, holding that I wish for a good reputation to set off his bad one,

and act rightly, not for the sake of my own credit, but in order to cast reflexion upon

him. But if Appius, as Brutus’s letter forwarded by you indicated, expresses gratitude

to me, I am satisfied. Nevertheless, this very day on which I write this, before dawn, I

am thinking of rescinding many of his inequitable appointments and decisions.

I now come to Brutus, whose friendship I embraced with all possible earnestness on

your advice. I had even begun to feel genuine affection for him—but here I pull

myself up short, lest I should offend you: for don’t imagine that there is anything I

wish more than to fulfil his commissions, or that there is anything about which I have

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taken more trouble. Now he gave me a volume of commissions, and you had already

spoken with me about the same matters. I have pushed them on with the greatest

energy. To begin with, I put such pressure on Ariobarzanes, that he paid him the

talents which he promised me. As long as the king was with me, the business was in

excellent train: later on he begun to be pressed by countless agents of Pompey. Now

Pompey has by himself more influence than all the rest put together for many reasons,

and especially because there is an idea that he is coming to undertake the Parthian

war. However, even he has to put up with the following scale of payment: on every

thirtieth day thirty-three Attic talents (£7,920), and that raised by special taxes: nor is

it sufficient for the monthly interest. But our friend Gnæus is an easy creditor: he

stands out of his capital, is content with the interest, and even that not in full. The king

neither pays anyone else, nor is capable of doing so: for he has no treasury, no regular

income. He levies taxes after the method of Appius. They scarcely produce enough to

satisfy Pompey’s interest. The king has two or three very rich friends, but they stick to

their own as energetically as you or I. For my part, nevertheless, I do not cease

sending letters asking, urging, chiding the king. Deiotarus also has informed me that

he has sent emissaries to him on Brutus’s business: that they have brought him back

word that he has not got the money. And, by Hercules, I believe it is the case; nothing

can be stripped cleaner than his kingdom, or be more needy than the king.

Accordingly, I am thinking either of renouncing my guardianship, or, as Scævola did

on behalf of Glabrio, of stopping payment altogether—principal and interest alike.

However, I have conferred the prefectures which I promised Brutus through you on

M. Scaptius and L. Gavius, who were acting as Brutus’s agents in the kingdom: for

they were not carrying on business in my own province. You will remember that I

made that condition, that he might have as many prefectures as he pleased, so long as

it was not for a man in business. Accordingly, I have given him two others besides:

but the men for whom he asked them had left the province. Now for the case of the

Salaminians, which I see came upon you also as a novelty, as it did upon me. For

Brutus never told me that the money was his own. Nay, I have his own document

containing the words, “The Salaminians owe my friends M. Scaptius and P. Matinius

a sum of money.” He recommends them to me: he even adds, as though by way of a

spur to me, that he has gone surety for them to a large amount. I had succeeded in

arranging that they should pay with interest for six years at the rate of twelve per

cent., and added yearly to the capital sum. But Scaptius demanded forty-eight per

cent. I was afraid, if he got that, you yourself would cease to have any affection for

me. For I should have receded from my own edict, and should have utterly ruined a

state which was under the protection not only of Cato, but also of Brutus himself, and

had been the recipient of favours from myself. When lo and behold! at this very

juncture Scaptius comes down upon me with a letter from Brutus, stating that his own

property is being imperilled—a fact that Brutus had never told either me or you. He

also begged that I would confer a prefecture on Scaptius. That was the very

reservation that I had made to you—“not to a man in business”: and if to anyone, to

such a man as that—no! For he has been a præfectus to Appius, and had, in fact, had

some squadrons of cavalry, with which he had kept the senate under so close a siege

in their own council chamber at Salamis, that five senators died of starvation.

Accordingly, the first day of my entering my province, Cyprian legates having already

visited me at Ephesus, I sent orders for the cavalry to quit the island at once. For these

reasons I believe Scaptius has written some unfavorable remarks about me to Brutus.

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However, my feeling is this: if Brutus holds that I ought to have decided in favour of

forty-eight per cent., though throughout my province I have only recognized twelve

per cent., and had laid down that rule in my edict with the assent even of the most

grasping money-lenders; if he complains of my refusal of a prefecture to a man in

business, which I refused to our friend Torquatus in the case of your protégé Lænius,

and to Pompey himself in the case of Sext. Statius, without offending either of them;

if, finally, he is annoyed at my recall of the cavalry, I shall indeed feel some distress

at his being angry with me, but much greater distress at finding him not to be the man

that I had thought him. Thus much Scaptius will own—that he had the opportunity in

my court of taking away with him the whole sum allowed by my edict. I will add a

fact which I fear you may not approve. The interest ought to have ceased to run (I

mean the interest allowed by my edict), but I induced the Salaminians to say nothing

about that. They gave in to me, it is true, but what will become of them if Paullus

comes here? However, I have granted all this in favour of Brutus, who writes very

kind letters to you about me, but to me myself, even when he has a favour to ask,

writes usually in a tone of hauteur, arrogance, and offensive superiority. You,

however, I hope will write to him on this business, in order that I may know how he

takes what I have done. For you will tell me. I have, it is true, written you a full and

careful account in a former letter, but I wished you clearly to understand that I had not

forgotten what you had said to me in one of your letters: that if I brought home from

this province nothing else except his goodwill, I should have done enough. By all

means, since you will have it so: but I assume my dealings with him to be without

breach of duty on my part. Well, then, by my decree the payment of the money to

Statius is good at law: whether that is just you must judge for yourself—I will not

appeal even to Cato. But don’t think that I have cast your exhortations to the winds:

they have sunk deeply into my mind. With tears in your eyes you urged me to be

careful of my reputation. Have I ever got a letter from you without the same subject

being mentioned? So, then, let who will be angry, I will endure it: “for the right is on

my side,” especially as I have given six books as bail, so to speak, for my good

conduct. I am very glad you like them, though in one point—about Cn. Flavius, son of

Annius—you question my history. He, it is true, did not live before the decemvirs, for

he was curule ædile, an office created many years after the decemvirs. What good did

he do, then, by publishing the Fasti? It is supposed that the tablet containing them had

been kept concealed up to a certain date, in order that information as to days for doing

business might have to be sought from a small coterie. And indeed several of our

authorities relate that a scribe named Cn. Flavius published the Fasti and composed

forms of pleading—so don’t imagine that I, or rather Africanus (for he is the

spokesman), invented the fact. So you noticed the remark about the “action of an

actor,” did you? You suspect a malicious meaning: I wrote in all simplicity.

You say that Philotimus told you about my having been saluted imperator. But I feel

sure that, as you are now in Epirus, you have received my own letters on the whole

subject, one from Pindenissus after its capture, another from Laodicea, both delivered

to your own messengers. On these events, for fear of accidents at sea, I sent a public

despatch to Rome in duplicate by two different letter-carriers.

As to my Tullia, I agree with you, and I have written to her and to Terentia giving my

consent. For you have already said in a previous letter to me, “and I could wish that

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you had returned to your old set.” There was no occasion to alter the letter you sent by

Memnius: for I much prefer to accept this man from Pontidia, than the other from

Servilia. Wherefore take our friend Saufeius into council. He was always fond of me,

and now I suppose all the more so as he is bound to have accepted Appius’s affection

for me with the rest of the property he has inherited. Appius often showed how much

he valued me, and especially in the trial of Bursa. Indeed you will have relieved me of

a serious anxiety.

I don’t like Furnius’s proviso. For, in fact, there is no state of things that alarms me

except just that of which he makes the only exception. But I should have written at

great length to you on this subject if you had been at Rome. I don’t wonder that you

rest all your hope of peace on Pompey: I believe that is the truth, and in my opinion

you must strike out your word “insincerity.” If my arrangement of topics is somewhat

random, blame yourself: for I am following your own haphazard order.

My son and nephew are very fond of each other. They take their lessons and their

exercise together; but as Isocrates said of Ephorus and Theopompus, the one wants

the rein, the other the spur. I intend giving Quintus the toga virilis on the Liberalia.

For his father commissioned me to do so. And I shall observe the day without taking

intercalation into account. I am very fond of Dionysius: the boys, however, say that he

gets into mad passions. But after all there could not be a man of greater learning,

purer character, or more attached to you and me. The praises you hear of Thermus and

Silius are thoroughly deserved: they conduct themselves in the most honourable

manner. You may say the same of M. Nonius, Bibulus, and myself, if you like. I only

wish Scrofa had had an opportunity to do the same: for he is an excellent fellow. The

rest don’t do much honour to Cato’s policy. Many thanks for commending my case to

Hortensius. As for Amianus, Dionysius thinks there is no hope. I haven’t found a

trace of Terentius. Mœragenes has certainly been killed. I made a progress through his

district, in which there was not a single living thing left. I didn’t know about this,

when I spoke to your man Democritus. I have ordered the service of Rhosian ware.

But, hallo! what are you thinking of? You generally serve us up a dinner of herbs on

fern-pattern plates, and the most sparkling of baskets: what am I to expect you to give

on porcelain? I have ordered a horn for Phemius: one will be sure to turn up; I only

hope he may play something worthy of it.

There is a threat of a Parthian war. Cassius’s despatch was empty brag: that of

Bibulus had not arrived: when that is read I think the senate will at length be roused. I

am myself in serious anxiety. If, as I hope, my government is not prolonged, I have

only June and July to fear. May it be so! Bibulus will keep them in check for two

months. What will happen to the man I leave in charge, especially if it is my brother?

Or, again, what will happen to me, if I don’t leave my province so soon? It is a great

nuisance. However, I have agreed with Deiotarus that he should join my camp in full

force. He has thirty cohorts of four hundred men apiece, armed in the Roman fashion,

and two thousand cavalry. That will be sufficient to hold out till the arrival of

Pompey, who in a letter he writes to me indicates that the business will be put in his

hands. The Parthians are wintering in a Roman province. Orodes is expected in

person. In short, it is a serious matter. As to Bibulus’s edict there is nothing new,

except the proviso of which you said in your letter, “that it reflected with excessive

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severity on our order.” I, however, have a proviso in my own edict of equivalent

force, but less openly expressed (derived from the Asiatic edict of Q. Mucius, son of

Publius)—“provided that the agreement made is not such as cannot hold good in

equity.” I have followed Scævola in many points, among others in this—which the

Greeks regard as a charta of liberty—that Greeks are to decide controversies between

each other according to their own laws. But my edict was shortened by my method of

making a division, as I thought it well to publish it under two heads: the first,

exclusively applicable to a province, concerned borough accounts, debt, rate of

interest, contracts, all regulations also referring to the publicani: the second, including

what cannot conveniently be transacted without an edict, related to inheritances,

ownership and sale, appointment of receivers, all which are by custom brought into

court and settled in accordance with the edict: a third division, embracing the

remaining departments of judicial business, I left unwritten. I gave out that in regard

to that class of business I should accommodate my decisions to those made at Rome: I

accordingly do so, and give general satisfaction. The Greeks, indeed, are jubilant

because they have non-Roman jurors. “Yes,” you will say, “a very poor kind.” What

does that matter? They, at any rate, imagine themselves to have obtained “autonomy.”

You at Rome, I suppose, have men of high character in that capacity—Tupio the

shoemaker and Vettius the broker! You seem to wish to know how I treat the

publicani. I pet, indulge, compliment, and honour them: I contrive, however, that they

oppress no one. The most surprising thing is that even Servilius maintained the rates

of usury entered on their contracts. My line is this: I name a day fairly distant, before,

which, if they have paid, I give out that I shall recognize only twelve per cent.: if they

have not paid, the rate shall be according to the contract. The result is that the Greeks

pay at a reasonable rate of interest, and the publicani are thoroughly satisfied by

receiving in full measure what I mentioned—complimentary speeches and frequent

invitations. Need I say more? They are all on such terms with me that each thinks

himself my most intimate friend. However, μπδ?ν α?το?ς—you know the rest.

As to the statue of Africanus—what a mass of confusion! But that was just what

interested me in your letter. Do you really mean it? Does the present Metellus Scipio

not know that his great-grandfather was never censor? Why, the statue placed at a

high elevation in the temple of Ops had no inscription except cens, while on the statue

near the Hercules of Polycles there is also the inscription cens, and that this is the

statue of the same man is proved by attitude, dress, ring, and the likeness itelf. But, by

Hercules, when I observed in the group of gilded equestrian statues, placed by the

present Metellus on the Capitol, a statue of Africanus with the name of Serapio

inscribed under it, I thought it a mistake of the workman. I now see that it is an error

of Metellus’s. What a shocking historical blunder! For that about Flavius and the

Fasti, if it is a blunder, is one shared in by all, and you were quite right to raise the

question. I followed the opinion which runs through nearly all historians, as is often

the case with Greek writers. For example, do they not all say that Eupolis, the poet of

the old comedy, was thrown into the sea by Alcibiades on his voyage to Sicily?

Eratosthenes disproves it: for he produces some plays exhibited by him after that date.

Is that careful historian, Duris of Samos, laughed out of court because he, in common

with many others, made this mistake? Has not, again, every writer affirmed that

Zaleucus drew up a constitution for the Locrians? Are we on that account to regard

Theophrastus as utterly discredited, because your favourite Timæus attacked his

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statement? But not to know that one’s own great-grandfather was never censor is

discreditable, especially as since his consulship no Cornelius was censor in his

lifetime.

As to what you say about Philotimus and the payment of the 20,600 sestertia, I hear

that Philotimus arrived in the Chersonese about the 1st of January: but as yet I have

not had a word from him. The balance due to me Camillus writes me word that he has

received; I don’t know how much it is, and I am anxious to know. However, we will

talk of this later on, and with greater advantage, perhaps, when we meet?

But, my dear Atticus, that sentence almost at the end of your letter gave me great

uneasiness. For you say, “What else is there to say?” and then you go on to entreat me

in most affectionate terms not to forget my vigilance, and to keep my eyes on what is

going on. Have you heard anything about anyone? I am sure nothing of the sort has

taken place. No, no, it can’t be! It would never have eluded my notice, nor will it. Yet

that reminder of yours, so carefully worded, seems to suggest something.

As to M. Octavius, I hereby again repeat that your answer was excellent: I could have

wished it a little more positive still. For Cælius has sent me a freedman and a

carefully written letter about some panthers and also a grant from the states. I have

written back to say that, as to the latter, I am much vexed if my course of conduct is

still obscure, and if it is not known at Rome that not a penny has been exacted from

my province except for the payment of debt; and I have explained to him that it is

improper both for me to solicit the money and for him to receive it; and I have

advised him (for I am really attached to him) that, after prosecuting others, he should

be extra-careful as to his own conduct. As to the former request, I have said that it is

inconsistent with my character that the people of Cibyra should hunt at the public

expense while I am governor.

Lepta jumps for joy at your letter. It is indeed prettily written, and has placed me in a

very agreeable light in his eyes. I am much obliged to your little daughter for so

earnestly bidding you send me her love. It is very kind of Pilia also; but your

daughter’s kindness is the greater, because she sends the message to one she has never

seen. Therefore pray give my love to both in return. The day on which your letter was

dated, the last day of December, reminded me pleasantly of that glorious oath of

mine, which I have not forgotten. I was a civilian Magnus on that day.

There’s your letter completely answered! Not as you were good enough to ask, with

“gold for bronze,” but tit for tat. Oh, but here is another little note, which I will not

leave unanswered. Lucceius, on my word, could get a good price for his Tusculan

property, unless, perchance, his flute-player is a fixture (for that’s his way), and I

should like to know in what condition it is. Our friend Lentulus, I hear, has advertised

everything for sale except his Tusculan property. I should like to see these men

cleared of their embarrassments, Cestius also, and you may add Cælius, to all of

whom the line applies,

“Ashamed to shrink and yet afraid to take.”

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I suppose you have heard of Curio’s plan for recalling Memmius. Of the debt due

from Egnatius of Sidicinum I am not without some hope, though it is a feeble one.

Pinarius, whom you recommended to me, is seriously ill, and is being very carefully

looked after by Deiotarus. So there’s the answer to your note also.

Pray talk to me on paper as frequently as possible while I am at Laodicea, where I

shall be up to the 15th of May: and when you reach Athens at any rate send me letter-

carriers, for by that time we shall know about the business in the city and the

arrangements as to the provinces, the settlement of all which has been fixed for

March.

But look here! Have you yet wrung out of Cæsar by the agency of Herodes the fifty

Attic talents? In that matter you have, I hear, roused great wrath on the part of

Pompey. For he thinks that you have snapped up money rightly his, and that Cæsar

will be no less lavish in his building at the Nemus Dianæ.

I was told all this by P. Vedius, a hare-brained fellow enough, but yet an intimate

friend of Pompey’s. This Vedius came to meet me with two chariots, and a carriage

and horses, and a sedan, and a large suite of servants, for which last, if Curio has

carried his law, he will have to pay a toll of a hundred sestertii apiece. There was also

in a chariot a dog-headed baboon, as well as some wild asses. I never saw a more

extravagant fool. But the cream of the whole is this. He stayed at Laodicea with

Pompeius Vindullus. There he deposited his properties when coming to see me.

Meanwhile Vindullus dies, and his property is supposed to revert to Pompeius

Magnus. Gaius Vennonius comes to Vindullus’s house: when, while putting a seal on

all goods, he comes across the baggage of Vedius. In this are found five small portrait

busts of married ladies, among which is one of the wife of your friend—“brute,”

indeed, to be intimate with such a fellow! and of the wife of Lepidus—as easy-going

as his name to take this so calmly! I wanted you to know these historiettes by the way;

for we have both a pretty taste in gossip. There is one other thing I should like you to

turn over in your mind. I am told that Appius is building a propylæum at Eleusis.

Should I be foolishly vain if I also built one at the Academy? “I think so,” you will

say. Well, then, write and tell me that that is your opinion. For myself, I am deeply

attached to Athens itself. I would like some memorial of myself to exist. I loathe sham

inscriptions on statues really representing other people. But settle it as you please, and

be kind enough to inform me on what day the Roman mysteries fall, and how you

have passed the winter. Take care of your health. Dated the 765th day since the battle

of Leuctra!

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M. Porcius Cato To Cicero (In Cilicia)

Rome (June)

I gladly obey the call of the state and of our friendship, in rejoicing that your virtue,

integrity, and energy, already known at home in a most important crisis, when you

were a civilian, should be maintained abroad with the same pains-taking care now that

you have military command. Therefore what I could conscientiously do in setting

forth in laudatory terms that the province had been defended by your wisdom; that the

kingdom of Ariobarzanes, as well as the king himself, had been preserved; and that

the feelings of the allies had been won back to loyalty to our empire—that I have done

by speech and vote. That a thanksgiving was decreed I am glad, if you prefer our

thanking the gods rather than giving you the credit for a success which has been in no

respect left to chance, but has been secured for the Republic by your own eminent

prudence and self-control. But if you think a thanksgiving to be a presumption in

favour of a triumph, and therefore prefer fortune having the credit rather than

yourself, let me remind you that a triumph does not always follow a thanksgiving; and

that it is an honour much more brilliant than a triumph for the senate to declare its

opinion, that a province has been retained rather by the uprightness and mildness of

its governor, than by the strength of an army or the favour of heaven: and that is what

I meant to express by my vote. And I write this to you at greater length than I usually

do write, because I wish above all things that you should think of me as taking pains

to convince you, both that I have wished for you what I believed to be for your

highest honour, and am glad that you have got what you preferred to it. Farewell:

continue to love me; and by the way you conduct your home-journey, secure to the

allies and the Republic the advantages of your integrity and energy.

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XXI

To M. Porcius Cato (At Rome)

(Asia, September)

“Right glad am I to be praised”—says Hector, I think, in Nævius—“by thee, reverend

senior, who hast thyself been praised.” For certainly praise is sweet that comes from

those who themselves have lived in high repute. For myself, there is nothing I should

not consider myself to have attained either by the congratulation contained in your

letter, or the testimony borne to me in your senatorial speech: and it was at once the

highest compliment and the greatest gratification to me, that you willingly conceded

to friendship, what you transparently conceded to truth. And if, I don’t say all, but if

many were Catos in our state—in which it is a matter of wonder that there is even

one—what triumphal chariot or laurel should I have compared with praise from you?

For in regard to my feelings, and in view of the ideal honesty and subtility of your

judgment, nothing can be more complimentary than the speech of yours, which has

been copied for me by my friends. But the reason of my wish, for I will not call it

desire, I have explained to you in a former letter. And even if it does not appear to you

to be entirely sufficient, it at any rate leads to this conclusion—not that the honour is

one to excite excessive desire, but yet is one which, if offered by the senate, ought

certainly not to be rejected. Now I hope that that House, considering the labours I

have undergone on behalf of the state, will not think me undeserving of an honour,

especially one that has become a matter of usage. And if this turns out to be so, all I

ask of you is that—to use your own most friendly words—since you have paid me

what in your judgment is the highest compliment, you will still “be glad” if I have the

good fortune to get what I myself have preferred. For I perceive that you have acted,

felt, and written in this sense: and the facts themselves shew that the compliment paid

me of a supplicatio was agreeable to you, since your name appears on the decree: for

decrees of the senate of this nature are, I am aware, usually drawn out by the warmest

friends of the man concerned in the honour. I shall, I hope, soon see you, and may it

be in a better state of political affairs than my fears forebode!

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XXII

To Tiro (At Patræ)

Brundisium, 26 November

Cicero and his son greet Tiro warmly. We parted from you, as you know, on the 2nd

of November. We arrived at Leucas on the 6th of November, on the 7th at Actium.

There we were detained till the 8th by a storm. Thence on the 9th we arrived at

Corcyra after a charming voyage. At Corcyra we were detained by bad weather till the

15th. On the 16th we continued our voyage to Cassiope, a harbour of Corcyra, a

distance of 120 stades. There we were detained by winds until the 22nd. Many of

those who in this interval impatiently attempted the crossing suffered shipwreck. On

the 22nd, after dinner, we weighed anchor. Thence with a very gentle south wind and

a clear sky, in the course of that night and the next day we arrived in high spirits on

Italian soil at Hydrus, and with the same wind next day—that is, the 24th of

November—at 10 o’clock in the morning we reached Brundisium, and exactly at the

same time as ourselves Terentia (who values you very highly) made her entrance into

the town. On the 26th, at Brundisium, a slave of Cn. Plancius at length delivered to

me the ardently expected letter from you, dated the 13th of November. It greatly

lightened my anxiety: would that it had entirely removed it! However, the physician

Asclapo positively asserts that you will shortly be well. What need is there for me at

this time of day to exhort you to take every means to re-establish your health? I know

your good sense, temperate habits, and affection for me: I am sure you will do

everything you can to join me as soon as possible. But though I wish this, I would not

have you hurry yourself in any way. I could have wished you had shirked Lyso’s

concert, for fear of incurring a fourth fit of your seven-day fever. But since you have

preferred to consult your politeness rather than your health, be careful for the future. I

have sent orders to Curius for a douceur to be given to the physician, and that he

should advance you whatever you want, engaging to pay the money to any agent he

may name. I am leaving a horse and mule for you at Brundisium.

At Rome I fear that the 1st of January will be the beginning of serious disturbances. I

shall take a moderate line in all respects. It only remains to beg and entreat you not to

set sail rashly—seamen are wont to hurry things for their own profit: be cautious, my

dear Tiro: you have a wide and difficult sea before you. If you can, start with

Mescinius; he is usually cautious about a sea passage: if not, travel with some man of

rank, whose position may give him influence over the ship-owner. If you take every

precaution in this matter and present yourself to us safe and sound, I shall want

nothing more of you. Good-bye, again and again, dear Tiro! I am writing with the

greatest earnestness about you to the physician, to Curius, and to Lyso. Good-bye, and

God bless you.

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XXIII

To L. Papirius Pætus (At Naples)

Tusculum (July)

I was charmed with your letter, in which, first of all, what I loved was the tenderness

which prompted you to write, in alarm lest Silius should by his news have caused me

any anxiety. About this news, not only had you written to me before—in fact twice,

one letter being a duplicate of the other—shewing me clearly that you were upset, but

I also had answered you in full detail, in order that I might, as far as such a business

and such a crisis admitted, free you from your anxiety, or at any rate alleviate it. But

since you shew in your last also how anxious you are about that matter—make up

your mind to this, my dear Pætus: that whatever could possibly be accomplished by

art—for it is not enough nowadays to contend with mere prudence, a sort of system

must be elaborated—however, whatever could be done or effected towards winning

and securing the goodwill of those men I have done, and not, I think, in vain. For I

receive such attentions, such politenesses from all Cæsar’s favourites as make me

believe myself beloved by them. For, though genuine love is not easily distinguished

from feigned, unless some crisis occurs of a kind to test faithful affection by its

danger, as gold in the fire, there are other indications of a general nature. But I only

employ one proof to convince me that I am loved from the heart and in

sincerity—namely, that my fortune and theirs is of such a kind as to preclude any

motive on their part for pretending. In regard, again, to the man who now possesses

all power, I see no reason for my being alarmed: except the fact that, once depart from

law, everything is uncertain; and that nothing can be guaranteed as to the future which

depends on another man’s will, not to say caprice. Be that as it may, personally his

feelings have in no respect been wounded by me. For in that particular point I have

exhibited the greatest self-control. For, as in old times I used to reckon that to speak

without reserve was a privilege of mine, since to my exertions the existence of liberty

in the state was owing, so, now that that is lost, I think it is my duty to say nothing

calculated to offend either his wishes or those of his favourites. But if I want to avoid

the credit of certain keen or witty epigrams, I must entirely abjure a reputation for

genius, which I would not refuse to do, if I could. But after all Cæsar himself has a

very keen critical faculty, and, just as your cousin Servius—whom I consider to have

been a most accomplished man of letters—had no difficulty in saying: “This verse is

not Plautus’s, this is—” because he had acquired a sensitive ear by dint of classifying

the various styles of poets and habitual reading, so I am told that Cæsar, having now

completed his volumes of bons mots, if anything is brought to him as mine, which is

not so, habitually rejects it. This he now does all the more, because his intimates are

in my company almost every day. Now in the course of our discursive talk many

remarks are let fall, which perhaps at the time of my making them seem to them

wanting neither in literary flavour nor in piquancy. These are conveyed to him along

with the other news of the day: for so he himself directed. Thus it comes about that if

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he is told of anything besides about me, he considers that he ought not to listen to it.

Wherefore I have no need of your Œnomaus, though your quotation of Accius’s

verses was very much on the spot. But what is this jealousy, or what have I now of

which anyone can be jealous? But suppose the worst. I find that the philosophers, who

alone in my view grasp the true nature of virtue, hold that the wise man does not

pledge himself against anything except doing wrong; and of this I consider myself

clear in two ways, first in that my veiws were most absolutely correct; and second

because, when I found that we had not sufficient material force to maintain them, I

was against a trial of strength with the stronger party. Therefore, so far as the duty of

a good citizen is concerned, I am certainly not open to reproach. What remains is that

I should not say or do anything foolish or rash against the men in power: that too, I

think, is the part of the wise man. As to the rest—what this or that man may say that I

said, or the light in which he views it, or the amount of good faith with which those

who continually seek me out and pay me attention may be acting—for these things I

cannot be responsible. The result is that I console myself with the consciousness of

my uprightness in the past and my moderation in the present, and apply that simile of

Accius’s not to jealousy, but to fortune, which I hold—as being inconstant and

frail—ought to be beaten back by a strong and manly soul, as a wave is by a rock.

For, considering that Greek history is full of examples of how the wisest men endured

tyrannies either at Athens or Syracuse, when, though their countries were enslaved,

they themselves in a certain sense remained free—am I to believe that I cannot so

maintain my position as not to hurt anyone’s feelings and yet not blast my own

character?

I now come to your jests, since as an afterpiece to Accius’s Œnomaus, you have

brought on the stage, not, as was his wont, an Atellan play, but, according to the

present fashion, a mime. What’s all this about a pilot-fish, a denarius, and a dish of

salt fish and cheese? In my old easy-going days I put up with that sort of thing: but

times are changed. Hirtius and Dolabella are my pupils in rhetoric, but my masters in

the art of dining. For I think you must have heard, if you really get all news, that their

practice is to declaim at my house, and mine to dine at theirs. Now it is no use your

making an affidavit of insolvency to me: for when you had some property, petty

profits used to keep you a little too close to business; but as things are now, seeing

that you are losing money so cheerfully, all you have to do, when entertaining me, is

to regard yourself as accepting a “composition”; and even that loss is less annoying

when it comes from a friend than from a debtor. Yet, after all, I don’t require dinners

superfluous in quantity: only let what there is be first-rate in quality and recherché. I

remember you used to tell me stories of Phamea’s dinner. Let yours be earlier, but in

other respects like that. But if you persist in bringing me back to a dinner like your

mother’s, I should put up with that also. For I should like to see the man who had the

face to put on the table for me what you describe, or even a polypus—looking as red

as Iupiter Miniatus. Believe me, you won’t dare. Before I arrive the fame of my new

magnificence will reach you: and you will be awestruck at it. Yet it is no use building

any hope on your hors d’œuvre. I have quite abolished that: for in old times I found

my appetite spoilt by your olives and Lucanian sausages. But why all this talk? Let

me only get to you. By all means—for I wish to wipe away all fear from your

heart—go back to your old cheese-and-sardine dish. The only expense I shall cause

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you will be that you will have to have the bath heated. All the rest according to my

regular habits. What I have just been saying was all a joke.

As to Selicius’s villa, you have managed the business carefully and written most

wittily. So I think I won’t buy. For there is enough salt and not enough savour.

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XXIV

To L. Papirius Pætus (At Naples)

Tusculum (July)

Being quite at leisure in my Tusculan villa, because I had sent my pupils to meet him,

that they might at the same time present me in as favourable a light as possible to their

friend, I received your most delightful letter, from which I learnt that you approved

my idea of having begun—now that legal proceedings are abolished and my old

supremacy in the forum is lost—to keep a kind of school, just as Dionysius, when

expelled from Syracuse, is said to have opened a school at Corinth. In short, I too am

delighted with the idea, for I secure many advantages. First and foremost, I am

strengthening my position in view of the present crisis, and that is of primary

importance at this time. How much that amounts to I don’t know: I only see that as at

present advised I prefer no one’s policy to this, unless, of course, it had been better to

have died. In one’s own bed, I confess it might have been, but that did not occur: and

as to the field of battle, I was not there. The rest indeed—Pompey, your friend

Lentulus, Afranius—perished ingloriously. But, it may be said, Cato died a noble

death. Well, that at any rate is in our power when we will: let us only do our best to

prevent its being as necessary to us as it was to him. That is what I am doing. So that

is the first thing I had to say. The next is this: I am improving, in the first place in

health, which I had lost from giving up all exercise of my lungs. In the second place,

my oratorical faculty, such as it was, would have completely dried up, had I not gone

back to these exercises. The last thing I have to say, which I rather think you will

consider most important of all, is this: I have now demolished more peacocks than

you have young pigeons! You there revel in Haterian law-sauce, I here in Hirtian hot-

sauce. Come then, if you are half a man, and learn from me the maxims which you

seek: yet it is a case of “a pig teaching Minerva.” But it will be my business to see to

that: as for you, if you can’t find purchasers for your foreclosures and so fill your pot

with denarii, back you must come to Rome. It is better to die of indigestion here, than

of starvation there. I see you have lost money: I hope these friends of yours have done

the same. You are a ruined man if you don’t look out. You may possibly get to Rome

on the only mule that you say you have left, since you have eaten up your pack horse.

Your seat in the school, as second master, will be next to mine: the honour of a

cushion will come by-and-by.

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XXV

To L. Papirius Pætus (At Naples)

Rome (August)

I was doubly charmed by your letter, first because it made me laugh myself, and

secondly because I saw that you could still laugh. Nor did I in the least object to being

overwhelmed with your shafts of ridicule, as though I were a light skirmisher in the

war of wits. What I am vexed at is that I have not been able, as I intended, to run over

to see you: for you would not have had a mere guest, but a brother-in-arms. And such

a hero! not the man whom you used to do for by the hors d’œuvre. I now bring an

unimpaired appetite to the egg, and so the fight is maintained right up to the roast

veal. The compliments you used to pay me in old times—“What a contented person!”

“What an easy guest to entertain!”—are things of the past. All my anxiety about the

good of the state, all meditating of speeches to be delivered in the senate, all getting

up of briefs I have cast to the winds. I have thrown myself into the camp of my old

enemy Epicurus—not, however, with a view to the extravagance of the present day,

but to that refined splendour of yours—I mean your old style when you had money to

spend (though you never had more landed estate). Therefore prepare! You have to

deal with a man, who not only has a large appetite, but who also knows a thing or

two. You are aware of the extravagance of your bourgeois gentilhomme. You must

forget all your little baskets and your omelettes. I am now so far advanced in the art

that I frequently venture to ask your friend Verrius and Camillus to dinner—what

dandies! how fastidious! But think of my audacity: I even gave Hirtius a dinner,

without a peacock however. In that dinner my cook could not imitate him in anything

but the hot sauce.

So this is my way of life nowadays: in the morning I receive not only a large number

of “loyalists,” who, however, look gloomy enough, but also our exultant conquerors

here, who in my case are quite prodigal in polite and affectionate attentions. When the

stream of morning callers has ebbed, I wrap myself up in my books, either writing or

reading. There are also some visitors who listen to my discourses under the belief of

my being a man of learning, because I am a trifle more learned than themselves. After

that all my time is given to my bodily comfort. I have mourned for my country more

deeply and longer than any mother for her only son. But take care, if you love me, to

keep your health, lest I should take advantage of your being laid up to eat you out of

house and home. For I am resolved not to spare you even when you are ill.

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XXVI

To Aulus Cæcina (In Exile)

Rome (September)

I am afraid you may think me remiss in my attentions to you, which, in view of our

close union resulting from many mutual services and kindred tastes, ought never to be

lacking. In spite of that I fear you do find me wanting in the matter of writing. The

fact is, I would have sent you a letter long ago and on frequent occasions, had I not,

from expecting day after day to have some better news for you, wished to fill my

letter with congratulation rather than with exhortations to courage. As it is, I shall

shortly, I hope, have to congratulate you: and so I put off that subject for a letter to

another time. But in this letter I think that your courage—which I am told and hope is

not at all shaken—ought to be repeatedly braced by the authority of a man, who, if not

the wisest in the world, is yet the most devoted to you: and that not with such words

as I should use to console one utterly crushed and bereft of all hope of restoration, but

as to one of whose rehabilitation I have no more doubt than I remember that you had

of mine. For when those men had driven me from the Republic, who thought that it

could not fall while I was on my feet, I remember hearing from many visitors from

Asia, in which country you then were, that you were emphatic as to my glorious and

rapid restoration. If that system, so to speak, of Tuscan augury which you had

inherited from your noble and excellent father did not deceive you, neither will our

power of divination deceive me; which I have acquired from the writings and maxims

of the greatest savants, and, as you know, by a very diligent study of their teaching, as

well as by an extensive experience in managing public business, and from the great

vicissitudes of fortune which I have encountered. And this divination I am the more

inclined to trust, from the fact that it never once deceived me in the late troubles, in

spite of their obscurity and confusion. I would have told you what events I foretold,

were I not afraid to be thought to be making up a story after the event Yet, after all, I

have numberless witnesses to the fact that I warned Pompey not to form a union with

Cæsar, and afterwards not to sever it. By this union I saw that the power of the senate

would be broken, by its severance a civil war be provoked. And yet I was very

intimate with Cæsar, and had a very great regard for Pompey, but my advice was at

once loyal to Pompey and in the best interests of both alike. My other predictions I

pass over; for I would not have Cæsar think that I gave Pompey advice, by which, if

he had followed it, Cæsar himself would have now been a man of illustrious character

in the state indeed, and the first man in it, but yet not in possession of the great power

he now wields. I gave it as my opinion that he should go to Spain; and if he had done

so, there would have been no civil war at all. That Cæsar should be allowed to stand

for the consulship in his absence I did not so much contend to be constitutional, as

that, since the law had been passed by the people at the instance of Pompey himself

when consul, it should be done. The pretext for hostilities was given. What advice or

remonstrance did I omit, when urging that any peace, even the most inequitable,

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should be preferred to the most righteous war? My advice was overruled, not so much

by Pompey—for he was affected by it—as by those who, relying on him as a military

leader, thought that a victory in that war would be highly conducive to their private

interests and personal ambitions. The war was begun without my taking any active

part in it; it was forcibly removed from Italy, while I remained there as long as I

could. But honour had greater weight with me than fear: I had scruples about failing

to support Pompey’s safety, when on a certain occasion he had not failed to support

mine. Accordingly, overpowered by a feeling of duty, or by what the loyalists would

say, or by a regard for my honor—whichever you please—like Amphiarus in the play,

I went deliberately, and fully aware of what I was doing, “to ruin full displayed before

my eyes.” In this war there was not a single disaster that I did not foretell. Therefore,

since, after the manner of augurs and astrologers, I too, as a state augur, have by my

previous predictions established the credit of my prophetic power and knowledge of

divination in your eyes, my prediction will justly claim to be believed. Well, then, the

prophecy I now give you does not rest on the flight of a bird nor the note of a bird of

good omen on the left—according to the system of our augural college—nor from the

normal and audible pattering of the corn of the sacred chickens. I have other signs to

note; and if they are not more infallible than those, yet after all they are less obscure

or misleading. Now omens as to the future are observed by me in what I may call a

twofold method: the one I deduce from Cæsar himself, the other from the nature and

complexion of the political situation. Cæsar’s characteristics are these: a disposition

naturally placable and clement—as delineated in your brilliant book of

“Grievances”—and a great liking also for superior talent, such as your own. Besides

this, he is relenting at the expressed wishes of a large number of your friends, which

are well-grounded and inspired by affection, not hollow and self-seeking. Under this

head the unanimous feeling of Etruria will have great influence on him.

Why, then—you may ask—have these things as yet had no effect? Why, because he

thinks if he grants you yours, he cannot resist the applications of numerous petitioners

with whom to all appearance he has juster grounds for anger. “What hope, then,” you

will say, “from an angry man?” Why, he knows very well that he will draw deep

draughts of praise from the same fountain, from which he has been already—though

sparingly—bespattered. Lastly, he is a man very acute and farseeing: he knows very

well that a man like you—far and away the greatest noble in an important district of

Italy, and in the state at large the equal of anyone of your generation, however

eminent, whether in ability or popularity or reputation among the Roman

people—cannot much longer be debarred from taking part in public affairs. He will be

unwilling that you should, as you would sooner or later, have time to thank for this

rather than his favour.

So much for Cæsar. Now I will speak of the nature of the actual situation. There is no

one so bitterly opposed to the cause, which Pompey undertook with better intentions

than provisions, as to venture to call us bad citizens or dishonest men. On this head I

am always struck with astonishment at Cæsar’s sobriety, fairness, and wisdom. He

never speaks of Pompey except in the most respectful terms. “But,” you will say, “in

regard to him as a public man his actions have often been bitter enough.” Those were

acts of war and victory, not of Cæsar. But see with what open arms he has received

us! Cassius he has made his legate; Brutus governor of Gaul; Sulpicius of Greece;

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Marcellus, with whom he was more angry than with anyone, he has restored with the

utmost consideration for his rank. To what, then, does all this tend? The nature of

things and of the political situation will not suffer, nor will any constitutional

theory—whether it remain as it is or is changed—permit, first, that the civil and

personal position of all should not be alike when the merits of their cases are the

same; and, secondly, that good men and good citizens of unblemished character

should not return to a state, into which so many have returned after having been

condemned of atrocious crimes.

That is my prediction. If I had felt any doubt about it I would not have employed it in

preference to a consolation which would have easily enabled me to support a man of

spirit. It is this. If you had taken up arms for the Republic—for so you then

thought—with the full assurance of victory, you would not deserve special

commendation. But if, in view of the uncertainty attaching to all wars, you had taken

into consideration the possibility of our being beaten, you ought not, while fully

prepared to face success, to be yet utterly unable to endure failure. I would have urged

also what a consolation the consciousness of your action, what a delightful distraction

in adversity, literature ought to be. I would have recalled to your mind the signal

disasters not only of men of old times, but of those of our own day also, whether they

were your leaders or your comrades. I would even have named many cases of

illustrious foreigners: for the recollection of what I may call a common law and of the

conditions of human existence softens grief. I would also have explained the nature of

our life here in Rome, how bewildering the disorder, how universal the chaos: for it

must needs cause less regret to be absent from a state in disruption, than from one

well-ordered. But there is no occasion for anything of this sort. I shall soon see you,

as I hope, or rather as I clearly perceive, in enjoyment of your civil rights. Meanwhile,

to you in your absence, as also to your son who is here—the express image of your

soul and person, and a man of unsurpassable firmness and excellence—I have long

ere this both promised and tendered practically my zeal, duty, exertions, and labours:

all the more so now that Cæsar daily receives me with more open arms, while his

intimate friends distinguish me above everyone. Any influence or favour I may gain

with him I will employ in your service. Be sure, for your part, to support yourself not

only with courage, but also with the brightest hopes.

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XXVII

Servius Sulpicius To Cicero (At Astura)

Athens (March)

When I received the news of your daughter Tullia’s death, I was indeed much grieved

and distressed as I was bound to be, and looked upon it as a calamity in which I

shared. For, if I had been at home, I should not have failed to be at your side, and

should have made my sorrow plain to you face to face. That kind of consolation

involves much distress and pain, because the relations and friends, whose part it is to

offer it, are themselves overcome by an equal sorrow. They cannot attempt it without

many tears, so that they seem to require consolation themselves rather than to be able

to afford it to others. Still I have decided to set down briefly for your benefit such

thoughts as have occurred to my mind, not because I suppose them to be unknown to

you, but because your sorrow may perhaps hinder you from being so keenly alive to

them.

Why is it that a private grief should agitate you so deeply? Think how fortune has

hitherto dealt with us. Reflect that we have had snatched from us what ought to be no

less dear to human beings than their children—country, honour, rank, every political

distinction. What additional wound to your feelings could be inflicted by this

particular loss? Or where is the heart that should not by this time have lost all

sensibility and learn to regard everything else as of minor importance? Is it on her

account, pray, that you sorrow? How many times have you recurred to the

thought—and I have often been struck with the same idea—that in times like these

theirs is far from being the worst fate to whom it has been granted to exchange life for

a painless death? Now what was there at such an epoch that could greatly tempt her to

live? What scope, what hope, what heart’s solace? That she might spend her life with

some young and distinguished husband? How impossible for a man of your rank to

select from the present generation of young men a son-in-law, to whose honour you

might think yourself safe in trusting your child! Was it that she might bear children to

cheer her with the sight of their vigorous youth? who might by their own character

maintain the position handed down to them by their parent, might be expected to

stand for the offices in their order, might exercise their freedom in supporting their

friends? What single one of these prospects has not been taken away before it was

given? But, it will be said, after all it is an evil to lose one’s children. Yes, it is: only it

is a worse one to endure and submit to the present state of things.

I wish to mention to you a circumstance which gave me no common consolation, on

the chance of its also proving capable of diminishing your sorrow. On my voyage

from Asia, as I was sailing from Ægina towards Megara, I began to survey the

localities that were on every side of me. Behind me was Ægina, in front Megara, on

the right Piræus, on my left Corinth: towns which at one time were most flourishing,

but now lay before my eyes in ruin and decay. I began to reflect to myself thus: “Hah!

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do we mannikins feel rebellious if one of us perishes or is killed—we whose life

ought to be still shorter—when the corpses of so many towns lie in helpless ruin? Will

you please, Servius, restrain yourself and recollect that you are born a mortal man?”

Believe me, I was no little strengthened by that reflection. Now take the trouble, if

you agree with me, to put this thought before your eyes. Not long ago all those most

illustrious men perished at one blow: the empire of the Roman people suffered that

huge loss: all the provinces were shaken to their foundations. If you have become the

poorer by the frail spirit of one poor girl, are you agitated thus violently? If she had

not died now, she would yet have had to die a few years hence, for she was mortal

born. You, too, withdraw soul and thought from such things and rather remember

those which become the part you have played in life: that she lived as long as life had

anything to give her; that her life outlasted that of the Republic; that she lived to see

you—her own father—prætor, consul, and augur; that she married young men of the

highest rank; that she had enjoyed nearly every possible blessing; that, when the

Republic fell, she departed from life. What fault have you or she to find with fortune

on this score? In fine, do not forget that you are Cicero, and a man accustomed to

instruct and advise others; and do not imitate bad physicians, who in the diseases of

others profess to understand the art of healing, but are unable to prescribe for

themselves. Rather suggest to yourself and bring home to your own mind the very

maxims which you are accustomed to impress upon others. There is no sorrow beyond

the power of time at length to diminish and soften: it is a reflexion on you that you

should wait for this period, and not rather anticipate that result by the aid of your

wisdom. But if here is any consciousness still existing in the world below, such was

her love for you and her dutiful affection for all her family, that she certainly does not

wish you to act as you are acting. Grant this to her—your lost one! Grant it to your

friends and comrades who mourn with you in your sorrow! Grant it to your country,

that if the need arises she may have the use of your services and advice.

Finally—since we are reduced by fortune to the necessity of taking precautions on

this point also—do not allow anyone to think that you are not mourning so much for

your daughter as for the state of public affairs and the victory of others. I am ashamed

to say any more to you on this subject, lest I should appear to distrust your wisdom.

Therefore I will only make one suggestion before bringing my letter to an end. We

have seen you on many occasions bear good fortune with a noble dignity which

greatly enhanced your fame: now is the time for you to convince us that you are able

to bear bad fortune equally well, and that it does not appear to you to be a heavier

burden than you ought to think it. I would not have this to be the only one of all the

virtues that you do not possess.

As far as I am concerned, when I learn that your mind is more composed, I will write

you an account of what is going on here, and of the condition of the province. Good-

bye.

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XXVIII

To Servius Sulpicius Rufus (In Achaia)

Ficulea (April)

Yes, indeed, my dear Servius, I would have wished—as you say—that you had been

by my side at the time of my grievous loss. How much help your presence might have

given me, both by consolation and by your taking an almost equal share in my sorrow,

I can easily gather from the fact that after reading your letter I experienced a great

feeling of relief. For not only was what you wrote calculated to soothe a mourner, but

in offering me consolation you manifested no slight sorrow of heart yourself. Yet,

after all, your son Servius by all the kindness of which such a time admitted made it

evident, both how much he personally valued me, and how gratifying to you he

thought such affection for me would be. His kind offices have of course often been

pleasanter to me, yet never more acceptable. For myself again, it is not only your

words and (I had almost said) your partnership in my sorrow that consoles me, it is

your character also. For I think it a disgrace that I should not bear my loss as you—a

man of such wisdom—think it should be borne. But at times I am taken by surprise

and scarcely offer any resistance to my grief, because those consolations fail me,

which were not wanting in a similar misfortune to those others, whose examples I put

before my eyes. For instance, Quintus Maximus, who lost a son who had been consul

and was of illustrious character and brilliant achievements, and Lucius Paullus, who

lost two within seven days, and your kinsman Gallus and M. Cato, who each lost a

son of the highest character and valour,—all lived in circumstances which permitted

their own great position, earned by their public services, to assuage their grief. In my

case, after losing the honours which you yourself mention, and which I had gained by

the greatest possible exertions, there was only that one solace left which has now been

torn away. My sad musings were not interrupted by the business of my friends, nor by

the management of public affairs: there was nothing I cared to do in the forum: I

could not bear the sight of the senate-house; I thought—as was the fact—that I had

lost all the fruits both of my industry and of fortune. But while I thought that I shared

these losses with you and certain others, and while I was conquering my feelings and

forcing myself to bear them with patience, I had a refuge, one bosom where I could

find repose, one in whose conversation and sweetness I could lay aside all anxieties

and sorrows. But now, after such a crushing blow as this, the wounds which seemed

to have healed break out afresh. For there is no republic now to offer me a refuge and

a consolation by its good fortunes when I leave my home in sorrow, as there once was

a home to receive me when I returned saddened by the state of public affairs. Hence I

absent myself both from home and forum, because home can no longer console the

sorrow which public affairs cause me, nor public affairs that which I suffer at home.

All the more I look forward to your coming, and long to see you as soon as possible.

No reasoning can give me greater solace than a renewal of our intercourse and

conversation. However, I hope your arrival is approaching, for that is what I am told.

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For myself, while I have many reasons for wishing to see you as soon as possible,

there is this one especially—that we may discuss beforehand on what principles we

should live through this period of entire submission to the will of one man who is at

once wise and liberal, far, as I think I perceive, from being hostile to me, and very

friendly to you. But though that is so, yet it is a matter for serious thought what plans,

I don’t say of action, but of passing a quiet life by his leave and kindness, we should

adopt. Good-bye.

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XXIX

To Atticus (At Rome)

Puteoli, 21 December

Well, I have no reason after all to repent my formidable guest! For he made himself

exceedingly pleasant. But on his arrival at the villa of Philippus on the evening of the

second day of the Saturnalia, the villa was so choke full of soldiers that there was

scarcely a dining-room left for Cæsar himself to dine in. Two thousand men, if you

please! I was in a great taking as to what was to happen the next day; and so Cassius

Barba came to my aid and gave me guards. A camp was pitched in the open, the villa

was put in a state of defence. He stayed with Philippus on the third day of the

Saturnalia till one o’clock, without admitting anyone. He was engaged on his

accounts, I think, with Balbus. Then he took a walk on the beach. After two he went

to the bath. Then he heard about Mamurra without changing countenance. He was

anointed: took his place at the table. He was under a course of emetics, and so ate and

drank without scruple and as suited his taste. It was a very good dinner, and well

served, and not only so, but

“Well cooked, well seasoned food, with rare discourse:

A banquet in a word to cheer the heart.”

Besides this, the staff were entertained in three rooms in a very liberal style. The

freedmen of lower rank and the slaves had everything they could want. But the upper

sort had a really recherché dinner. In fact, I shewed that I was somebody. However,

he is not a guest to whom one would say, “Pray look me up again on your way back.”

Once is enough. We didn’t say a word about politics. There was plenty of literary talk.

In short, he was pleased and enjoyed himself. He said he should stay one day at

Puteoli, another at Baiæ. That’s the story of the entertainment, or I might call it the

billeting on me—trying to the temper, but not seriously inconvenient. I am staying on

here for a short time and then go to Tusculum. When he was passing Dolabella’s villa,

the whole guard formed up on the right and left of his horse, and nowhere else. This I

was told by Nicias.

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XXX

To Atticus (At Rome)

Matius’S Suburban Villa, 7 April

I have come on a visit to the man, of whom I was talking to you this morning. His

view is that “the state of things is perfectly shocking: that there is no way out of the

embroglio. For if a man of Cæsar’s genius failed, who can hope to succeed?” In short,

he says that the ruin is complete. I am not sure that he is wrong; but then he rejoices in

it, and declares that within twenty days there will be a rising in Gaul: that he has not

had any conversation with anyone except Lepidus since the Ides of March: finally that

these things can’t pass off like this. What a wise man Oppius is, who regrets Cæsar

quite as much, but yet says nothing that can offend any loyalist! But enough of this.

Pray don’t be idle about writing me word of anything new, for I expect a great deal.

Among other things, whether we can rely on Sextus Pompeius; but above all about

our friend Brutus, of whom my host says that Cæsar was in the habit of remarking: “It

is of great importance what that man wishes; at any rate, whatever he wishes he

wishes strongly”: and that he noticed, when he was pleading for Deiotarus at Nicæa,

that he seemed to speak with great spirit and freedom. Also—for I like to jot down

things as they occur to me—that when on the request of Sestius I went to Cæsar’s

house, and was sitting waiting till I was called in, he remarked: “Can I doubt that I am

exceedingly disliked, when Marcus Cicero has to sit waiting and cannot see me at his

own convenience? And yet if there is a good-natured man in the world it is he; still I

feel no doubt that he heartily dislikes me.” This and a good deal of the same sort. But

to my purpose. Whatever the news, small as well as great, write and tell me of it. I

will on my side let nothing pass.

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XXXI

To Atticus (At Rome)

Astura, 11 June

At length a letter-carrier from my son! And, by Hercules, a letter elegantly expressed,

shewing in itself some progress. Others also give me excellent reports of him.

Leonides, however, still sticks to his favourite “at present.” But Herodes speaks in the

highest terms of him. In short, I am glad even to be deceived in this matter, and am

not sorry to be credulous. Pray let me know if Statius has written to you anything of

importance to me.

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XXXII

To Atticus (At Rome)

Astura, 13 June

Confound Lucius Antonius, if he makes himself troublesome to the Buthrotians! I

have drawn out a deposition which shall be signed and sealed whenever you please.

As for the money of the Arpinates, if the ædile L. Fadius asks for it, pay him back

every farthing. In a previous letter I mentioned to you a sum of 110 sestertia to be

paid to Statius. If, then, Fadius applies for the money, I wish it paid to him, and to no

one except Fadius. I think that amount was put into my hands, and I have written to

Eros to produce it.

I can’t stand the Queen: and the voucher for her promises, Hammonius, knows that I

have good cause for saying so. What she promised, indeed, were all things of the

learned sort and suitable to my character—such as I could avow even in a public

meeting. As for Sara, besides finding him to be an unprincipled rascal, I also found

him inclined to give himself airs to me. I only saw him once at my house. And when I

asked him politely what I could do for him, he said that he had come in hopes of

finding Atticus. The Queen’s insolence, too, when she was living in Cæsar’s trans-

Tiberine villa, I cannot recall without a pang. I won’t have anything to do therefore

with that lot. They think not so much that I have no spirit, as that I have scarcely any

proper pride at all. My leaving Italy is hindered by Eros’s way of doing business. For

whereas from the balances struck by him on the 5th of April I ought to be well off, I

am obliged to borrow, while the receipts from those paying properties of mine I think

have been put aside for building the shrine. But I have charged Tiro to see to all this,

whom I am sending to Rome for the express purpose.

I did not wish to add to your existing embarrassments. The steadier the conduct of my

son, the more I am vexed at his being hampered. For he never mentioned the subject

to me—the first person to whom he should have done so. But he said in a letter to

Tiro that he had received nothing since the 1st of April—for that was the end of his

financial year. Now I know that your own kind feeling always caused you to be of

opinion that he ought to be treated not only with liberality, but with splendour and

generosity, and that you also considered that to be due to my position. Wherefore pray

see—I would not have troubled you if I could have done it through anyone else—that

he has a bill of exchange at Athens for his year’s allowance. Eros will pay you the

money. I am sending Tiro on that business. Pray therefore see to it, and write and tell

me any idea you may have on the subject.

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XXXIII

To C. Trebatius Testa (At Rome)

Tusculum (June)

You jeered at me yesterday amidst our cups, for having said that it was a disputed

point whether an heir could lawfully prosecute on an embezzlement which had been

committed before he became the owner. Accordingly, though I returned home full of

wine and late in the evening, I marked the section in which that question is treated and

caused it to be copied out and sent to you. I wanted to convince you that the doctrine

which you said was held by no one was maintained by Sextus Ælius, Manius

Manilius, Marcus Brutus. Nevertheless, I concur with Scævola and Testa.

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XXXIV

M. Cicero (The Younger) To Tiro

Athens (August)

After I had been anxiously expecting letter-carriers day after day, at length they

arrived forty-six days after they left you. Their arrival was most welcome to me: for

while I took the greatest possible pleasure in the letter of the kindest and most beloved

of fathers, still your most delightful letter put a finishing stroke to my joy. So I no

longer repent of having suspended writing for a time, but am rather rejoiced at it; for I

have reaped a great reward in your kindness from my pen having been silent. I am

therefore exceedingly glad that you have unhesitatingly accepted my excuse. I am

sure, dearest Tiro, that the reports about me which reach you answer your best wishes

and hopes. I will make them good, and will do my best that this belief in me, which

day by day becomes more and more en évidence, shall be doubled. Wherefore you

may with confidence and assurance fulfil your promise of being the trumpeter of my

reputation. For the errors of my youth have caused me so much remorse and suffering,

that not only does my heart shrink from what I did, my very ears abhor the mention of

it. And of this anguish and sorrow I know and am assured that you have taken your

share. And I don’t wonder at it! for while you wished me all success for my sake, you

did so also for your own; for I have ever meant you to be my partner in all my good

fortunes. Since, therefore, you have suffered sorrow through me, I will now take care

that through me your joy shall be doubled. Let me assure you that my very close

attachment to Cratippus is that of a son rather than a pupil: for though I enjoy his

lectures, I am also specially charmed with his delightful manners. I spend whole days

with him, and often part of the night: for I induce him to dine with me as often as

possible. This intimacy having been established, he often drops in upon us

unexpectedly while we are at dinner, and laying aside the stiff airs of a philosopher

joins in our jests with the greatest possible freedom. He is such a man—so delightful,

so distinguished—that you should take pains to make his acquaintance at the earliest

possible opportunity. I need hardly mention Bruttius, whom I never allow to leave my

side. He is a man of a strict and moral life, as well as being the most delightful

company. For in him fun is not divorced from literature and the daily philosophical

inquiries which we make in common. I have hired a residence next door to him, and

as far as I can with my poor pittance I subsidize his narrow means. Farthermore, I

have begun practising declamation in Greek with Cassius; in Latin I like having my

practice with Bruttius. My intimate friends and daily company are those whom

Cratippus brought with him from Mitylene—good scholars, of whom he has the

highest opinion. I also see a great deal of Epicrates, the leading man at Athens, and

Leonides, and other men of that sort. So now you know how I am going on.

You remark in your letter on the character of Gorgias. The fact is, I found him very

useful in my daily practice of declamation; but I subordinated everything to obeying

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my father’s injunctions, for he had written ordering me to give him up at once. I

wouldn’t shilly-shally about the business, for fear my making a fuss should cause my

father to harbour some suspicion. Moreover, it occurred to me that it would be

offensive for me to express an opinion on a decision of my father’s. However, your

interest and advice are welcome and acceptable. Your apology for lack of time I quite

accept; for I know how busy you always are. I am very glad that you have bought an

estate, and you have my best wishes for the success of your purchase. Don’t be

surprised at my congratulations coming in at this point in my letter, for it was at the

corresponding point in yours that you told me of your purchase. You are a man of

property! You must drop your city manners: you have become a Roman country-

gentleman. How clearly I have your dearest face before my eyes at this moment! For I

seem to see you buying things for the farm, talking to your bailiff, saving the seeds at

dessert in the corner of your cloak. But as to the matter of money, I am as sorry as you

that I was not on the spot to help you. But do not doubt, my dear Tiro, of my assisting

you in the future, if fortune does but stand by me; especially as I know that this estate

has been purchased for our joint advantage. As to my commissions about which you

are taking trouble—many thanks! But I beg you to send me a secretary at the earliest

opportunity—if possible a Greek; for he will save me a great deal of trouble in

copying out notes. Above all, take care of your health, that we may have some literary

talk together hereafter. I commend Anteros to you.

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XXXV

Quintus Cicero To Tiro

(Time And Place Uncertain)

I have castigated you, at least with the silent reproach of my thoughts, because this is

the second packet that has arrived without a letter from you. You cannot escape the

penalty for this crime by your own advocacy: you will have to call Marcus to your

aid, and don’t be too sure that even he, though he should compose a speech after long

study and a great expenditure of midnight oil, would be able to establish your

innocence. In plain terms, I beg you to do as I remember my mother used to do. It was

her custom to put a seal on wine-jars even when empty to prevent any being labelled

empty that had been surreptitiously drained. In the same way, I beg you, even if you

have nothing to write about, to write all the same, lest you be thought to have sought a

cover for idleness: for I always find the news in your letters trustworthy and welcome.

Love me, and goodbye.

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XXXVI

To M. Iunius Brutus (In Macedonia)

Rome (Middle Of July)

You have Messalla with you. What letter, therefore, can I write with such minute care

as to enable me to explain to you what is being done and what is occurring in public

affairs, more thoroughly than he will describe them to you, who has at once the most

intimate knowledge of everything, and the talent for unfolding and conveying it to

you in the best possible manner? For beware of thinking, Brutus—for though it is

unnecessary for me to write to you what you know already, yet I cannot pass over in

silence such eminence in every kind of greatness—beware of thinking, I say, that he

has any parallel in honesty and firmness, care and zeal for the Republic. So much so

that in him eloquence—in which he is extraordinarily eminent—scarcely seems to

offer any opportunity for praise. Yet in this accomplishment itself his wisdom is made

more evident; with such excellent judgment and with so much acuteness has he

practised himself in the most genuine style of rhetoric. Such also is his industry, and

so great the amount of midnight labour that he bestows on this study, that the chief

thanks would not seem to be due to natural genius, great as it is in his case. But my

affection carries me away: for it is not the purpose of this letter to praise Mesalla,

especially to Brutus, to whom his excellence is not less known than it is to me, and

these particular accomplishments of his which I am praising even better. Grieved as I

was to let him go from my side, my one consolation was that in going to you who are

to me a second self, he was performing a duty and following the path of the truest

glory. But enough of this. I now come, after a long interval of time, to a certain letter

of yours, in which, while paying me many compliments, you find one fault with

me—that I was excessive and, as it were, extravagant in proposing votes of honour.

That is your criticism: another’s, perhaps, might be that I was too stern in inflicting

punishment and exacting penalties, unless by chance you blame me for both. If that is

so, I desire that my principle in both these things should be very clearly known to you.

And I do not rely solely on the dictum of Solon, who was at once the wisest of the

Seven and the only lawgiver among them. He said that a state was kept together by

two things—reward and punishment. Of course there is a certain moderation to be

observed in both, as in everything else, and what we may call a golden mean in both

these things. But I have no intention to dilate on such an important subject in this

place.

But what has been my aim during this war in the motions I have made in the senate I

think it will not be out of place to explain. After the death of Cæsar and your ever

memorable Ides of March, Brutus, you have not forgotten what I said had been

omitted by you and your colleagues, and what a heavy cloud I declared to be hanging

over the Republic. A great pest had been removed by your means, a great blot on the

Roman people wiped out, immense glory in truth acquired by yourselves: but an

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engine for exercising kingly power had been put into the hands of Lepidus and

Antony, of whom the former was the more fickle of the two, the latter the more

corrupt, but both of whom dreaded peace and were enemies to quiet. Against these

men, inflamed with the ambition of revolutionizing the state, we had no protecting

force to oppose. For the fact of the matter was this: the state had become roused as

one man to maintain its liberty; I at the time was even excessively warlike; you,

perhaps with more wisdom, quitted the city which you had liberated, and when Italy

offered you her services declined them. Accordingly, when I saw the city in the

possession of parricides, and that neither you nor Cassius could remain in it with

safety, and that it was held down by Antony’s armed guards, I thought that I too ought

to leave it: for a city held down by traitors, with all opportunity of giving aid cut off,

was a shocking spectacle. But the same spirit as always had animated me, staunch to

the love of country, did not admit the thought of a departure from its dangers.

Accordingly, in the very midst of my voyage to Achaia, when in the period of the

Etesian gales a south wind—as though remonstrating against my design—had brought

me back to Italy, I saw you at Velia and was much distressed: for you were on the

point of leaving the country, Brutus—leaving it, I say, for our friends the Stoics deny

that wise men ever “flee.” As soon as I reached Rome I at once threw myself in

opposition to Antony’s treason and insane policy: and having roused his wrath against

me, I began entering upon a policy truly Brutus-like—for this is the distinctive mark

of your family—that of freeing my country. The rest of the story is too long to tell,

and must be passed over by me, for it is about myself. I will only say this much: that

this young Cæsar, thanks to whom we still exist, if we would confess the truth, was a

stream from the fountain-head of my policy. To him I voted honours, none indeed,

Brutus, that were not his due, none that were not inevitable. For directly we began the

recovery of liberty, when the divine excellence of even Decimus Brutus had not yet

bestirred itself sufficiently to give us an indication of the truth, and when our sole

protection depended on the boy who had shaken Antony from our shoulders, what

honour was there that he did not deserve to have decreed to him? However, all I then

proposed for him was a complimentary vote of thanks, and that too expressed with

moderation. I also proposed a decree conferring imperium on him, which, although it

seemed too great a compliment for one of his age, was yet necessary for one

commanding an army—for what is an army without a commander with imperium?

Philippus proposed a statue; Servius at first proposed a license to stand for office

before the regular time. Servilius afterwards proposed that the time should be still

farther curtailed. At that time nothing was thought too good for him.

But somehow men are more easily found who are liberal at a time of alarm, than

grateful when victory has been won. For when that most joyful day of Decimus

Brutus’s relief from blockade had dawned on the Republic and happened also to be

his birthday, I proposed that the name of Brutus should be entered in the fasti under

that date. And in that I followed the example of our ancestors, who paid this honour to

the woman Laurentia, at whose altar in the Velabrum you pontiffs are accustomed to

offer service. And when I proposed this honor to Brutus I wished that there should be

in the fasti an eternal memorial of a most welcome victory: and yet on that very day I

discovered that the illdisposed in the senate were somewhat in a majority over the

grateful. In the course of those same days I lavished honours—if you like that

word—upon the dead Hirtius, Pansa, and even Aquila. And who has any fault to find

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with that, unless he be one who, no sooner an alarm is over, forgets the past danger?

There was added to this grateful memorial of a benefit received some consideration of

what would be for the good of posterity also; for I wished that there should exist some

perpetual record of the popular execration of our most ruthless enemies. I suspect that

the next step does not meet with your approbation. It was disapproved by your

friends, who are indeed most excellent citizens, but inexperienced in public business.

I mean my proposing an ovation for Cæsar. For myself, however—though I am

perhaps wrong, and I am not a man who believes his own way necessarily right—I

think that in the course of this war I never took a more prudent step. The reason for

this I must not reveal, lest I should seem to have a sense of favours to come rather

than to be grateful for those received. I have said too much already: let us look at

other points. I proposed honours to Decimus Brutus, and also to Lucius Plancus.

Those indeed are noble spirits whose spur to action is glory: but the senate also is

wise to avail itself of any means—provided that they are honourable—by which it

thinks that a particular man can be induced to support the Republic. But—you say—I

am blamed in regard to Lepidus: for, having placed his statue on the rostra, I also

voted for its removal. I tried by paying him a compliment to recall him from his

insane policy. The infatuation of that most unstable of men rendered my prudence

futile. Yet all the same more good was done by demolishing the statue of Lepidus,

than harm by putting it up.

Enough about honours; now I must say a few words about penalties. For I have

gathered from frequent expressions in your letters that in regard to those whom you

have conquered in war, you desire that your clemency should be praised. I hold,

indeed, that you do and say nothing but what becomes a philosopher. But to omit the

punishment of a crime—for that is what “pardoning” amounts to—even if it is

endurable in other cases, is mischievous in a war like this. For there has been no civil

war, of all that have occurred in the state within my memory, in which there was not

certain to be some form of constitution remaining, whichever of the two sides

prevailed. In this war, if we are victorious, I should not find it easy to affirm what

kind of constitution we are likely to have; if we are conquered, there will certainly

never be any. I therefore proposed severe measures against Antony, and severe ones

also against Lepidus, and not so much out of revenge as in order that I might for the

present prevent unprincipled men by this terror from attacking their country, and

might for the future establish a warning for all who were minded to imitate their

infatuation.

However, this proposal was not mine more than it was everybody’s. The point in it

which had the appearance of cruelty was that the penalty extended to the children who

did not deserve any. But that is a thing of long standing and characteristic of all states.

For instance, the children of Themistocles were in poverty. And if the same penalty

attaches to citizens legally condemned in court, how could we be more indulgent to

public enemies? What, moreover, can anyone say against me when he must confess

that, had that man conquered, he would have been still more revengeful towards me?

Here you have the principles which dictated my senatorial proposals, at any rate in

regard to this class of honours and penalties. For, in regard to other matters, I think

you have been told what opinions I have expressed and what votes I have given. But

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all this is not so very pressing. What is really pressing, Brutus, is that you should

come to Italy with your army as soon as possible. There is the greatest anxiety for

your arrival. Directly you reach Italy all classes will flock to you. For whether we win

the victory—and we had in fact won a most glorious one, only that Lepidus set his

heart on ruining everything and perishing himself with all his friends—there will be

need of your counsel in establishing some form of constitution. And even if there is

still some fighting left to be done, our greatest hope is both in your personal influence

and in the material strength of your army. But make haste, in God’s name! You know

the importance of seizing the right moment, and of rapidity. What pains I am taking in

the interests of your sister’s children, I hope you know from the letters of your mother

and sister. In undertaking their cause I shew more regard to your affection, which is

very precious to me, than, as some think, to my own consistency. But there is nothing

in which I more wish to be and to seem consistent than in loving you.

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LETTERS OF PLINY

translated by

WILLIAM MELMOTH

revised by

F. C. T. BOSANQUET

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INTRODUCTORY NOTE

Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus,usually known as Pliny the Younger, was born at

Como in 62 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 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 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.

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LETTERS

GAIUS PLINIUS CÆCILIUS SECUNDUS

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To Septitius

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 lie neglected, and

preserve those I shall hereafter write. Farewell.

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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

empressement 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.

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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 Arulenus1

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,

“stigmated2 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

Crassus4 or Camerinus5 ?” 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, Timon’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

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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; courted8 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.

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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.

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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

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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 plece, 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;1 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.

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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,1 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

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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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 themseves 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 Nonianus1 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.

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To Junius 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:1 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

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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.

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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.

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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 Caesar;1 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.”2

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.

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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;1 but that we may also have the satisfaction of seeing you a Roman

Knight,2 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.

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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 Lysias1 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,2 and many others, in opposition to Lysias; while

I confront Cato and the Gracchi with Caesar, Pollio,3 Caelius,4 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

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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.5

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,6 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.”

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

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not to be expected from an orator who merely pinks, but from him, and him only, who

thrusts in. Another comic poet,7 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 talker8 mentioned in Homer, but

that other9 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,10 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.

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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.

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XVI

To Catilius Severus1

I am at present (and have been a considerable time) detained in Rome, under the most

stunning apprehensions. Titus Aristo,2 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 porticoes3 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

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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.

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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, who1

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 mankind2 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 Tacitus3 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 office4 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

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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.

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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

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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.

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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,1 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.

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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 Bructeri1 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.

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XXI

To Priscus

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.1 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 prince2 the privilege3 granted to those

who have three children: a favour which, though Caesar 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.

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XXII

To Maximus

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:1 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!’ ”

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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.

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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

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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 ante-room 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,1 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,

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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 transparent2 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,3 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.

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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 working1 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.

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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,1 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

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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,2 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.

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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

their 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

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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.

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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,”1 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 Nero2 (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 Bassus3 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.4 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

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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,5 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.

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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.

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XXIX

To Caninius Rufus

I have just been informed that Silius Italicus1 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 emperor2 could not draw him. A circumstance which I

mention as much to the honour of Caesar, 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

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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.

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XXX

To Spurinna And Cottia1

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.

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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,1 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.

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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 Caesar 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.

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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.

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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 action1 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 Claudius, 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

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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.

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XXXV

To Severus

I was obliged by my consular office to compliment the emperor1 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 assemby, 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

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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.

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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 slaves1 myself, and

there are none upon the estate. For the rest, the price, you must know, is three millions

of sesterces.2 It has formerly gone over five millions,3 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.

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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,1 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.”2

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.

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XXXVIII

To Fabatus (His Wife’S Grandfather)

You have long desired a visit from your grand-daughter1 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,2

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.

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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,1 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.

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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 Senecio’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.

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XLI

To Maturus Arrianus

My advancement to the dignity of augur1 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,2

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.

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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.1 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.

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XLIII

To Cornelius Minicianus

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,1 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?”2 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

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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.”3

Celer likewise, a Roman knight, who was accused of an intrigue with her, while they

were scourging him with rods4 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, and he complied

with their advice. Herennius Senecio spoke for him in his absence, in some such

words as Homer’s

“Patroclus lies in death.”

“Instead of advocate,” said he, “I must turn informer; Licinianus has fled.” This news

was so agreeable to Domitian that he could not help betraying his satisfaction:

“Then,” he exclaimed, “has Licinianus acquitted us of injustice;” adding that he

would not press too hard upon him in his disgrace. He accordingly allowed him to

carry off such of his effects as he could secure before they were seized for the public

use, and in other respects softened the sentence of banishment by way of reward for

his voluntary confession. Licinianus was afterwards, through the clemency of the

emperor Nerva, permitted to settle in Sicily, where he now professes rhetoric, and

avenges himself upon Fortune in his declamations.—You see how obedient I am to

your commands, in sending you a circumstantial detail of foreign as well as domestic

news. I imagined indeed, as you were absent when this transaction occurred, that you

had only heard just in a general way that Licinianus was banished for incest, as fame

usually makes her report in general terms, without going into particulars. I think I

deserve in return a full account of all that is going on in your town and

neighbourhood, where something worth telling about is usually happening; however,

write what you please, provided you send me as long a letter as my own. I give you

notice, I shall count not only the pages, but even the very lines and syllables.

Farewell.

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XLIV

To Valerius Paulinus

Rejoice with me, my friend, not only upon my account, but your own, and that of the

republic as well; for literature is still held in honour. Being lately engaged to plead a

cause before the Court of the Hundred, the crowd was so great that I could not get to

my place without crossing the tribunal where the judges sat. And I have this pleasing

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.

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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

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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.

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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 daughter1 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.

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XLVII

To Romatius Firmus

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.

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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.

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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 prætorian 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.” Some time 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 Rusticus1 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

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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 Curianus 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 honourable man, whether

my actions meet with that approval which is in some sort their due. Farewell.

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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 Cæsar, Augustus, Nerva, and Tiberius

Cæsar. 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

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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.

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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,1 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 wrtiings: 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.

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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

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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 gestatio, 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 grassplots

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

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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,1 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 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

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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.2 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

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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!3 ) of all those I brought here with me. And may the

gods continue that happiness to me, and that honour to my villa. Farewell.

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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.1 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 sesterces2 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.

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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. O 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.

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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, entiled 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 images1 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

pursuits, and (what is a sufficient degree of honour to both brothers) as recognizing

their kindred. Farewell.

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LVI

To Paulinus

As I know the humanity with which you treat your own servants, I have less reserve

in confessing to you the indulgence I shew to mine. I have ever in my mind that line

of Homer’s—

“Who swayed his people with a father’s love”:

and this expression of ours, “father of a family.” But were I harsher and harder than I

really am by nature, the ill state of health of my freedman Zosimus (who has the

stronger claim upon my tenderness, in that he now stands in more especial need of it)

would be sufficient to soften me. He is a good, honest fellow, attentive in his services,

and well-read; but his chief talent, and indeed his distinguishing qualification, is that

of a comedian, in which he highly excels. His pronunciation is distinct, correct in

emphasis, pure, and graceful: he has a very skilled touch, too, upon the lyre, and

performs with better execution than is necessary for one of his profession. To this I

must add, he reads history, oratory, and poetry, as well as if these had been the sole

objects of his study. I am the more particular in enumerating his qualifications, to let

you see how many agreeable services I receive from this one servant alone. He is

indeed endeared to me by the ties of a long affection, which are strengthened by the

danger he is now in. For nature has so formed our hearts that nothing contributes more

to incite and kindle affection than the fear of losing the object of it: a fear which I

have suffered more than once on his account. Some years ago he strained himself so

much by too strong an exertion of his voice, that he spit blood, upon which account I

sent him into Egypt;1 from whence, after a long absence, he lately returned with great

benefit to his health. But having again exerted himself for several days together

beyond his strength, he was reminded of his former malady by a slight return of his

cough, and a spitting of blood. For this reason I intend to send him to your farm at

Forum-Julii,2 having frequently heard you mention it as a healthy air, and recommend

the milk of that place as very salutary in disorders of his nature. I beg you would give

directions to your people to receive him into your house, and to supply him with

whatever he may have occasion for: which will not be much, for he is so sparing and

abstemious as not only to abstain from delicacies, but even to deny himself the

necessaries his ill state of health requires. I shall furnish him towards his journey with

what will be sufficient for one of his moderate requirements, who is coming under

your roof. Farewell.

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LVII

To Rufus

I went into the Julian1 court to hear those lawyers to whom, according to the last

adjournment, I was to reply. The judges had taken their seats, the decemviri2 were

arrived, the eyes of the audience were fixed upon the counsel, and all was hushed

silence and expectation, when a messenger arrived from the praetor, and the Hundred

are at once dismissed, and the case postponed: an accident extremely agreeable to me,

who am never so well prepared but that I am glad of gaining further time. The

occasion of the court’s rising thus abruptly was a short edict of Nepos, the praetor for

criminal causes, in which he directed all persons concerned as plaintiffs or defendants

in any cause before him to take notice that he designed strictly to put in force the

decree of the senate annexed to his edict. Which decree was expressed in the

following words: all persons whosoever that have any law-suits depending are hereby

required and commanded, before any proceedings be had thereon, to take an oath that

they have not given, promised, or engaged to give, any fee or reward to any advocate,

upon account of his undertaking their cause. In these terms, and many others equally

full and express, the lawyers were prohibited to make their professions venal.

However, after the case is decided, they are permitted to accept a gratuity of ten

thousand sesterces.3 The praetor for civil causes, being alarmed at this order of

Nepos, gave us this unexpected holiday in order to take time to consider whether he

should follow the example. Meanwhile the whole town is talking, and either

approving or condemning this edict of Nepos. We have got then at last (say the latter

with a sneer) a redressor of abuses. But pray was there never a praetor before this

man? Who is he then who sets up in this way for a public reformer? Others, on the

contrary, say, “He has done perfectly right upon his entry into office; he has paid

obedience to the laws; considered the decrees of the senate, repressed most indecent

contracts, and will not suffer the most honourable of all professions to be debased into

a sordid lucre traffic.” This is what one hears all around one; but which side may

prevail, the event will shew. It is the usual method of the world (though a very

unequitable rule of estimation) to pronounce an action either right or wrong,

according as it is attended with good or ill success; in consequence of which you may

hear the very same conduct attributed to zeal or folly, to liberty or licentiousness,

upon different several occasions. Farewell.

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LVIII

To Arrianus

Sometimes I miss Regulus in our courts. I cannot say I deplore his loss. The man, it

must be owned, highly respected his profession, grew pale with study and anxiety

over it, and used to write out his speeches though he could not get them by heart.

There was a practice he had of painting round his right or left eye,1 and wearing a

white patch2 over one side or the other of his forehead, according as he was to plead

either for the plaintiff or defendant; of consulting the soothsayers upon the issue of an

action; still, all this excessive superstition was really due to his extreme earnestness in

his profession. And it was acceptable enough being concerned in the same cause with

him, as he always obtained full indulgence in point of time, and never failed to get an

audience together; for what could be more convenient than, under the protection of a

liberty which you did not ask yourself, and all the odium of the arrangement resting

with another, and before an audience which you had not the trouble of collecting, to

speak on at your ease, and as long as you thought proper? Nevertheless Regulus did

well in departing this life, though he would have done much better had he made his

exit sooner. He might really have lived now without any danger to the public, in the

reign of a prince under whom he would have had no opportunity of doing any harm. I

need not scruple therefore, I think, to say I sometimes miss him: for since his death

the custom has prevailed of not allowing, nor indeed of asking more than an hour or

two to plead in, and sometimes not above half that time. The truth is, our advocates

take more pleasure in finishing a cause than in defending it; and our judges had rather

rise from the bench than sit upon it: such is their indolence, and such their

indifference to the honour of eloquence and the interest of justice! But are we wiser

than our ancestors? are we more equitable than the laws which grant so many hours

and days of adjournments to a case? were our forefathers slow of apprehension, and

dull beyond measure? and are we clearer of speech, quicker in our conceptions, or

more scrupulous in our decisions, because we get over our causes in fewer hours than

they took days? O Regulus! it was by zeal in your profession that you secured an

advantage which is but rarely given to the highest integrity. As for myself, whenever I

sit upon the bench (which is much oftener than I appear at the bar), I always give the

advocates as much time as they require: for I look upon it as highly presuming to

pretend to guess, before a case is heard, what time it will require, and to set limits to

an affair before one is acquainted with its extent; especially as the first and most

sacred duty of a judge is patience, which constitutes an important part of justice. But

this, it is objected, would give an opening to much superfluous matter: I grant it may;

yet is it not better to hear too much than not to hear enough? Besides, how shall you

know that what an advocate has farther to offer will be superfluous, until you have

heard him? But this, and many other public abuses, will be best reserved for a

conversation when we meet; for I know your affection to the commonwealth inclines

you to wish that some means might be found out to check at least those grievances,

which would now be very difficult absolutely to remove. But to return to affairs of

private concern: I hope all goes well in your family; mine remains in its usual

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situation. The good which I enjoy grows more acceptable to me by its continuance; as

habit renders me less sensible of the evils I suffer. Farewell.

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LIX

To Calpurnia1

Never was business more disagreeable to me than when it prevented me not only from

accompanyinng you when you went into Campania for your health, but from

following you there soon after; for I want particularly to be with you now, that I may

learn from my own eyes whether you are growing stronger and stouter, and whether

the tranquillity, the amusements, and plenty of that charming country really agree

with you. Were you in perfect health, yet I could ill support your absence; for even a

moment’s uncertainty of the welfare of those we tenderly love causes a feeling of

suspense and anxiety: but now your sickness conspires with your absence to trouble

me grievously with vague and various anxieties. I dread everything, fancy everything,

and, as is natural to those who fear, conjure up the very things I most dread. Let me

the more earnestly entreat you then to think of my anxiety, and write to me every day,

and even twice a day: I shall be more easy, at least while I am reading your letters,

though when I have read them, I shall immediately feel my fears again. Farewell.

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To Calpurnia

You kindly tell me my absence very sensibly affects you, and that your only

consolation is in conversing with my works, which you frequently substitute in my

stead. I am glad that you miss me; I am glad that you find some rest in these

alleviations. In return, I read over your letters again and again, and am continually

taking them up, as if I had just received them; but, alas! this only stirs in me a keener

longing for you; for how sweet must her conversation be whose letters have so many

charms? Let me receive them, however, as often as possible, notwithstanding there is

still a mixture of pain in the pleasure they afford me. Farewell.

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LXI

To Priscus

You know Attilius Crescens, and you love him; who is there, indeed, of any rank or

worth, that does not? For myself, I profess to have a friendship for him far exceeding

ordinary attachments of the world. Our native towns are separated only by a day’s

journey; and we got to care for each other when we were very young; the season for

passionate friendships. Ours improved by years; and so far from being chilled, it was

confirmed by our riper judgments, as those who know us best can witness. He takes

pleasure in boasting everywhere of my friendship; as I do to let the world know that

his reputation, his ease, and his interest are my peculiar concern. Insomuch that upon

his expressing to me some apprehension of insolent treatment from a certain person

who was entering upon the tribuneship of the people, I could not forbear answering,

“Long as Achilles breathes this vital air,

To touch thy head no impious hand shall dare.”1

What is my object in telling you these things? Why, to shew you that I look upon

every injury offered to Attilius as done to myself. “But what is the object of all this?”

you repeat. You must know then, Valerius Varus, at his death, owed Attilius a sum of

money. Though I am on friendly terms with Maximus, his heir, yet there is a closer

friendship between him and you. I beg therefore, and entreat you by the affection you

have for me, to take care that Attilius is not only paid the capital which is due to him,

but all the long arrears of interest too. He neither covets the property of others nor

neglects the care of his own; and as he is not engaged in any lucrative profession, he

has nothing to depend upon but his own frugality: for as to literature, in which he

greatly distinguishes himself, he pursues this merely from motives of pleasure and

ambition. In such a situation, the slightest loss presses hard upon a man, and the more

so because he has no opportunities of repairing any injury done to his fortune.

Remove then, I entreat you, our uneasiness, and suffer me still to enjoy the pleasure of

his wit and bonhommie; for I cannot bear to see the cheerfulness of my friend over-

clouded, whose mirth and good humour dissipates every gloom of melancholy in

myself. In short, you know what a pleasant entertaining fellow he is, and I hope you

will not suffer any injury to engloom and embitter his disposition. You may judge by

the warmth of his affection how severe his resentments would prove; for a generous

and great mind can ill brook an injury when coupled with contempt. But though he

could pass it over, yet cannot I: on the contrary, I shall regard it as a wrong and

indignity done to myself, and resent it as one offered to my friend; that is, with double

warmth. But, after all, why this air of threatening? rather let me end in the same style

in which I began, namely, by begging, entreating you so to act in this affair that

neither Attilius may have reason to imagine (which I am exceedingly anxious he

should not) that I neglect his interest, nor that I may have occasion to charge you with

carelessness of mine: as undoubtedly I shall not if you have the same regard for the

latter as I have for the former. Farewell.

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LXII

To Albinus

I was lately at Alsium,1 where my mother-in-law has a villa which once belonged to

Verginius Rufus. The place renewed in my mind the sorrowful remembrance of that

great and excellent man. He was extremely fond of this retirement, and used to call it

the nest of his old age. Whichever way I looked, I missed him, I felt his absence. I had

an inclination to visit his monument; but I repented having seen it, afterwards: for I

found it still unfinished, and this, not from any difficulty residing in the work itself,

for it is very plain, or rather indeed slight; but through the neglect of him to whose

care it was entrusted. I could not see without a concern, mixed with indignation, the

remains of a man, whose fame filled the whole world, lie for ten years after his death

without an inscription, or a name. He had however directed that the divine and

immortal action of his life should be recorded upon his tomb in the following lines:

“Here Rufus lies, who Vindex’ arms withstood,

Not for himself, but for his country’s good.”

But faithful friends are so rare, and the dead so soon forgotten, that we shall be

obliged ourselves to build even our very tombs, and anticipate the office of our heirs.

For who is there that has no reason to fear for himself what we see has happened to

Verginius, whose eminence and distinction, while rendering such treatment more

shameful, so, in the same way, make it more notorious? Farewell.

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LXIII

To Maximus

O what a happy day I lately spent! I was called by the prefect of Rome, to assist him

in a certain case, and had the pleasure of hearing two excellent young men, Fuscus

Salinator and Numidius Quadratus, plead on the opposite sides: their worth is equal,

and each of them will one day, I am persuaded, prove an ornament not only to the

present age, but to literature itself. They evinced upon this occasion an admirable

probity, supported by inflexible courage: their dress was decent, their elocution

distinct, their tones were manly, their memory retentive, their genius elevated, and

guided by an equal solidity of judgment. I took infinite pleasure in observing them

display these noble qualities; particularly as I had the satisfaction to see that, while

they looked upon me as their guide and model, they appeared to the audience as my

imitators and rivals. It was a day (I cannot but repeat it again) which afforded me the

most exquisite happiness, and which I shall ever distinguish with the fairest mark. For

what indeed could be either more pleasing to me on the public account than to

observe two such noble youths building their fame and glory upon the polite arts; or

more desirable upon my own than to be marked out as a worthy example to them in

their pursuits of virtue? May the gods still grant me the continuance of that pleasure!

And I implore the same gods, you are my witness, to make all these who think me

deserving of imitation far better than I am. Farewell.

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LXIV

To Romanus

You were not present at a very singular occurrence here lately: neither was I, but the

story reached me just after it had happened. Passienus Paulus, a Roman knight, of

good family, and a man of peculiar learning and culture besides, composes elegies, a

talent which runs in the family, for Propertius is reckoned by him amongst his

ancestors, as well as being his countryman. He was lately reciting a poem which

began thus:

“Priscus, at thy command”—

Whereupon Javolenus Priscus, who happened to be present as a particular friend of

the poet’s, cried out—“But he is mistaken, I did not command him.” Think what

laughter and merriment this occasioned. Priscus’s wits, you must know, are reckoned

rather unsound,1 though he takes a share in public business, is summoned to

consultations, and even publicly acts as a lawyer, so that this behaviour of his was the

more remarkable and ridiculous: meanwhile Paulus was a good deal disconcerted by

his friend’s absurdity. You see how necessary it is for those who are anxious to recite

their works in public to take care that the audience as well as the author are perfectly

sane. Farewell.

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LXV

To Tacitus

Your request that I would send you an account of my uncle’s death, in order to

transmit a more exact relation of it to posterity, deserves my acknowledgments; for, if

this accident shall be celebrated by your pen, the glory of it, I am well assured, will be

rendered forever illustrious. And notwithstanding he perished by a misfortune, which,

as it involved at the same time a most beautiful country in ruins, and destroyed so

many populous cities, seems to promise him an everlasting remembrance;

notwithstanding he has himself composed many and lasting works; yet I am

persuaded, the mentioning of him in your immortal writings, will greatly contribute to

render his name immortal. Happy I esteem those to be to whom by provision of the

gods has been granted the ability either to do such actions as are worthy of being

related or to relate them in a manner worthy of being read; but peculiarly happy are

they who are blessed with both these uncommon talents: in the number of which my

uncle, as his own writings and your history will evidently prove, may justly be

ranked. It is with extreme willingness, therefore, that I execute your commands; and

should indeed have claimed the task if you had not enjoined it. He was at that time

with the fleet under his command at Misenum.2 On the 24th of August, about one in

the afternoon, my mother desired him to observe a cloud which appeared of a very

unusual size and shape. He had just taken a turn in the sun,2 and, after bathing himself

in cold water, and making a light luncheon, gone back to his books: he immediately

arose and went out upon a rising ground from whence he might get a better sight of

this very uncommon appearance. A cloud, from which mountain was uncertain, at this

distance (but it was found afterwards to come from Mount Vesuvius), was ascending,

the appearance of which I cannot give you a more exact description of than by

likening it to that of a pine tree, for it shot up to a great height in the form of a very

tall trunk, which spread itself out at the top into a sort of branches; occasioned, I

imagine, either by a sudden gust of air that impelled it, the force of which decreased

as it advanced upwards, or the cloud itself being pressed back again by its own

weight, expanded in the manner I have mentioned; it appeared sometimes bright and

sometimes dark and spotted, according as it was either more or less impregnated with

earth and cinders. This phenomenon seemed to a man of such learning and research as

my uncle extraordinary and worth further looking into. He ordered a light vessel to be

got ready, and gave me leave, if I liked, to accompany him. I said I had rather go on

with my work; and it so happened, he had himself given me something to write out.

As he was coming out of the house, he received a note from Rectina, the wife of

Bassus, who was in the utmost alarm at the imminent danger which threatened her;

for her villa lying at the foot of Mount Vesuvius, there was no way of escape but by

sea; she earnestly entreated him therefore to come to her assistance. He accordingly

changed his first intention, and what he had begun from a philosophical, he now

carries out in a noble and generous spirit. He ordered the galleys to be put to sea, and

went himself on board with an intention of assisting not only Rectina, but the several

other towns which lay thickly strewn along that beautiful coast. Hastening then to the

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place from whence others fled with the utmost terror, he steered his course direct to

the point of danger, and with so much calmness and presence of mind as to be able to

make and dictate his observations upon the motion and all the phenomena of that

dreadful scene. He was now so close to the mountain that the cinders, which grew

thicker and hotter the nearer he approached, fell into the ships, together with pumice-

stones, and black pieces of burning rock: they were in danger too not only of being a-

ground by the sudden retreat of the sea, but also from the vast fragments which rolled

down from the mountain, and obstructed all the shore. Here he stopped to consider

whether he should turn back again; to which the pilot advising him, “Fortune,” said

he, “favours the brave; steer to where Pomponianus is.” Pomponianus was then at

Stabiae,3 separated by a bay, which the sea, after several insensible windings, forms

with the shore. He had already sent his baggage on board; for though he was not at

that time in actual danger, yet being within sight of it, and indeed extremely near, if it

should in the least increase, he was determined to put to sea as soon as the wind,

which was blowing dead in-shore, should go down. It was favourable, however, for

carrying my uncle to Pomponianus, whom he found in the greatest consternation: he

embraced him tenderly, encouraging and urging him to keep up his spirits, and, the

more effectually to soothe his fears by seeming unconcerned himself, ordered a bath

to be got ready, and then, after having bathed, sat down to supper with great

cheerfulness, or at least (what is just as heroic) with every appearance of it.

Meanwhile broad flames shone out in several places from Mount Vesuvius, which the

darkness of the night contributed to render still brighter and clearer. But my uncle, in

order to soothe the apprehensions of his friend, assured him it was only the burning of

the villages, which the country people had abandoned to the flames: after this he

retired to rest, and it is most certain he was so little disquieted as to fall into a sound

sleep: for his breathing, which, on account of his corpulence, was rather heavy and

sonorous, was heard by the attendants outside. The court which led to his apartment

being now almost filled with stones and ashes, if he had continued there any time

longer, it would have been impossible for him to have made his way out. So he was

awoke and got up, and went to Pomponianus and the rest of his company, who were

feeling too anxious to think of going to bed. They consulted together whether it would

be most prudent to trust to the houses, which now rocked from side to side with

frequent and violent concussions as though shaken from their very foundations; or fly

to the open fields, where the calcined stones and cinders, though light indeed, yet fell

in large showers, and threatened destruction. In this choice of dangers they resolved

for the fields: a resolution which, while the rest of the company were hurried into by

their fears, my uncle embraced upon cool and deliberate consideration. They went out

then, having pillows tied upon their heads with napkins; and this was their whole

defence against the storm of stones that fell round them. It was now day everywhere

else, but there a deeper darkness prevailed than in the thickest night; which however

was in some degree alleviated by torches and other lights of various kinds. They

thought proper to go farther down upon the shore to see if they might safely put out to

sea, but found the waves still running extremely high, and boisterous. There my uncle,

laying himself down upon a sail cloth, which was spread for him, called twice for

some cold water, which he drank, when immediately the flames, preceded by a strong

whiff of sulphur, dispersed the rest of the party, and obliged him to rise. He raised

himself up with the assistance of two of his servants, and instantly fell down dead;

suffocated, as I conjecture, by some gross and noxious vapour, having always had a

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weak throat, which was often inflamed. As soon as it was light again, which was not

till the third day after this melancholy accident, his body was found entire, and

without any marks of violence upon it, in the dress in which he fell, and looking more

like a man asleep than dead. During all this time my mother and I, who were at

Misenum—but this has no connection with your history, and you did not desire any

particulars besides those of my uncle’s death; so I will end here, only adding that I

have faithfully related to you what I was either an eye-witness of myself or received

immediately after the accident happened, and before there was time to vary the truth.

You will pick out of this narrative whatever is most important: for a letter is one

thing, a history another; it is one thing writing to a friend, another thing writing to the

public. Farewell.

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LXVI

To Cornelius Tacitus

The letter which, in compliance with your request, I wrote to you concerning the

death of my uncle has raised, it seems, your curiosity to know what terrors and

dangers attended me while I continued at Misenum; for there, I think, my account

broke off:

“Though my shock’d soul recoils, my tongue shall tell.”

My uncle having left us, I spent such time as was left on my studies (it was on their

account indeed that I had stopped behind), till it was time for my bath. After which I

went to supper, and then fell into a short and uneasy sleep. There had been noticed for

many days before a trembling of the earth, which did not alarm us much, as this is

quite an ordinary occurrence in Campania; but it was so particularly violent that night

that it not only shook but actually overturned, as it would seem, everything about us.

My mother rushed into my chamber, where she found me rising, in order to awaken

her. We sat down in the open court of the house, which occupied a small space

between the buildings and the sea. As I was at that time but eighteen years of age, I

know not whether I should call my behaviour, in this dangerous juncture, courage or

folly; but I took up Livy, and amused myself with turning over that author, and even

making extracts from him, as if I had been perfectly at my leisure. Just then, a friend

of my uncle’s, who had lately come to him from Spain, joined us, and observing me

sitting by my mother with a book in my hand, reproved her for her calmness, and me

at the same time for my careless security: nevertheless I went on with my author.

Though it was now morning, the light was still exceedingly faint and doubtful; the

buildings all around us tottered, and though we stood upon open ground, yet as the

place was narrow and confined, there was no remaining without imminent danger: we

therefore resolved to quit the town. A panic-stricken crowd followed us, and (as to a

mind distracted with terror every suggestion seems more prudent than its own)

pressed on us in dense array to drive us forward as we came out. Being at a

convenient distance from the houses, we stood still, in the midst of a most dangerous

and dreadful scene. The chariots, which we had ordered to be drawn out, were so

agitated backwards and forwards, though upon the most level ground, that we could

not keep them steady, even by supporting them with large stones. The sea seemed to

roll back upon itself, and to be driven from its banks by the convulsive motion of the

earth; it is certain at least the shore was considerably enlarged, and several sea

animals were left upon it. On the other side, a black and dreadful cloud, broken with

rapid, zigzag flashes, revealed behind it variously shaped masses of flame: these last

were like sheet-lightning, but much larger. Upon this our Spanish friend, whom I

mentioned above, addressing himself to my mother and me with great energy and

urgency: “If your brother,” he said, “if your uncle be safe, he certainly wishes you

may be so too; but if he perished, it was his desire, no doubt, that you might both

survive him: why therefore do you delay your escape a moment?” We could never

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think of our own safety, we said, while we were uncertain of his. Upon this our friend

left us, and withdrew from the danger with the utmost precipitation. Soon afterwards,

the cloud began to descend, and cover the sea. It had already surrounded and

concealed the island of Capreae and the promontory of Misenum. My mother now

besought, urged, even commanded me to make my escape at any rate, which, as I was

young, I might easily do; as for herself, she said, her age and corpulency rendered all

attempts of that sort impossible; however, she would willingly meet death if she could

have the satisfaction of seeing that she was not the occasion of mine. But I absolutely

refused to leave her, and, taking her by the hand, compelled her to go with me. She

complied with great reluctance, and not without many reproaches to herself for

retarding my flight. The ashes now began to fall upon us, though in no great quantity.

I looked back; a dense dark mist seemed to be following us, spreading itself over the

country like a cloud. “Let us turn out of the high-road,” I said, “while we can still see,

for fear that, should we fall in the road, we should be pressed to death in the dark, by

the crowds that are following us.” We had scarcely sat down when night came upon

us, not such as we have when the sky is cloudy, or when there is no moon, but that of

a room when it is shut up, and all the lights put out. You might hear the shrieks of

women, the screams of children, and the shouts of men; some calling for their

children, others for their parents, others for their husbands, and seeking to recognise

each other by the voices that replied; one lamenting his own fate, another that of his

family; some wishing to die, from the very fear of dying; some lifting their hands to

the gods; but the greater part convinced that there were now no gods at all, and that

the final endless night of which we have heard had come upon the world.1 Among

these there were some who augmented the real terrors by others imaginary or wilfully

invented. I remember some who declared that one part of Misenum had fallen, that

another was on fire; it was false, but they found people to believe them. It now grew

rather lighter, which we imagined to be rather the forerunner of an approaching burst

of flames (as in truth it was) than the return of day: however, the fire fell at a distance

from us: then again we were immersed in thick darkness, and a heavy shower of ashes

rained upon us, which we were obliged every now and then to stand up to shake off,

otherwise we should have been crushed and buried in the heap. I might boast that,

during all this scene of horror, not a sigh, or expression of fear, escaped me, had not

my support been grounded in that miserable, though mighty, consolation, that all

mankind were involved in the same calamity, and that I was perishing with the world

itself. At last this dreadful darkness was dissipated by degrees, like a cloud or smoke;

the real day returned, and even the sun shone out, though with a lurid light, like when

an eclipse is coming on. Every object that presented itself to our eyes (which were

extremely weakened) seemed changed, being covered deep with ashes as if with

snow. We returned to Misenum, where we refreshed ourselves as well as we could,

and passed an anxious night between hope and fear; though, indeed, with a much

larger share of the latter: for the earthquake still continued, while many frenzied

persons ran up and down heightening their own and their friends’ calamities by

terrible predictions. However, my mother and I, notwithstanding the danger we had

passed, and that which still threatened us, had no thoughts of leaving the place, till we

could receive some news of my uncle.

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And now, you will read this narrative without any view of inserting it in your history,

of which it is not in the least worthy; and indeed you must put it down to your own

request if it should appear not worth even the trouble of a letter. Farewell.

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LXVII

To Macer

How much does the fame of human actions depend upon the station of those who

perform them! The very same conduct shall be either applauded to the skies or

entirely overlooked, just as it may happen to proceed from a person of conspicuous or

obscure rank. I was sailing lately upon our lake,1 with an old man of my

acquaintance, who desired me to observe a villa situated upon its banks, which had a

chamber overhanging the water. “From that room,” said he, “a woman of our city

threw herself and her husband.” Upon enquiring into the cause, he informed me,

“That her husband having been long afflicted with an ulcer in those parts which

modesty conceals, she prevailed with him at last to let her inspect the sore, assuring

him at the same time that she would most sincerely give her opinion whether there

was a possibility of its being cured. Accordingly, upon viewing the ulcer, she found

the case hopeless, and therefore advised him to put an end to his life: she herself

accompanying him, even leading the way by her example, and being actually the

means of his death; for tying herself to her husband, she plunged with him into the

lake.” Though this happened in the very city where I was born, I never heard it

mentioned before; and yet that this action is taken less notice of than that famous one

of Arria’s, is not because it was less remarkable, but because the person who

performed it was more obscure. Farewell.

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LXVIII

To Servianus

I am extremely glad to hear that you intend your daughter for Fuscus Salinator, and

congratulate you upon it. His family is patrician,1 and both his father and mother are

persons of the most distinguished merit. As for himself, he is studious, learned, and

eloquent, and, with all the innocence of a child, unites the sprightliness of youth and

the wisdom of age. I am not, believe me, deceived by my affection, when I give him

this character; for though I love him, I confess, beyond measure (as his friendship and

esteem for me well deserve), yet partiality has no share in my judgment: on the

contrary, the stronger my affection for him, the more exactingly I weigh his merit. I

will venture, then, to assure you (and I speak it upon my own experience) you could

not have, formed to your wishes, a more accomplished son-in-law. May he soon

present you with a grandson, who shall be the exact copy of his father! and with what

pleasure shall I receive from the arms of two such friends their children or grand-

children, whom I shall claim a sort of right to embrace as my own! Farewell.

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LXIX

To Severus

You desire me to consider what turn you should give to your speech in honour of the

emperor,1 upon your being appointed consul elect.2 It is easy to find copies, not so

easy to choose out of them; for his virtues afford such abundant material. However, I

will write and give you my opinion, or (what I should prefer) I will let you have it in

person, after having laid before you the difficulties which occur to me. I am doubtful,

then, whether I should advise you to pursue the method which I observed myself on

the same occasion. When I was consul elect, I avoided running into the usual strain of

compliment, which, however far from adulation, might yet look like it. Not that I

affected firmness and independence; but, as well knowing the sentiments of our

amiable prince, and being thoroughly persuaded that the highest praise I could offer to

him would be to show the world I was under no necessity of paying him any. When I

reflected what profusion of honours had been heaped upon the very worst of his

predecessors, nothing, I imagined, could more distinguish a prince of his real virtues

from those infamous emperors than to address him in a different manner. And this I

thought proper to observe in my speech, lest it might be suspected I passed over his

glorious acts, not out of judgment, but inattention. Such was the method I then

observed; but I am sensible the same measures are neither agreeable nor indeed

suitable to all alike. Besides the propriety of doing or omitting a thing depends not

only upon persons, but time and circumstances; and as the late actions of our

illustrious prince afford materials for panegyric, no less just than recent and glorious,

I doubt (as I said before) whether I should persuade you in the present instance to

adopt the same plan as I did myself. In this, however, I am clear, that it was proper to

offer you by way of advice the method I pursued. Farewell.

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LXX

To Fabatus

I have the best reason, certainly, for celebrating your birthday as my own, since all the

happiness of mine arises from yours, to whose care and diligence it is owing that I am

gay here and at my ease in town.—Your Camillian villa1 in Campania has suffered by

the injuries of time, and is falling into decay; however, the most valuable parts of the

building either remain entire or are but slightly damaged, and it shall be my care to

see it put into thorough repair.—Though I flatter myself I have many friends, yet I

have scarcely any of the sort you enquire after, and which the affair you mention

demands. All mine lie among those whose employments engage them in town;

whereas the conduct of country business requires a person of a robust constitution,

and bred up to the country, to whom the work may not seem hard, nor the office

beneath him, and who does not feel a solitary life depressing. You think most highly

of Rufus, for he was a great friend of your son’s; but of what use he can be to us upon

this occasion, I cannot conceive; though I am sure he will be glad to do all he can for

us. Farewell.

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LXXI

To Cornelianus

I received lately the most exquisite satisfaction at Centumcellae2 (as it is now called),

being summoned thither by Caesar3 to attend a council. Could anything indeed afford

a higher pleasure than to see the emperor exercising his justice, his wisdom, and his

affability, even in retirement, where those virtues are most observable? Various were

the points brought in judgment before him, and which proved, in so many different

instances, the excellence of the judge. The cause of Claudius Ariston came on first.

He is an Ephesian nobleman, of great munificence and unambitious popularity, whose

virtues have rendered him obnoxious to a set of people of far different characters; they

had instigated an informer against him, of the same infamous stamp with themselves;

but he was honourably acquitted. The next day, the case of Galitta, accused of

adultery, was heard. Her husband, who is a military tribune, was upon the point of

offering himself as a candidate for certain honours at Rome, but she had stained her

own good name and his by an intrigue with a centurion.3 The husband informed the

consul’s lieutenant, who wrote to the emperor about it. Caesar, having thoroughly

sifted the evidence, cashiered the centurion, and sentenced him to banishment. It

remained that some penalty should be inflicted likewise upon the other party, as it is a

crime of which both must necessarily be equally guilty. But the husband’s affection

for his wife inclined him to drop that part of the prosecution, not without some

reflections on his forbearance; for he continued to live with her even after he had

commenced this prosecution, content, it would seem, with having removed his rival.

But he was ordered to proceed in the suit: and, though he complied with great

reluctance, it was necessary, nevertheless, that she should be condemned.

Accordingly, she was sentenced to the punishment directed by the Julian law.4 The

emperor thought proper to specify, in his decree, the name and office of the centurion,

that it might appear he passed it in virtue of military discipline; lest it should be

imagined he claimed a particular cognizance in every cause of the same nature. The

third day was employed in examining into an affair which had occasioned a good deal

of talk and various reports; it was concerning the codicils of Julius Tiro, part of which

was plainly genuine, while the other part, it was alleged, was forged. The persons

accused of this fraud were Sempronius Senecio, a Roman knight, and Eurythmus,

Caesar’s freedman and procurator.5 The heirs jointly petitioned the emperor, when he

was in Dacia,6 that he would reserve to himself the trial of this cause; to which he

consented. On his return from that expedition, he appointed a day for the hearing; and

when some of the heirs, as though out of respect to Eurythmus, offered to withdraw

the suit, the emperor nobly replied, “He is not Polycletus,7 nor am I Nero.” However,

he indulged the petitioners with an adjournment, and the time being expired, he now

sat to hear the cause. Two of the heirs appeared, and desired that either their whole

number might be compelled to plead, as they had all joined in the information, or that

they also might have leave to withdraw. Caesar delivered his opinion with great

dignity and moderation; and when the counsel on the part of Senecio and Eurythmus

had represented that unless their clients were heard, they would remain under the

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suspicion of guilt,—“I am not concerned,” said the emperor, “what suspicions they

may lie under, it is I that am suspected;” and then turning to us, “Advise me,” said he,

“how to act in this affair, for you see they complain when allowed to withdraw their

suit.” At length, by the advice of the counsel, he ordered notice to be given to the

heirs that they should either proceed with the case or each of them justify their

reasons for not doing so; otherwise that he would pass sentence upon them as

calumniators.8 Thus you see how usefully and seriously we spent our time, which

however was diversified with amusements of the most agreeable kind. We were every

day invited to Caesar’s table, which, for so great a prince, was spread with much

plainness and simplicity. There we were either entertained with interludes or passed

the night in the most pleasing conversation. When we took our leave of him the last

day, he made each of us presents; so studiously polite is Caesar! As for myself, I was

not only charmed with the dignity and wisdom of the judge, the honour done to the

assessors, the ease and unreserved freedom of our social intercourse, but with the

exquisite situation of the place itself. This delightful villa is surrounded by the

greenest meadows, and overlooks the shore, which bends inwards, forming a

complete harbour. The left arm of this port is defended by exceedingly strong works,

while the right is in process of completion. An artificial island, which rises at the

mouth of the harbour, breaks the force of the waves, and affords a safe passage to

ships on either side. This island is formed by a process worth seeing: stones of a most

enormous size are transported hither in a large sort of pontoons, and being piled one

upon the other, are fixed by their own weight, gradually accumulating in the manner,

as it were, of a natural mound. It already lifts its rocky back above the ocean, while

the waves which beat upon it, being broken and tossed to an immense height, foam

with a prodigious noise, and whiten all the surrounding sea. To these stones are added

wooden piers, which in process of time will give it the appearance of a natural island.

This haven is to be called by the name of its great author,9 and will prove of infinite

benefit, by affording a secure retreat to ships on that extensive and dangerous coast.

Farewell.

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LXXII

To Maximus

You did perfectly right in promising a gladiatorial combat to our good friends the

citizens of Verona, who have long loved, looked up to, and honoured, you; while it

was from that city too you received that amiable object of your most tender affection,

your late excellent wife. And since you owed some monument or public

representation to her memory, what other spectacle could you have exhibited more

appropriate to the occasion? Besides, you were so unanimously pressed to do so that

to have refused would have looked more like hardness than resolution. The readiness

too with which you granted their petition, and the magnificent manner in which you

performed it, is very much to your honour; for a greatness of soul is seen in these

smaller instances, as well as in matters of higher moment. I wish the African panthers,

which you had largely provided for this purpose, had arrived on the day appointed,

but though they were delayed by the stormy weather, the obligation to you is equally

the same, since it was not your fault that they were not exhibited. Farewell.

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LXXIII

To Restitutus

This obstinate illness of yours alarms me; and though I know how extremely

temperate you are, yet I fear lest your disease should get the better of your

moderation. Let me entreat you then to resist it with a determined abstemiousness: a

remedy, be assured, of all others the most laudable as well as the most salutary.

Human nature itself admits the practicability of what I recommend: it is a rule, at

least, which I always enjoin my family to observe with respect to myself. “I hope,” I

say to them, “that should I be attacked with any disorder, I shall desire nothing of

which I ought either to be ashamed or have reason to repent; however, if my

distemper should prevail over my resolution, I forbid that anything be given me but

by the consent of my physicians; and I shall resent your compliance with me in things

improper as much as another man would their refusal.” I once had a most violent

fever; when the fit was a little abated, and I had been anointed,1 my physician offered

me something to drink; I held out my hand, desiring he would first feel my pulse, and

upon his not seeming quite satisfied, I instantly returned the cup, though it was just at

my lips. Afterwards, when I was preparing to go into the bath, twenty days from the

first attack of my illness, perceiving the physicians whispering together, I enquired

what they were saying. They replied they were of opinion I may possibly bathe with

safety, however that they were not without some suspicion of risk. “What need is

there,” said I, “of my taking a bath at all?” And so, with perfect calmness and

tranquillity, I gave up a pleasure I was upon the point of enjoying, and abstained from

the bath as serenely and composedly as though I were going into it. I mention this, not

only by way of enforcing my advice by example, but also that this letter may be a sort

of tie upon me to persevere in the same resolute abstinence for the future. Farewell.

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LXXIV

To Calpurnia1

You will not believe what a longing for you possesses me. The chief cause of this is

my love; and then we have not grown used to be apart. So it comes to pass that I lie

awake a great part of the night, thinking of you; and that by day, when the hours

return at which I was wont to visit you, my feet take me, as it is so truly said, to your

chamber, but not finding you there, I return, sick and sad at heart, like an excluded

lover. The only time that is free from these torments is when I am being worn out at

the bar, and in the suits of my friends. Judge you what must be my life when I find my

repose in toil, my solace in wretchedness and anxiety. Farewell.

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LXXV

To Macrinus

A very singular and remarkable accident has happened in the affair of Varenus,2 the

result of which is yet doubtful. The Bithynians, it is said, have dropped their

prosecution of him; being convinced at last that it was rashly undertaken. A deputy

from that province is arrived, who has brought with him a decree of their assembly;

copies of which he has delivered to Caesar,2 and to several of the leading men in

Rome, and also to us, the advocates for Varenus. Magnus,3 nevertheless, whom I

mentioned in my last letter to you, persists in his charge, to support which he is

incessantly teazing the worthy Nigrinus. This excellent person was counsel for him in

his former petition to the consuls, that Varenus might be compelled to produce his

accounts. Upon this occasion, as I attended Varenus merely as a friend, I determined

to be silent. I thought it highly imprudent for me, as I was appointed his counsel by

the senate, to attempt to defend him as an accused person, when it was his business to

insist that there was actually no charge subsisting against him. However, when

Nigrinus had finished his speech, the consuls turning their eyes upon me, I rose up,

and, “When you shall hear,” I said, “what the real deputies from the province have to

object against the motion of Nigrinus, you will see that my silence was not without

just reason.” Upon this Nigrinus asked me, “To whom are these deputies sent?” I

replied, “To me among others; I have the decree of the province in my hands.” He

returned, “That is a point which, though it may be clear to you, I am not so well

satisfied of.” To this I answered, “Though it may not be so evident to you, who are

concerned to support the accusation, it may be perfectly clear to me, who am on the

more favourable side.” Then Polyaenus, the deputy from the province, acquainted the

senate with the reasons for superseding the prosecution, but desired it might be

without prejudice to Caesar’s determination. Magnus answered him; Polyaenus

replied; as for myself, I only now and then threw in a word, observing in general a

complete silence. For I have learned that upon some occasions it is as much an

orator’s business to be silent as to speak, and I remember, in some criminal cases, to

have done even more service to my clients by a discreet silence than I could have

expected from the most carefully prepared speech. To enter into the subject of

eloquence is indeed very foreign to the purpose of my letter, yet allow me to give you

one instance in proof of my last observation. A certain lady having lost her son

suspected that his freedmen, whom he had appointed coheirs with her, were guilty of

forging the will and poisoning him. Accordingly she charged them with the fact

before the emperor, who directed Julianus Suburanus to try the cause. I was counsel

for the defendants, and the case being exceedingly remarkable, and the counsel

engaged on both sides of eminent ability, it drew together a very numerous audience.

The issue was, the servants being put to the torture, my clients were acquitted. But the

mother applied a second time to the emperor, pretending she had discovered some

new evidence. Suburanus was therefore directed to hear the cause, and see if she

could produce any fresh proofs. Julius Africanus was counsel for the mother, a young

man of good parts, but slender experience. He is grandson to the famous orator of that

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name, of whom it is reported that Passienus Crispus, hearing him one day plead,

archly said, “Very fine, I must confess, very fine; but is all this fine speaking to the

purpose?” Julius Africanus, I say, having made a long harangue, and exhausted the

portion of time allotted to him, said, “I beg you, Suburanus, to allow me to add one

word more.” When he had concluded, and the eyes of the whole assembly had been

fixed a considerable time upon me, I rose up. “I would have answered Africanus,”

said I, “if he had added that one word he begged leave to do, in which I doubt not he

would have told us all that we had not heard before.” I do not remember to have

gained so much applause by any speech that I ever made as I did in this instance by

making none. Thus the little that I had hitherto said for Varenus was received with the

same general approbation. The consuls, agreeably to the request of Polyaenus,

reserved the whole affair for the determination of the emperor, whose resolution I

impatiently wait for; as that will decide whether I may be entirely secure and easy

with respect to Varenus, or must again renew all my trouble and anxiety upon his

account. Farewell.

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LXXVI

To Tuscus

You desire my opinion as to the method of study you should pursue, in that retirement

to which you have long since withdrawn. In the first place, then, I look upon it as a

very advantageous practice (and it is what many recommend) to translate either from

Greek into Latin or from Latin into Greek. By this means you acquire propriety and

dignity of expression, and a variety of beautiful figures, and an ease and strength of

exposition, and in the imitation of the best models a facility of creating such models

for yourself. Besides, those things which you may possibly have overlooked in an

ordinary reading over cannot escape you in translating: and this method will also

enlarge your knowledge, and improve your judgment. It may not be amiss, after you

have read an author, to turn, as it were, to his rival, and attempt something of your

own upon the same topic, and then make a careful comparison between your

performance and his, in order to see in what points either you or he may be the

happier. You may congratulate yourself indeed if you shall find in some things that

you have the advantage of him, while it will be a great mortification if he is always

superior. You may sometimes select very famous passages and compete with what

you select. The competition is daring enough, but, as it is private, cannot be called

impudent. Not but that we have seen instances of persons who have publicly entered

this sort of lists with great credit to themselves, and, while they did not despair of

overtaking, have gloriously outstripped those whom they thought it sufficient honour

to follow. A speech no longer fresh in your memory, you may take up again. You will

find plenty in it to leave unaltered, but still more to reject; you will add a new thought

here, and alter another there. It is a laborious and tedious task, I own, thus to re-

enflame the mind after the first heat is over, to recover an impulse when its force has

been checked and spent, and, worse than all, to put new limbs into a body already

complete without disturbing the old; but the advantage attending this method will

overbalance the difficulty. I know the bent of your present attention is directed

towards the eloquence of the bar; but I would not for that reason advise you never to

quit the polemic, if I may so call it, and contentious style. As land is improved by

sowing it with various seeds, constantly changed, so is the mind by exercising it now

with this subject of study, now with that. I would recommend you, therefore,

sometimes to take a subject from history, and you might give more care to the

composition of your letters. For it frequently happens that in pleading one has

occasion to make use not only of historical, but even poetical, styles of description;

and then from letters you acquire a concise and simple mode of expression. You will

do quite right again in refreshing yourself with poetry: when I say so, I do not mean

that species of poetry which turns upon subjects of great length and continuity (such

being suitable only for persons of leisure), but those little pieces of the sprightly kind

of poesy, which serve as proper reliefs to, and are consistent with, employments of

every sort. They commonly go under the title of poetical amusements; but these

amusements have sometimes gained their authors as much reputation as works of a

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more serious nature; and thus (for while I am exhorting you to poetry, why should I

not turn poet myself?)

“As yielding wax the artist’s skill commands,

Submissive shap’d beneath his forming hands;

Now dreadful stands in arms a Mars confest;

Or now with Venus’s softer air imprest;

A wanton Cupid now the mould belies;

Now shines, severely chaste, a Pallas wife:

As not alone to quench the raging flame,

The sacred fountain pours her friendly stream;

But sweetly gliding through the flow’ry green,

Spreads glad refreshment o’er the smiling scene:

So, form’d by science, should the ductile mind

Receive, distinct, each various art refin’d.”

In this manner the greatest men, as well as the greatest orators, used either to exercise

or amuse themselves, or rather indeed did both. It is surprising how much the mind is

enlivened and refreshed by these little poetical compositions, as they turn upon love,

hatred, satire, tenderness, politeness, and everything, in short, that concerns life and

the affairs of the world. Besides, the same advantage attends these, as every other sort

of poems, that we turn from them to prose with so much the more pleasure after

having experienced the difficulty of being constrained and fettered by metre. And

now, perhaps, I have troubled you upon this subject longer than you desired; however,

there is one thing I have left out: I have not told you what kind of authors you should

read; though indeed that was sufficiently implied when I told you on what you should

write. Remember to be careful in your choice of authors of every kind: for, as it has

been well observed, “though we should read much, we should not read many books.”

Who those authors are, is so clearly settled, and so generally known, that I need not

particularly specify them; besides, I have already extended this letter to such an

immoderate length that, while suggesting how you ought to study, I have, I fear, been

actually interrupting your studies. I will here resign you therefore to your tablets,

either to resume the studies in which you were before engaged or to enter upon some

of those I have recommended. Farewell.

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LXXVII

To Fabatus (His Wife’S Grandfather)

You are surprised, I find, that my share of five-twelfths of the estate which lately fell

to me, and which I had directed to be sold to the best bidder, should have been

disposed of by my freedman Hermes to Corellia (without putting it up to auction) at

the rate of seven hundred thousand sesterces1 for the whole. And as you think it might

have fetched nine hundred thousand,2 you are so much the more desirous to know

whether I am inclined to ratify what he has done. I am; and listen, while I tell you

why, for I hope that not only you will approve, but also that my fellow-coheirs will

excuse me for having, upon a motive of superior obligation, separated my interest

from theirs. I have the highest esteem for Corellia, both as the sister of Rufus, whose

memory will always be a sacred one to me, and as my mother’s intimate friend.

Besides, that excellent man Minutius Tuscus, her husband, has every claim to my

affection that a long friendship can give him; as there was likewise the closest

intimacy between her son and me, so much so indeed that I fixed upon him to preside

at the games which I exhibited when I was elected praetor. This lady, when I was last

in the country, expressed a strong desire for some place upon the borders of our lake

of Comum; I therefore made her an offer, at her own price, of any part of my land

there, except what came to me from my father and mother; for that I could not consent

to part with, even to Corellia, and accordingly when the inheritance in question fell to

me, I wrote to let her know it was to be sold. This letter I sent by Hermes, who, upon

her requesting him that he would immediately make over to her my proportion of it,

consented. Am I not then obliged to confirm what my freedman has thus done in

pursuance of my inclinations? I have only to entreat my fellow-coheirs that they will

not take it ill at my hands that I have made a separate sale of what I had certainly a

right to dispose of. They are not bound in any way to follow my example, since they

have not the same connections with Corellia. They are at full liberty therefore to be

guided by interest, which in my own case I chose to sacrifice to friendship. Farewell.

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LXXVIII

To Corellia

You are truly generous to desire and insist that I take for my share of the estate you

purchased of me, not after the rate of seven hundred thousand sesterces for the whole,

as my freedman sold it to you; but in the proportion of nine hundred thousand,

agreeably to what you gave to the farmers of the twentieths for their part. But I must

desire and insist in my turn that you would consider not only what is suitable to your

character, but what is worthy of mine; and that you would suffer me to oppose your

inclination in this single instance, with the same warmth that I obey it in all others.

Farewell.

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LXXIX

To Celer

Every author has his particular reasons for reciting his works; mine, I have often said,

are, in order, if any error should have escaped my own observation (as no doubt they

do escape it sometimes), to have it pointed out to me. I cannot therefore but be

surprised to find (what your letter assures me) that there are some who blame me for

reciting my speeches: unless, perhaps, they are of opinion that this is the single

species of composition that ought to be held exempt from any correction. If so, I

would willingly ask them why they allow (if indeed they do allow) that history may

be recited, since it is a work which ought to be devoted to truth, not ostentation? or

why tragedy, as it is composed for action and the stage, not for being read to a private

audience? or lyric poetry, as it is not a reader, but a chorus of voices and instruments

that it requires? They will reply, perhaps, that in the instances referred to custom has

made the practice in question usual: I should be glad to know, then, if they think the

person who first introduced this practice is to be condemned? Besides the rehearsal of

speeches is no unprecedented thing either with us or the Grecians. Still, perhaps, they

will insist that it can answer no purpose to recite a speech which has already been

delivered. True; if one were immediately to repeat the very same speech word for

word, and to the very same audience; but if you make several additions and

alterations; if your audience is composed partly of the same, and partly of different

persons, and the recital is at some distance of time, why is there less propriety in

rehearsing your speech than in publishing it? “But it is difficult,” the objectors urge,

“to give satisfaction to an audience by the mere recital of a speech”; that is a

consideration which concerns the particular skill and pains of the person who

rehearses, but by no means holds good against recitation in general. The truth is, it is

not whilst I am reading, but when I am read, that I aim at approbation; and upon this

principle I omit no sort of correction. In the first place, I frequently go carefully over

what I have written, by myself, after this I read it out to two or three friends, and then

give it to others to make their remarks. If after this I have any doubt concerning the

justness of their observations, I carefully weigh them again with a friend or two; and,

last of all, I recite them to a larger audience, then is the time, believe me, when I

correct most energetically and unsparingly; for my care and attention rise in

proportion to my anxiety; as nothing renders the judgment so acute to detect error as

that deference, modesty, and diffidence one feels upon those occasions. For tell me,

would you not be infinitely less affected were you to speak before a single person

only, though ever so learned, than before a numerous assembly, even though

composed of none but illiterate people? When you rise up to plead, are you not at that

juncture, above all others, most self-distrustful? and do you not wish, I will not say

some particular parts only, but that the whole arrangement of your intended speech

were altered? especially if the concourse should be large in which you are to speak?

for there is something even in a low and vulgar audience that strikes one with awe.

And if you suspect you are not well received at the first opening of your speech, do

you not find all your energy relaxed, and feel yourself ready to give way? The reason

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I imagine to be that there is a certain weight of collective opinion in a multitude, and

although each individual judgment is, perhaps, of little value, yet when united it

becomes considerable. Accordingly, Pomponius Secundus, the famous tragic poet,

whenever some very intimate friend and he differed about the retaining or rejecting

anything in his writings, used to say, “I appeal1 to the people”; and thus, by their

silence or applause, adopted either his own or his friend’s opinion; such was the

deference he paid to the popular judgment! Whether justly or not, is no concern of

mine, as I am not in the habit of reciting my works publicly, but only to a select circle,

whose presence I respect, and whose judgment I value; in a word, whose opinions I

attend to as if they were so many individuals I had separately consulted, at the same

time that I stand in as much awe before them as I should before the most numerous

assembly. What Cicero says of composing will, in my opinion, hold true of the dread

we have of the public: “Fear is the most rigid critic imaginable.” The very thought of

reciting, the very entrance into an assembly, and the agitated concern when one is

there; each of these circumstances tends to improve and perfect an author’s

performance. Upon the whole, therefore, I cannot repent of a practice which I have

found by experience so exceedingly useful; and am so far from being discouraged by

the trifling objections of these censors that I request you would point out to me if

there is yet any other kind of correction, that I may also adopt it; for nothing can

sufficiently satisfy my anxiety to render my compositions perfect. I reflect what an

undertaking it is resigning any work into the hands of the public; and I cannot but be

persuaded that frequent revisals, and many consultations, must go to the perfecting of

a performance, which one desires should universally and forever please. Farewell.

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LXXX

To Priscus

The illness of my friend Fannia gives me great concern. She contracted it during her

attendance on Junia, one of the Vestal virgins, engaging in this good office at first

voluntarily, Junia being her relation, and afterwards being appointed to it by an order

from the college of priests: for these virgins, when excessive ill-health renders it

necessary to remove them from the temple of Vesta, are always delivered over to the

care and custody of some venerable matron. It was owing to her assiduity in the

execution of this charge that she contracted her present dangerous disorder, which is a

continual fever, attended with a cough that increases daily. She is extremely

emaciated, and every part of her seems in a total decay except her spirits: those,

indeed, she fully keeps up; and in a way altogether worthy the wife of Helvidius, and

the daughter of Thrasea. In all other respects there is such a falling away that I am

more than apprehensive upon her account; I am deeply afflicted. I grieve, my friend,

that so excellent a woman is going to be removed from the eyes of the world, which

will never, perhaps, again behold her equal. So pure she is, so pious, so wise and

prudent, so brave and steadfast! Twice she followed her husband into exile, and the

third time she was banished herself upon his account. For Senecio, when arraigned for

writing the life of Helvidius, having said in his defence that he composed that work at

the request of Fannia, Metius Carus, with a stern and threatening air, asked her

whether she had made that request, and she replied, “I made it.” Did she supply him

likewise with materials for the purpose? “I did.” Was her mother privy to this

transaction? “She was not.” In short, throughout her whole examination, not a word

escaped her which betrayed the smallest fear. On the contrary, she had preserved a

copy of those very books which the senate, over-awed by the tyranny of the times,

had ordered to be suppressed, and at the same time the effects of the author to be

confiscated, and carried with her into exile the very cause of her exile. How pleasing

she is, how courteous, and (what is granted to few) no less lovable than worthy of all

esteem and admiration! Will she hereafter be pointed out as a model to all wives; and

perhaps be esteemed worthy of being set forth as an example of fortitude even to our

sex; since, while we still have the pleasure of seeing and conversing with her, we

contemplate her with the same admiration, as those heroines who are celebrated in

ancient story? For myself, I confess, I cannot but tremble for this illustrious house,

which seems shaken to its very foundations, and ready to fall; for though she will

leave descendants behind her, yet what a height of virtue must they attain, what

glorious deeds must they perform, ere the world will be persuaded that she was not

the last of her family! It is an additional affliction and anguish to me that by her death

I seem to lose her mother a second time; that worthy mother (and what can I say

higher in her praise?) of so noble a woman! who, as she was restored to me in her

daughter, so she will now again be taken from me, and the loss of Fannia will thus

pierce my heart at once with a fresh, and at the same time re-opened, wound. I so truly

loved and honoured them both, that I know not which I loved the best; a point they

desired might ever remain undetermined. In their prosperity and their adversity I did

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them every kindness in my power, and was their comforter in exile, as well as their

avenger at their return. But I have not yet paid them what I owe, and am so much the

more solicitous for the recovery of this lady, that I may have time to discharge my

debt to her. Such is the anxiety and sorrow under which I write this letter! But if some

divine power should happily turn it into joy, I shall not complain of the alarms I now

suffer. Farewell.

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LXXXI

To Geminius

Numidia Quadratilla is dead, having almost reached her eightieth year. She enjoyed,

up to her last illness, uninterrupted good health, and was unusually stout and robust

for one of her sex. She has left a very prudent will, having disposed of two-thirds of

her estate to her grandson, and the rest to her grand-daughter. The young lady I know

very slightly, but the grandson is one of my most intimate friends. He is a remarkable

young man, and his merit entitles him to the affection of a relation, even where his

blood does not. Notwithstanding his remarkable personal beauty, he escaped every

malicious imputation both whilst a boy and when a youth: he was a husband at four-

and-twenty, and would have been a father if Providence had not disappointed his

hopes. He lived in the family with his grandmother, who was exceedingly devoted to

the pleasures of the town, yet observed great severity of conduct himself, while

always perfectly deferential and submissive to her. She retained a set of pantomimes,

and was an encourager of this class of people to a degree inconsistent with one of her

sex and rank. But Quadratus never appeared at these entertainments, whether she

exhibited them in the theatre or in her own house; nor indeed did she require him to

be present. I once heard her say, when she was recommending to me the supervision

of her grandson’s studies, that it was her custom, in order to pass away some of those

unemployed hours with which female life abounds, to amuse herself with playing at

chess, or seeing the mimicry of her pantomimes; but that, whenever she engaged in

either of those amusements, she constantly sent away her grandson to his studies: she

appeared to me to act thus as much out of reverence for the youth as from affection. I

was a good deal surprised, as I am sure you will be too, at what he told me the last

time the Pontifical games1 were exhibited. As we were coming out of the theatre

together, where we had been entertained with a show of these pantomimes, “Do you

know,” said he, “to-day is the first time I ever saw my grandmother’s freedman

dance?” Such was the grandson’s speech! while a set of men of a far different stamp,

in order to do honour to Quadratilla (am ashamed to call it honour), were running up

and down the theatre, pretending to be struck with the utmost admiration and rapture

at the performances of those pantomimes, and then imitating in musical chant the

mien and manner of their lady patroness. But now all the reward they have got, in

return for their theatrical performances, is just a few trivial legacies, which they have

the mortification to receive from an heir who was never so much as present at these

shows.—I send you this account, knowing you do not dislike hearing town news, and

because, too, when any occurrence has given me pleasure, I love to renew it again by

relating it. And indeed this instance of affection in Quadratilla, and the honour done

therein to that excellent youth her grandson, has afforded me a very sensible

satisfaction; as I extremely rejoice that the house which once belonged to Cassius,2

the founder and chief of the Cassian school, is come into the possession of one no less

considerable than its former master. For my friend will fill it and become it as he

ought, and its ancient dignity, lustre, and glory will again revive under Quadratus,

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who, I am persuaded, will prove as eminent an orator as Cassius was a lawyer.

Farewell.

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LXXXII

To Maximus

The lingering disorder of a friend of mine gave me occasion lately to reflect that we

are never so good as when oppressed with illness. Where is the sick man who is either

solicited by avarice or inflamed with lust? At such a season he is neither a slave of

love nor the fool of ambition; wealth he utterly disregards, and is content with ever so

small a portion of it, as being upon the point of leaving even that little. It is then he

recollects there are gods, and that he himself is but a man: no mortal is then the object

of his envy, his admiration, or his contempt; and the tales of slander neither raise his

attention nor feed his curiosity: his dreams are only of baths and fountains. These are

the supreme objects of his cares and wishes, while he resolves, if he should recover, to

pass the remainder of his days in ease and tranquillity, that is, to live innocently and

happily. I may therefore lay down to you and myself a short rule, which the

philosophers have endeavoured to inculcate at the expense of many words, and even

many volumes; that “we should try and realise in health those resolutions we form in

sickness.” Farewell.

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LXXXIII

To Sura

The present recess from business we are now enjoying affords you leisure to give, and

me to receive, instruction. I am extremely desirous therefore to know whether you

believe in the existence of ghosts, and that they have a real form, and are a sort of

divinities, or only the visionary impressions of a terrified imagination. What

particularly inclines me to believe in their existence is a story which I heard of Curtius

Rufus. When he was in low circumstances and unknown in the world, he attended the

governor of Africa into that province. One evening, as he was walking in the public

portico, there appeared to him the figure of a woman, of unusual size and of beauty

more than human. And as he stood there, terrified and astonished, she told him she

was the tutelary power that presided over Africa, and was come to inform him of the

future events of his life: that he should go back to Rome, to enjoy high honours there,

and return to that province invested with the proconsular dignity, and there should die.

Every circumstance of this prediction actually came to pass. It is said farther that upon

his arrival at Carthage, as he was coming out of the ship, the same figure met him

upon the shore. It is certain, at least, that being seized with a fit of illness, though

there were no symptoms in his case that led those about him to despair, he instantly

gave up all hope of recovery; judging, apparently, of the truth of the future part of the

prediction by what had already been fulfilled, and of the approaching misfortune from

his former prosperity. Now the following story, which I am going to tell you just as I

heard it, is it not more terrible than the former, while quite as wonderful? There was at

Athens a large and roomy house, which had a bad name, so that no one could live

there. In the dead of the night a noise, resembling the clashing of iron, was frequently

heard, which, if you listened more attentively, sounded like the rattling of chains,

distant at first, but approaching nearer by degrees: immediately afterwards a spectre

appeared in the form of an old man, of extremely emaciated and squalid appearance,

with a long beard and dishevelled hair, rattling the chains on his feet and hands. The

distressed occupants meanwhile passed their wakeful nights under the most dreadful

terrors imaginable. This, as it broke their rest, ruined their health, and brought on

distempers, their terror grew upon them, and death ensued. Even in the day time,

though the spirit did not appear, yet the impression remained so strong upon their

imaginations that it still seemed before their eyes, and kept them in perpetual alarm.

Consequently the house was at length deserted, as being deemed absolutely

uninhabitable; so that it was now entirely abandoned to the ghost. However, in hopes

that some tenant might be found who was ignorant of this very alarming

circumstance, a bill was put up, giving notice that it was either to be let or sold. It

happened that Athenodorus1 the philosopher came to Athens at this time, and, reading

the bill, enquired the price. The extraordinary cheapness raised his suspicion;

nevertheless, when he heard the whole story, he was so far from being discouraged

that he was more strongly inclined to hire it, and, in short, actually did so. When it

grew towards evening, he ordered a couch to be prepared for him in the front part of

the house, and, after calling for a light, together with his pencil and tablets, directed

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all his people to retire. But that his mind might not, for want of employment, be open

to the vain terrors of imaginary noises and spirits, he applied himself to writing with

the utmost attention. The first part of the night passed in entire silence, as usual; at

length a clanking of iron and rattling of chains was heard: however, he neither lifted

up his eyes nor laid down his pen, but in order to keep calm and collected tried to pass

the sounds off to himself as something else. The noise increased and advanced nearer,

till it seemed at the door, and at last in the chamber. He looked up, saw, and

recognized the ghost exactly as it had been described to him: it stood before him,

beckoning with the finger, like a person who calls another. Athenodorus in reply

made a sign with his hand that it should wait a little, and threw his eyes again upon

his papers; the ghost then rattled its chains over the head of the philosopher, who

looked up upon this, and seeing it beckoning as before, immediately arose, and, light

in hand, followed it. The ghost slowly stalked along, as if encumbered with its chains,

and, turning into the area of the house, suddenly vanished. Athenodorus, being thus

deserted, made a mark with some grass and leaves on the spot where the spirit left

him. The next day he gave information to the magistrates, and advised them to order

that spot to be dug up. This was accordingly done, and the skeleton of a man in chains

was found there; for the body, having lain a considerable time in the ground, was

putrefied and mouldered away from the fetters. The bones being collected together

were publicly buried, and thus after the ghost was appeased by the proper ceremonies,

the house was haunted no more. This story I believe upon the credit of others; what I

am going to mention, I give you upon my own. I have a freedman named Marcus,

who is by no means illiterate. One night, as he and his younger brother were lying

together, he fancied he saw somebody upon his bed, who took out a pair of scissors,

and cut off the hair from the top part of his own head, and in the morning, it appeared

his hair was actually cut, and the clippings lay scattered about the floor. A short time

after this, an event of a similar nature contributed to give credit to the former story. A

young lad of my family was sleeping in his apartment with the rest of his companions,

when two persons clad in white came in, as he says, through the windows, cut off his

hair as he lay, and then returned the same way they entered. The next morning it was

found that this boy had been served just as the other, and there was the hair again,

spread about the room. Nothing remarkable indeed followed these events, unless

perhaps that I escaped a prosecution, in which, if Domitian (during whose reign this

happened) had lived some time longer, I should certainly have been involved. For

after the death of that emperor, articles of impeachment against me were found in his

scrutore, which had been exhibited by Carus. It may therefore be conjectured, since it

is customary for persons under any public accusation to let their hair grow, this

cutting off the hair of my servants was a sign I should escape the imminent danger

that threatened me. Let me desire you then to give this question your mature

consideration. The subject deserves your examination; as, I trust, I am not myself

altogether unworthy a participation in the abundance of your superior knowledge.

And though you should, as usual, balance between two opinions, yet I hope you will

lean more on one side than on the other, lest, whilst I consult you in order to have my

doubt settled, you should dismiss me in the same suspense and indecision that

occasioned you the present application. Farewell.

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LXXXIV

To Septitius

You tell me certain persons have blamed me in your company, as being upon all

occasions too lavish in the praise I give my friends. I not only acknowledge the

charge, but glory in it; for can there be a nobler error than an overflowing

benevolence? But still, who are these, let me ask, that are better acquainted with my

friends than I am myself? Yet grant there are any such, why will they deny me the

satisfaction of so pleasing a mistake? For supposing my friends not to deserve the

highest encomiums I give them, yet I am happy in believing they do. Let them

recommend then this malignant zeal to those (and their number is not inconsiderable)

who imagine they show their judgment when they indulge their censure upon their

friends. As for myself, they will never be able to persuade me I can be guilty of an

excess1 in friendship. Farewell.

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LXXXV

To Tacitus

I predict (and I am persuaded I shall not be deceived) that your histories will be

immortal. I frankly own therefore I so much the more earnestly wish to find a place in

them. If we are generally careful to have our faces taken by the best artists, ought we

not to desire that our actions may be celebrated by an author of your distinguished

abilities? I therefore call your attention to the following matter, which, though it

cannot have escaped your notice, as it is mentioned in the public journals, still I call

your attention to, that you may the more readily believe how agreeable it will be to

me that this action, greatly heightened by the risk which attended it, should receive

additional lustre from the testimony of a man of your powers. The senate appointed

Herennius Senecio, and myself, counsel for the province of Baetica, in their

impeachment of Boebius Massa. He was condemned, and the house ordered his

effects to be seized into the hands of the public officer. Shortly after, Senecio, having

learnt that the consuls intended to sit to hear petitions, came and said to me, “Let us

go together, and petition them with the same unanimity in which we executed the

office which had been enjoined us, not to suffer Massa’s effects to be dissipated by

those who were appointed to preserve them.” I answered, “As we were counsel in this

affair by order of the senate, I recommend it to your consideration whether it would

be proper for us, after sentence passed, to interpose any farther.” “You are at liberty,”

said he, “to prescribe what bounds you please to yourself, who have no particular

connections with the province, except what arise from your late services to them; but

then I was born there, and enjoyed the post of quaestor among them.” “If such,” I

replied, “is your determined resolution, I am ready to accompany you, that whatever

resentment may be the consequence of this affair, it may not fall singly upon

yourself.” We accordingly proceeded to the consuls, where Senecio said what was

pertinent to the affair, and I added a few words to the same effect. Scarcely had we

ended when Massa, complaining that Senecio had not acted against him with the

fidelity of an advocate, but the bitterness of an enemy, desired he might be at liberty

to prosecute him for treason. This occasioned general consternation. Whereupon I

rose up; “Most noble consuls,” said I, “I am afraid it should seem that Massa has

tacitly charged me with having favoured him in this cause, since he did not think

proper to join me with Senecio in the desired prosecution.” This short speech was

immediately received with applause, and afterwards got much talked about

everywhere. The late emperor Nerva (who, though at that time in a private station, yet

interested himself in every meritorious action performed in public) wrote a most

impressive letter to me upon the occasion, in which he not only congratulated me, but

the age which had produced an example so much in the spirit (as he was pleased to

call it) of the good old days. But, whatever be the actual fact, it lies in your power to

raise it into a grander and more conspicuously illustrious position, though I am far

from desiring you in the least to exceed the bounds of reality. History ought to be

guided by strict truth, and worthy actions require nothing more. Farewell.

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LXXXVI

To Septitius

I had a good journey here, excepting only that some of my servants were upset by the

excessive heat. Poor Encolpius, my reader,1 who is so indispensable to me in my

studies and amusements, was so affected with the dust that it brought on a spitting of

blood: an accident which will prove no less unpleasant to me than unfortunate to

himself, should he be thereby rendered unfit for the literary work in which he so

greatly excels. If that should unhappily result, where shall I find one who will read my

works so well, or appreciate them so thoroughly as he? Whose tones will my ears

drink in as they do his? But the gods seem to favour our better hopes, as the bleeding

is stopped, and the pain abated. Besides, he is extremely temperate; while no concern

is wanting on my part or care on his physician’s. This, together with the

wholesomeness of the air, and the quiet of retirement, gives us reason to expect that

the country will contribute as much to the restoration of his health as to his rest.

Farewell.

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LXXXVII

To Calvisius

Other people visit their estates in order to recruit their purses; whilst I go to mine only

to return so much the poorer. I had sold my vintage to the merchants, who were

extremely eager to purchase it, encouraged by the price it then bore, and what it was

probable it would rise to: however they were disappointed in their expectations. Upon

this occasion to have made the same general abatement to all would have been much

the easiest, though not so equitable a method. Now I hold it particularly worthy of a

man of honour to be governed by principles of strict equity in his domestic as well as

public conduct; in little matters as in great ones; in his own concerns as well as in

those of others. And if every deviation from rectitude is equally criminal,1 every

approach to it must be equally praiseworthy. So accordingly I remitted to all in

general one-eighth part of the price they had agreed to give me, that none might go

away without some compensation: next, I particularly considered those who had

advanced the largest sums towards their purchase, and done me so much the more

service, and been greater sufferers themselves. To those, therefore, whose purchase

amounted to more than ten thousand sesterces,2 I returned (over and above that which

I may call the general and common eighth) a tenth part of what they had paid beyond

that sum. I fear I do not express myself sufficiently clearly; I will endeavour to

explain my meaning more fully: for instance, suppose a man had purchased of me to

the value of fifteen thousand sesterces,3 I remitted to him one-eighth part of that

whole sum, and likewise one-tenth of five thousand.4 Besides this, as several had

deposited, in different proportions, part of the price they had agreed to pay, whilst

others had advanced nothing, I thought it would not be at all fair that all these should

be favoured with the same undistinguished remission. To those, therefore, who had

made any payments, I returned a tenth part upon the sums so paid. By this means I

made a proper acknowledgment to each, according to their respective deserts, and

likewise encouraged them, not only to deal with me for the future, but to be prompt in

their payments. This instance of my good-nature or my judgment (call it which you

please) was a considerable expense to me. However, I found my account in it; for all

the country greatly approved both of the novelty of these abatements and the manner

in which I regulated them. Even those whom I did not “mete” (as they say) “by the

same measure,” but distinguished according to their several degrees, thought

themselves obliged to me, in proportion to the probity of their principles, and went

away pleased with having experienced that not with me

“The brave and mean an equal honour find.”5

Farewell.

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LXXXVIII

To Romanus

Have you ever seen the source of the river Clitumnus? If you have not (and I hardly

think you can have seen it yet, or you would have told me), go there as soon as

possible. I saw it yesterday, and I blame myself for not having seen it sooner. At the

foot of a little hill, well wooded with old cypress trees, a spring gushes out, which,

breaking up into different and unequal streams, forms itself, after several windings,

into a large, broad basin of water, so transparently clear that you may count the

shining pebbles, and the little pieces of money thrown into it, as they lie at the bottom.

From thence it is carried off not so much by the declivity of the ground as by its own

weight and exuberance. A mere stream at its source, immediately, on quitting this,

you find it expanded into a broad river, fit for large vessels even, allowing a free

passage by each other, according as they sail with or against the stream. The current

runs so strong, though the ground is level, that the large barges going down the river

have no occasion to make use of their oars; while those going up find it difficult to

make headway even with the assistance of oars and poles: and this alternate

interchange of ease and toil, according as you turn, is exceedingly amusing when one

sails up and down merely for pleasure. The banks are well covered with ash and

poplar, the shape and colour of the trees being as clearly and distinctly reflected in the

stream as if they were actually sunk in it. The water is cold as snow, and as white too.

Near it stands an ancient and venerable temple, in which is placed the river-god

Clitumnus clothed in the usual robe of state; and indeed the prophetic oracles here

delivered sufficiently testify the immediate presence of that divinity. Several little

chapels are scattered round, dedicated to particular gods, distinguished each by his

own peculiar name and form of worship, and some of them, too, presiding over

different fountains. For, besides the principal spring, which is, as it were, the parent of

all the rest, there are several other lesser streams, which, taking their rise from various

sources, lose themselves in the river; over which a bridge is built that separates the

sacred part from that which lies open to common use. Vessels are allowed to come

above this bridge, but no person is permitted to swim except below it. The

Hispellates, to whom Augustus gave this place, furnish a public bath, and likewise

entertain all strangers, at their own expense. Several villas, attracted by the beauty of

this river, stand about on its borders. In short, every surrounding object will afford

you entertainment. You may also amuse yourself with numberless inscriptions upon

the pillars and walls, by different persons, celebrating the virtues of the fountain, and

the divinity that presides over it. Many of them you will admire, while some will

make you laugh; but I must correct myself when I say so; you are too humane, I

know, to laugh upon such an occasion. Farewell.

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LXXXIX

To Aristo

As you are no less acquainted with the political laws of your country (which include

the customs and usages of the senate) than with the civil, I am particularly desirous to

have your opinion whether I was mistaken in an affair which lately came before the

house, or not. This I request, not with a view of being directed in my judgment as to

what is passed (for that is now too late), but in order to know how to act in any

possible future case of the kind. You will, ask, perhaps, “Why do you apply for

information concerning a point on which you ought to be well instructed?” Because

the tyranny of former reigns,1 as it introduced a neglect and ignorance of all other

parts of useful knowledge, so particularly of what relates to the customs of the senate;

for who is there so tamely industrious as to desire to learn what he can never have an

opportunity of putting in practice? Besides, it is not very easy to retain even the

knowledge one has acquired where no opportunity of employing it occurs. Hence it

was that Liberty, on her return2 found us totally ignorant and inexperienced; and thus

in the warmth of our eagerness to taste her sweets, we are sometimes hurried on to

action, ere we are well instructed how we ought to act. But by the institution of our

ancestors, it was wisely provided that the young should learn from the old, not only

by precept, but by their own observation, how to behave in that sphere in which they

were one day themselves to move; while these, again, in their turn, transmitted the

same mode of instruction to their children. Upon this principle it was that the youth

were sent early into the army, that by being taught to obey they might learn to

command, and, whilst they followed others, might be trained by degrees to become

leaders themselves. On the same principle, when they were candidates for any office,

they were obliged to stand at the door of the senate-house, and were spectators of the

public council before they became members of it. The father of each youth was his

instructor upon these occasions, or if he had none, some person of years and dignity

supplied the place of a father. Thus they were taught by that surest method of

discipline, Example; how far the right of proposing any law to the senate extended;

what privileges a senator had in delivering his opinion in the house; the power of the

magistrates in that assembly, and the rights of the rest of the members; where it is

proper to yield, and where to insist; when and how long to speak, and when to be

silent; how to make necessary distinctions between contrary opinions, and how to

improve upon a former motion: in a word, they learnt by this means every senatorial

usage. As for myself, it is true indeed, I served in the army when I was a youth; but it

was at a time when courage was suspected, and want of spirit rewarded; when

generals were without authority, and soldiers without modesty; when there was

neither discipline nor obedience, but all was riot, disorder, and confusion; in short,

when it was happier to forget than to remember what one learnt. I attended likewise in

my youth the senate, but a senate shrinking and speechless; where it was dangerous to

utter one’s opinion, and mean and pitiable to be silent. What pleasure was there in

learning, or indeed what could be learnt, when the senate was convened either to do

nothing whatever or to give their sanction to some consummate infamy! when they

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were assembled either for cruel or ridiculous purposes, and when their deliberations

were never serious, though often sad! But I was not only a witness to this scene of

wretchedness, as a spectator; I bore my share of it too as a senator, and both saw and

suffered under it for many years; which so broke and damped my spirits that they

have not even yet been able fully to recover themselves. It is within quite recently (for

all time seems short in proportion to its happiness) that we could take any pleasure in

knowing what relates to or in setting about the duties of our station. Upon these

considerations, therefore, I may the more reasonably entreat you, in the first place, to

pardon my error (if I have been guilty of one), and, in the next, to lead me out of it by

your superior knowledge: for you have always been diligent to examine into the

constitution of your country, both with respect to its public and private, its ancient and

modern, its general and special laws. I am persuaded indeed the point upon which I

am going to consult you is such an unusual one that even those whose great

experience in public business must have made them, one would have naturally

supposed, acquainted with everything were either doubtful or absolutely ignorant

upon it. I shall be more excusable, therefore, if I happen to have been mistaken; as

you will earn the higher praise if you can set me right in an affair which it is not clear

has ever yet fallen within your observation. The enquiry then before the house was

concerning the freedmen of Afranius Dexter, who being found murdered, it was

uncertain whether he fell by his own hands, or by those of his household; and if the

latter, whether they committed the fact in obedience to the commands of Afranius, or

were prompted to it by their own villainy. After they had been put to the question, a

certain senator (it is of no importance to mention his name, but if you are desirous to

know, it was myself) was for acquitting them; another proposed that they should be

banished for a limited time; and a third that they should suffer death. These several

opinions were so extremely different that it was impossible either of them could stand

with the other. For what have death and banishment in common with one another?

Why, no more than banishment and acquittal have together. Though an acquittal

approaches rather nearer a sentence of exile than a sentence of death does: for both

the former agrec at least in this that they spare life, whereas the latter takes it away. In

the meanwhile, those senators who were for punishing with death, and those who

proposed banishment, sate together on the same side of the house: and thus by a

present appearance of unanimity suspended their real disagreement. I moved,

therefore, that the votes for each of the three opinions should be separately taken, and

that two of them should not, under favour of a short truce between themselves, join

against the third. I insisted that such of the members who were for capital punishment

should divide from the others who voted for banishment; and that these two distinct

parties should not be permitted to form themselves into a body, in opposition to those

who declared for acquittal, when they would immediately after disunite again: for it

was not material that they agreed in disliking one proposal, since they differed with

respect to the other two. It seemed very extraordinary that he who moved the

freedmen should be banished, and the slaves suffer death, should not be allowed to

join these two in one motion, but that each question should be ordered to be put to the

house separately; and yet that the votes of one who was for inflicting capital

punishment upon the freedmen should be taken together with that of one who was for

banishing them. For if, in the former instance, it was reasonable that the motion

should be divided, because it comprehended two distinct propositions, I could not see

why, in the latter case, suffrages so extremely different should be thrown into the

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same scale. Permit me, then, notwithstanding the point is already settled, to go over it

again as if it were still undecided, and to lay before you those reasons at my ease,

which I offered to the house in the midst of much interruption and clamour. Let us

suppose there had been only three judges appointed to hear this cause, one of whom

was of opinion that the parties in question deserved death; the other that they should

only be banished; and the third that they ought to be acquitted: should the two former

unite their weight to overpower the latter, or should each be separately balanced? For

the first and second are no more compatible than the second and third. They ought

therefore in the same manner to be counted in the senate as contrary opinions, since

they were delivered as different ones. Suppose the same person had moved that they

should both have been banished and put to death, could they possibly, in pursuance of

this opinion, have suffered both punishments? Or could it have been looked upon as

one consistent motion when it united two such different decisions? Why then should

the same opinion, when delivered by distinct persons, be considered as one and entire,

which would not be deemed so if it were proposed by a single man? Does not the law

manifestly imply that a distinction is to be made between those who are for a capital

conviction, and those who are for banishment, in the very form of words made use of

when the house is ordered to divide? You who are of such an opinion, come to this

side; you who are of any other, go over to the side of him whose opinion you follow.

Let us examine this form, and weigh every sentence: You who are of this opinion: that

is, for instance, you who are for banishment, come on this side; namely, on the side of

him who moved for banishment. From whence it is clear he cannot remain on this side

of those who are for death. You who are for any other: observe, the law is not content

with barely saying another, but it adds any. Now can there be a doubt as to whether

they who declare for a capital conviction are of any other opinion than those who

propose exile! Go over to the side of him whose opinion you follow: does not the law

seem, as it were, to call, compel, drive over, those who are of different opinions, to

contrary sides? Does not the consul himself point out, not only by this solemn form of

words, but by his hand and gesture, the place in which every man is to remain, or to

which he is to go over? “But,” it is objected, “if this separation is made between those

who vote for inflicting death, and those who are on the side of exile, the opinion for

acquitting the prisoners must necessarily prevail.” But how does that affect the parties

who vote? Certainly it does not become them to contend by every art, and urge every

expediment, that the milder sentence may not take place. “Still,” say they, “those who

are for condemning the accused either capitally or to banishment should be first set in

opposition to those who are for acquitting them, and afterwards weighed against each

other.” Thus, as, in certain public games, some particular combatant is set apart by lot

and kept to engage with the conqueror; so, it seems, in the senate there is a first and

second combat, and of two different opinions, the prevailing one has still a third to

contend with. What? when any particular opinion is received, do not all the rest fall of

course? Is it reasonable, then, that one should be thrown into the scale merely to

weigh down another? To express my meaning more plainly: unless the two parties

who are respectively for capital punishment and exile immediately separate upon the

first division of the house it would be to no purpose afterwards to dissent from those

with whom they joined before. But I am dictating instead of receiving

instruction.—Tell me then whether you think these votes should have been taken

separately? My motion, it is true, prevailed; nevertheless I am desirous to know

whether you think I ought to have insisted upon this point, or have yielded as that

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member did who declared for capital punishment? For convinced, I will not say of the

legality, but at least of the equity of my proposal, he receded from his opinion, and

went over to the party for exile: fearing perhaps, if the votes were taken separately

(which he saw would be the case), the freedmen would be acquitted: for the numbers

were far greater on that side than on either of the other two, separately counted. The

consequence was that those who had been influenced by his authority, when they saw

themselves forsaken by his going over to the other party, gave up a motion which they

found abandoned by the first proposer, and deserted, as it were, with their leader.

Thus the three opinions were resolved at length into two; and of those two, one

prevailed, and the other was rejected; while the third, as it was not powerful enough to

conquer both the others, had only to choose to which of the two it would yield.

Farewell.

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To Paternus

The sickness lately in my family, which has carried off several of my servants, some

of them, too, in the prime of their years, has been a great affliction to me. I have two

consolations, however, which, though by no means equivalent to such a grief, still are

consolations. One is, that as I have always readily manumitted my slaves, their death

does not seem altogether immature, if they lived long enough to receive their

freedom: the other, that I have allowed them to make a kind of will,1 which I observe

as religiously as if they were legally entitled to that privilege. I receive and obey their

last requests and injunctions as so many authoritative commands, suffering them to

dispose of their effects to whom they please; with this single restriction, that they

leave them to some one in my household, for to slaves the house they are in is a kind

of state and commonwealth, so to speak. But though I endeavor to acquiesce under

these reflections, yet the same tenderness which led me to show them these

indulgences weakens and gets the better of me. However, I would not wish on that

account to become harder: though the generality of the world, I know, look upon

losses of this kind in no other view than as a diminution of their property, and fancy,

by cherishing such an unfeeling temper, they show a superior fortitude and

philosophy. Their fortitude and philosophy I will not dispute. But humane, I am sure,

they are not; for it is the very criterion of true manhood to feel those impressions of

sorrow which it endeavors to resist, and to admit not to be above the want of

consolation. But perhaps I have detained you too long upon this subject, though not so

long as I would. There is a certain pleasure even in giving vent to one’s grief;

especially when we weep on the bosom of a friend who will approve, or, at least,

pardon, our tears. Farewell.

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XCI

To Macrinus

Is the weather with you as rude and boisterous as it is with us? All here is in tempest

and inundation. The Tiber has swelled its channel, and overflowed its banks far and

wide. Though the wise precaution of the emperor had guarded against this evil, by

cutting several outlets to the river, it has nevertheless flooded all the fields and valleys

and entirely overspread the whole face of the flat country. It seems to have gone out

to meet those rivers which it used to receive and carry off in one united stream, and

has driven them back to deluge those countries it could not reach itself. That most

delightful of rivers, the Anio, which seems invited and detained in its course by the

villas built along its banks, has almost entirely rooted up and carried away the woods

which shaded its borders. It has overthrown whole mountains, and, in endeavouring to

find a passage through the mass of ruins that obstructed its way, has forced down

houses, and risen and spread over the desolation it has occasioned. The inhabitants of

the hill countries, who are situated above the reach of this inundation, have been the

melancholy spectators of its dreadful effects, having seen costly furniture, instruments

of husbandry, ploughs, and oxen with their drivers, whole herds of cattle, together

with the trunks of trees, and beams of the neighbouring villas, floating about in

different parts. Nor indeed have these higher places themselves, to which the waters

could not reach up, escaped the calamity. A continued heavy rain and tempestuous

hurricane, as destructive as the river itself, poured down upon them, and has destroyed

all the enclosures which divided that fertile country. It has damaged likewise, and

even overturned, some of the public buildings, by the fall of which great numbers

have been maimed, smothered, bruised. And thus lamentation over the fate of friends

has been added to losses. I am extremely uneasy lest this extensive ruin should have

spread to you: I beg therefore, if it has not, you will immediately relieve my anxiety;

and indeed I desire you would inform me though it should have done so; for the

difference is not great between fearing a danger, and feeling it; except that the evil

one feels has some bounds, whereas one’s apprehensions have none. For we can

suffer no more than what actually has happened but we fear all that possibly could

happen. Farewell.

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XCII

To Rufinus

The common notion is certainly quite a false one, that a man’s will is a kind of mirror

in which we may clearly discern his real character, for Domitius Tullus appears a

much better man since his death than he did during his lifetime. After having artfully

encouraged the expectations of those who paid court to him, with a view to being his

heirs, he has left his estate to his niece whom he adopted. He has given likewise

several very considerable legacies among his grandchildren, and also to his great-

grandson. In a word, he has shown himself a most kind relation throughout his whole

will; which is so much the more to be admired as it was not expected of him. This

affair has been very much talked about, and various opinions expressed: some call

him false, ungrateful, and forgetful, and, while thus railing at him in this way as if

they were actually disinherited kindred, betray their own dishonest designs: others, on

the contrary, applaud him extremely for having disappointed the hopes of this

infamous tribe of men, whom, considering the disposition of the times, it is but

prudence to deceive. They add that he was not at liberty to make any other will, and

that he cannot so properly be said to have bequeathed, as returned, his estate to his

adopted daughter, since it was by her means it came to him. For Curtilius Mancia,

whose daughter Domitius Lucanus, brother to this Tullus, married, having taken a

dislike to his son-in-law, made this young lady (who was the issue of that marriage)

his heiress, upon condition that Lucanus her father would emancipate her. He

accordingly did so, but she being afterwards adopted by Tullus, her uncle, the design

of Mancia’s will was entirely frustrated. For these two brothers having never divided

their patrimony, but living together as jointtenants of one common estate, the daughter

of Lucanus, notwithstanding the act of emancipation, returned back again, together

with her large fortune, under the dominion of her father, by means of this fraudulent

adoption. It seems indeed to have been the fate of these two brothers to be enriched by

those who had the greatest aversion to them. For Domitius Afer, by whom they were

adopted, left a will in their favour, which he had made eighteen years before his

death; though it was plain he had since altered his opinion with regard to the family,

because he was instrumental in procuring the confiscation of their father’s estate.

There is something extremely singular in the resentment of Afer, and the good fortune

of the other two; as it was very extraordinary, on the one hand, that Domitius should

endeavour to extirpate from the privileges of society a man whose children he had

adopted, and, on the other, that these brothers should find a parent in the very person

that ruined their father. But Tullus acted justly, after having been appointed sole heir

by his brother, in prejudice to his own daughter, to make her amends by transferring

to her this estate, which came to him from Afer, as well as all the rest which he had

gained in partnership with his brother. His will therefore deserves the higher praise,

having been dictated by nature, justice, and sense of honour; in which he has returned

his obligations to his several relations, according to their respective good offices

towards him, not forgetting his wife, having bequeathed to that excellent woman, who

patiently endured much for his sake, several delightful villas, besides a large sum of

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money. And indeed she deserved so much the more at his hands, in proportion to the

displeasure she incurred on her marriage with him. It was thought unworthy a person

of her birth and repute, so long left a widow by her former husband, by whom she had

issue, to marry, in the decline of her life, an old man, merely for his wealth, and who

was so sickly and infirm that, even had he passed the best years of his youth and

health with her, she might well have been heartily tired of him. He had so entirely lost

the use of all his limbs that he could not move himself in bed without assistance; and

the only enjoyment he had of his riches was to contemplate them. He was even (sad

and disgusting to relate) reduced to the necessity of having his teeth washed and

scrubbed by others: in allusion to which he used frequently to say, when he was

complaining of the indignities which his infirmities obliged him to suffer, that he was

every day compelled to lick his servant’s fingers. Still, however, he lived on, and was

willing to accept of life upon such terms. That he lived so long as he did was

particularly owing, indeed, to the care of his wife, who, whatever reputation she might

lose at first by her marriage, acquired great honour by her unwearied devotion as his

wife.—Thus I have given you all the news of the town, where nothing is talked of but

Tullus. It is expected his curiosities will shortly be sold by auction. He had such an

abundant collection of very old statues that he actually filled an extensive garden with

them, the very same day he purchased it; not to mention numberless other antiques,

lying neglected in his lumber-room. If you have anything worth telling me in return, I

hope you will not refuse the trouble of writing to me: not only as we are all of us

naturally fond, you know, of news, but because example has a very beneficial

influence upon our own conduct. Farewell.

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XCIII

To Gallus

Those works of art or nature which are usually the motives of our travels are often

overlooked and neglected if they lie within our reach: whether it be that we are

naturally less inquisitive concerning those things which are near us, while our

curiosity is excited by remote objects; or because the easiness of gratifying a desire is

always sure to damp it; or, perhaps, that we put off from time to time going and

seeing what we know we have an opportunity of seeing when we please. Whatever

the reason be, it is certain there are numberless curiosities in and near Rome which we

have not only never seen, but even never so much as heard of: and yet had they been

the produce of Greece, or Egypt, or Asia, or any other country which we admire as

fertile and productive of belief in wonders, we should long since have heard of them,

read of them, and enquired into them. For myself at least, I confess, I have lately been

entertained with one of these curiosities, to which I was an entire stranger before. My

wife’s grandfather desired I would look over his estate near Ameria.1 As I was

walking over his grounds, I was shown a lake that lies below them, called Vadimon,2

about which several very extraordinary things are told. I went up to this lake. It is

perfectly circular in form, like a wheel lying on the ground; there is not the least curve

or projection of the shore, but all is regular, even, and just as if it had been hollowed

and cut out by the hand of art. The water is of a clear sky-blue, though with somewhat

of a greenish tinge; its smell is sulphurous, and its flavour has medicinal properties,

and is deemed of great efficacy in all fractures of the limbs, which it is supposed to

heal. Though of but moderate extent, yet the winds have a great effect upon it,

throwing it into violent agitation. No vessels are suffered to sail here, as its waters are

held sacred; but several floating islands swim about it, covered with reeds and rushes,

and with whatever other plants the surrounding marshy ground and the edge itself of

the lake produce in greater abundance. Each island has its peculiar shape and size, but

the edges of all of them are worn away by their frequent collision with the shore and

one another. They are all of the same height and motion; as their respective roots,

which are formed like the keel of a boat, may be seen hanging not very far down in

the water, and at an equal depth, on whichever side you stand. Sometimes they move

in a cluster, and seem to form one entire little continent; sometimes they are dispersed

into different quarters by the wind; at other times, when it is calm, they float up and

down separately. You may frequently see one of the larger islands sailing along with a

lesser joined to it, like a ship with its long boat; or, perhaps, seeming to strive which

shall out-swim the other: then again they are all driven to the same spot, and by

joining themselves to the shore, sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other,

lessen or restore the size of the lake in this part or that, accordingly, till at last uniting

in the centre they restore it to its usual size. The sheep which graze upon the borders

of this lake frequently go upon these islands to feed, without perceiving that they have

left the shore, until they are alarmed by finding themselves surrounded with water; as

though they had been forcibly conveyed and placed there. Afterwards, when the wind

drives them back again, they as little perceive their return as their departure. This lake

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empties itself into a river, which, after running a little way, sinks under ground, and, if

anything is thrown in, it brings it up again where the stream emerges.—I have given

you this account because I imagined it would not be less new, nor less agreeable, to

you than it was to me; as I know you take the same pleasure as myself in

contemplating the works of nature. Farewell.

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XCIV

To Arrianus

Nothing, in my opinion, gives a more amiable and becoming grace to our studies, as

well as manners, than to temper the serious with the gay, lest the former should

degenerate into melancholy, and the latter run up into levity. Upon this plan it is that I

diversify my graver works with compositions of a lighter nature. I had chosen a

convenient place and season for some productions of that sort to make their

appearance in; and designing to accustom them early to the tables of the idle, I fixed

upon the month of July, which is usually a time of vacation to the courts of justice, in

order to read them to some of my friends I had collected together; and accordingly I

placed a desk before each couch. But as I happened that morning to be unexpectedly

called away to attend a cause, I took occasion to preface my recital with an apology. I

entreated my audience not to impute it to me as any want of due regard for the

business to which I had invited them that on the very day I had appointed for reading

my performances to a small circle of my friends I did not refuse my services to others

in their law affairs. I assured them I would observe the same rule in my writings, and

should always give the preference to business, before pleasure; to serious

engagements before amusing ones; and to my friends before myself. The poems I

recited consisted of a variety of subjects in different metres. It is thus that we who

dare not rely for much upon our abilities endeavour to avoid satiating our readers. In

compliance with the earnest solicitation of my audience, I recited for two days

successively; but not in the manner that several practise, by passing over the feebler

passages, and making a merit of so doing: on the contrary, I omitted nothing, and

freely confessed it. I read the whole, that I might correct the whole; which it is

impossible those who only select particular passages can do. The latter method,

indeed, may have more the appearance of modesty, and perhaps respect; but the

former shows greater simplicity, as well as a more affectionate disposition towards

the audience. For the belief that a man’s friends have so much regard for him as not to

be weary on these occasions, is a sure indication of the love he bears them. Otherwise,

what good do friends do you who assemble merely for their own amusement? He who

had rather find his friend’s performance correct, than make it so, is to be regarded as a

stranger, or one who is too lackadaisical to give himself any trouble. Your affection

for me leaves me no room to doubt that you are impatient to read my book, even in its

present very imperfect condition. And so you shall, but not until I have made those

corrections which were the principal inducement of my recital. You are already

acquainted with some parts of it? but even those, after they have been improved (or

perhaps spoiled, as is sometimes the case by the delay of excessive revision) will

seem quite new to you. For when a piece has undergone various changes, it gets to

look new, even in those very parts which remain unaltered. Farewell.

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XCV

To Maximus

My affection for you obliges me, not indeed to direct you (for you are far above the

want of a guide), but to admonish you carefully to observe and resolutely to put in

practice what you already know, that is, in other words, to know it to better purpose.

Consider that you are sent to that noble province, Achaia, the real and genuine

Greece, where politeness, learning, and even agriculture itself, are supposed to have

taken their first rise; sent to regulate the condition of free cities; sent, that is, to a

society of men who breathe the spirit of true manhood and liberty; who have

maintained the rights they received from Nature, by courage, by virtue, by alliances;

in a word, by civil and religious faith. Revere the gods their founders; their ancient

glory, and even that very antiquity itself which, venerable in men, is sacred in states.

Honour them therefore for their deeds of old renown, nay, their very legendary

traditions. Grant to every one his full dignity, privileges, yes, and the indulgence of

his very vanity. Remember it was from this nation we derived our laws; that she did

not receive ours by conquest, but gave us hers by favour. Remember, it is Athens to

which you go; it is Lacedaemon you govern; and to deprive such a people of the

declining shadow, the remaining name of liberty, would be cruel, inhuman, barbarous.

Physicians, you see, though in sickness there is no difference between freedom and

slavery, yet treat persons of the former rank with more tenderness than those of the

latter. Reflect what these cities once were; but so reflect as not to despise them for

what they are now. Far be pride and asperity from my friend; nor fear, by a proper

condescension, to lay yourself open to contempt. Can he who is vested with the power

and bears the ensigns of authority, can he fail of meeting with respect, unless by

pursuing base and sordid measures, and first breaking through that reverence he owes

to himself? Ill, believe me, is power proved by insult; ill can terror command

veneration, and far more effectual is affection in obtaining one’s purpose than fear.

For terror operates no longer than its object is present, but love produces its effects

with its object at a distance: and as absence changes the former into hatred, it raises

the latter into respect. And therefore you ought (and I cannot but repeat it too often),

you ought to well consider the nature of your office, and to represent to yourself how

great and important the task is of governing a free state. For what can be better for

society than such government, what can be more precious than freedom? How

ignominious then must his conduct be who turns good government into anarchy, and

liberty into slavery? To these considerations let me add, that you have an established

reputation to maintain: the fame you acquired by the administration of the

quaestorship in Bithynia,1 the good opinion of the emperor, the credit you obtained

when you were tribune and praetor, in a word, this very government, which may be

looked upon as the reward of your former services, are all so many glorious weights

which are incumbent upon you to support with suitable dignity. The more strenuously

therefore you ought to endeavour that it may not be said you showed greater urbanity,

integrity, and ability in a province remote from Rome, than in one which lies so much

nearer the capital; in the midst of a nation of slaves, than among a free people; that it

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may not be remarked, that it was chance, and not judgment, appointed you to this

office; that your character was unknown and unexperienced, not tried and approved.

For (and it is a maxim which your reading and conversation must have often

suggested to you) it is a far greater disgrace losing the name one has once acquired

than never to have attained it. I again beg you to be persuaded that I did not write this

letter with a design of instruction, but of reminder. Though indeed, if I had, it would

have only been in consequence of the great affection I bear you: a sentiment which I

am in no fear of carrying beyond its just bounds: for there can be no danger of excess

where one cannot love too well. Farewell.

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XCVI

To Paulinus

Others may think as they please; but the happiest man, in my opinion, is he who lives

in the conscious anticipation of an honest and enduring name, and secure of future

glory in the eyes of posterity. I confess, if I had not the reward of an immortal

reputation in view, I should prefer a life of uninterrupted ease and indolent retirement

to any other. There seems to be two points worthy every man’s attention: endless

fame, or the short duration of life. Those who are actuated by the former motive ought

to exert themselves to the very utmost of their power; while such as are influenced by

the latter should quietly resign themselves to repose, and not wear out a short life in

perishable pursuits, as we see so many doing—and then sink at last into utter self-

contempt, in the midst of a wretched and fruitless course of false industry. These are

my daily reflections, which I communicate to you, in order to renounce them if you

do not agree with them; as undoubtedly you will, who are for ever meditating some

glorious and immortal enterprise. Farewell.

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XCVII

To Calvisius

I have spent these several days past, in reading and writing, with the most pleasing

tranquillity imaginable. You will ask, “How that can possibly be in the midst of

Rome?” It was the time of celebrating the Circensian games; an entertainment for

which I have not the least taste. They have no novelty, no variety to recommend them,

nothing, in short, one would wish to see twice. It does the more surprise me therefore

that so many thousand people should be possessed with the childish passion of

desiring so often to see a parcel of horses gallop, and men standing upright in their

chariots. If, indeed, it were the swiftness of the horses, or the skill of the men that

attracted them, there might be some pretence of reason for it. But it is the dress1 they

like; it is the dress that takes their fancy. And if, in the midst of the course and

contest, the different parties were to change colours, their different partisans would

change sides, and instantly desert the very same men and horses whom just before

they were eagerly following with their eyes, as far as they could see, and shouting out

their names with all their might. Such mighty charms, such wondrous power reside in

the colour of a paltry tunic! And this not only with the common crowd (more

contemptible than the dress they espouse), but even with serious-thinking people.

When I observe such men thus insatiably fond of so silly, so low, so uninteresting, so

common an entertainment, I congratulate myself on my indifference to these

pleasures: and am glad to employ the leisure of this season upon my books, which

others throw away upon the most idle occupations. Farewell.

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XCVIII

To Romanus

I am pleased to find by your letter that you are engaged in building; for I may now

defend my own conduct by your example. I am myself employed in the same sort of

work; and since I have you, who shall deny I have reason on my side? Our situations

too are not dissimilar; your buildings are carried on upon the sea-coast, mine are

rising upon the side of the Larian lake. I have several villas upon the borders of this

lake, but there are two particularly in which, as I take most delight, so they give me

most employment. They are both situated like those at Baiae:2 one of them stands

upon a rock, and overlooks the lake; the other actually touches it. The first, supported

as it were by the lofty buskin,2 I call my tragic; the other, as resting upon the humble

rock, my comic villa. Each has its own peculiar charm, recommending it to its

possessor so much more on account of this very difference. The former commands a

wider, the latter enjoys a nearer view of the lake. One, by a gentle curve, embraces a

little bay; the other, being built upon a greater height, forms two. Here you have a

strait walk extending itself along the banks of the lake; there, a spacious terrace that

falls by a gentle descent towards it. The former does not feel the force of the waves;

the latter breaks them; from that you see the fishing-vessels; from this you may fish

yourself, and throw your line out of your room, and almost from your bed, as from off

a boat. It is the beauties therefore these agreeable villas possess that tempt me to add

to them those which are wanting.—But I need not assign a reason to you; who,

undoubtedly, will think it a sufficient one that I follow your example. Farewell.

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XCIX

To Geminus

Your letter was particularly acceptable to me, as it mentioned your desire that I would

send you something of mine, addressed to you, to insert in your works. I shall find a

more appropriate occasion of complying with your request than that which you

propose, the subject you point out to me being attended with some objections; and

when you reconsider it, you will think so.—As I did not imagine there were any

booksellers at Lugdunum,1 I am so much the more pleased to learn that my works are

sold there. I rejoice to find they maintain the character abroad which they raised at

home, and I begin to flatter myself they have some merit, since persons of such

distant countries are agreed in their opinion with regard to them. Farewell.

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To Junior

A certain friend of mine lately chastised his son, in my presence, for being somewhat

too expensive in the matter of dogs and horses. “And pray,” I asked him, when the

youth had left us, “did you never commit a fault yourself which deserved your

father’s correction? Did you never? I repeat. Nay, are you not sometimes even now

guilty of errors which your son, were he in your place, might with equal gravity

reprove? Are not all mankind subject to indiscretions? And have we not each of us

our particular follies in which we fondly indulge ourselves?”

The great affection I have for you induced me to set this instance of unreasonable

severity before you—a caution not to treat your son with too much harshness and

severity. Consider, he is but a boy, and that there was a time when you were so too. In

exerting, therefore, the authority of a father, remember always that you are a man, and

the parent of a man. Farewell.

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To Quadratus

The pleasure and attention with which you read the vindication I published of

Helvidius,1 has greatly raised your curiosity, it seems, to be informed of those

particulars relating to that affair, which are not mentioned in the defence; as you were

too young to be present yourself at that transaction. When Domitian was assassinated,

a glorious opportunity, I thought, offered itself to me of pursuing the guilty,

vindicating the injured, and advancing my own reputation. But amidst an infinite

variety of the blackest crimes, none appeared to me more atrocious than that a senator,

of praetorian dignity, and invested with the sacred character of a judge, should, even

in the very senate itself, lay violent hands upon a member2 of that body, one of

consular rank, and who then stood arraigned before him. Besides this general

consideration, I also happened to be on terms of particular intimacy with Helvidius, as

far as this was possible with one who, through fear of the times, endeavoured to veil

the lustre of his fame, and his virtues, in obscurity and retirement. Arria likewise, and

her daughter Fannia, who was mother-in-law to Helvidius, were in the number of my

friends. But it was not so much private attachments as the honour of the public, a just

indignation at the action, and the danger of the example if it should pass unpunished,

that animated me upon the occasion. At the first restoration of liberty3 every man

singled out his own particular enemy (though it must be confessed, those only of a

lower rank), and, in the midst of much clamour and confusion, no sooner brought the

charge than procured the condemnation. But for myself, I thought it would be more

reasonable and more effectual, not to take advantage of the general resentment of the

public, but to crush this criminal with the single weight of his own enormous guilt.

When therefore the first heat of public indignation began to cool, and declining

passion gave way to justice, though I was at that time under great affliction for the

loss of my wife,4 I sent to Anteia, the widow of Helvidius, and desired her to come to

me, as my late misfortune prevented me from appearing in public. When she arrived, I

said to her, “I am resolved not to suffer the injuries your husband has received, to pass

unrevenged; let Arria and Fannia” (who were just returned from exile) “know this;

and consider together whether you would care to join with me in the prosecution. Not

that I want an associate, but I am not so jealous of my own glory as to refuse to share

it with you in this affair.” She accordingly carried this message; and they all agreed to

the proposal without the least hesitation. It happened very opportunely that the senate

was to meet within three days. It was a general rule with me to consult, in all my

affairs, with Corellius, a person of the greatest far-sightedness and wisdom this age

has produced. However, in the present case, I relied entirely upon my own discretion,

being apprehensive he would not approve of my design, as he was very cautious and

deliberate. But though I did not previously take counsel with him (experience having

taught me, never to do so with a person concerning a question we have already

determined, where he has a right to expect that one shall be decided by his judgment),

yet I could not forbear acquainting him with my resolution at the time I intended to

carry it into execution. The senate being assembled, I came into the house, and

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begged I might have leave to make a motion; which I did in few words, and with

general assent. When I began to touch upon the charge, and point out the person I

intended to accuse (though as yet without mentioning him by name), I was attacked

on all sides. “Let us know,” exclaims one, “who is the subject of this informal

motion?” “Who is it” (asked another) “that is thus accused, without acquainting the

house with his name, and his crime?” “Surely” (added a third) “we who have survived

the late dangerous times may expect now, at least, to remain in security.” I heard all

this with perfect calmness, and without being in the least alarmed. Such is the effect

of conscious integrity; and so much difference is there with respect to inspiring

confidence or fear, whether the world had only rather one should forbear a certain act,

or absolutely condemn it. It would be too tedious to relate all that was advanced, by

different parties, upon this occasion. At length the consul said, “You will be at liberty,

Secundus, to propose what you think proper when your turn comes to give your

opinion upon the order of the day.”5 I replied, “You must allow me a liberty which

you never yet refused to any;” and so sat down: when immediately the house went

upon another business. In the meanwhile, one of my consular friends took me aside,

and, with great earnestness telling me he thought I had carried on this affair with more

boldness than prudence, used every method of reproof and persuasion to prevail with

me to desist; adding at the same time that I should certainly, if I persevered, render

myself obnoxious to some future prince. “Be it so,” I returned, “should he prove a bad

one.” Scarcely had he left me when a second came up: “Whatever,” said he, “are you

attempting? Why ever will you ruin yourself? Do you consider the risks you expose

yourself to? Why will you presume too much on the present situation of public affairs,

when it is so uncertain what turn they may hereafter take? You are attacking a man

who is actually at the head of the treasury, and will shortly be consul. Besides,

recollect what credit he has, and with what powerful friendships he is supported?”

Upon which he named a certain person, who (not without several strong and

suspicious rumours) was then at the head of a powerful army in the east. I replied,

“ ‘All I’ve foreseen, and oft in thought revolv’d;’6

and am willing, if fate shall so decree, to suffer in an honest cause, provided I can

draw vengeance down upon a most infamous one.” The time for the members to give

their opinions was now arrived. Domitius Apollinaris, the consul elect, spoke first;

after him Fabricius Vejento, then Fabius Maximinus, Vettius Proculus next (who

married my wife’s mother, and who was the colleague of Publicius Certus, the person

on whom the debate turned), and last of all Ammius Flaccus. They all defended

Certus, as if I had named him (though I had not yet so much as once mentioned him),

and entered upon his justification as if I had exhibited a specific charge. It is not

necessary to repeat in this place what they respectively said, having given it all at

length in their words in the speech above-mentioned. Avidius Quietus and Cornutus

Tertullus answered them. The former observed, “that it was extremely unjust not to

hear the complaints of those who thought themselves injured, and therefore that Arria

and Fannia ought not to be denied the privilege of laying their grievances before the

house; and that the point for the consideration of the senate was not the rank of the

person, but the merit of the cause.”

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Then Cornutus rose up and acquainted the house, “that, as he was appointed guardian

to the daughter of Helvidius by the consuls, upon the petition of her mother and her

father-in-law, he felt himself compelled to fulfil the duty of his trust. In the execution

of which, however, he would endeavour to set some bounds to his indignation by

following that great example of moderation which those excellent women7 had set,

who contented themselves with barely informing the senate of the cruelties which

Certus committed in order to carry on his infamous adulation; and therefore,” he said,

“he would move only that, if a punishment due to a crime so notoriously known

should be remitted, Certus might at least be branded with some mark of the

displeasure of that august assembly.” Satrius Rufus spoke next, and, meaning to steer

a middle course, expressed himself with considerable ambiguity. “I am of opinion,”

said he, “that great injustice will be done to Certus if he is not acquitted (for I do not

scruple to mention his name, since the friends of Arria and Fannia, as well as his own,

have done so too), nor indeed have we any occasion for anxiety upon this account.

We who think well of the man shall judge him with the same impartiality as the rest;

but if he is innocent, as I hope he is, and shall be glad to find, I think this house may

very justly deny the present motion till some charge has been proved against him.”

Thus, according to the respective order in which they were called upon, they delivered

their several opinions. When it came to my turn, I rose up, and, using the same

introduction to my speech as I have published in the defence, I replied to them

severally. It is surprising with what attention, what clamorous applause I was heard,

even by those who just before were loudest against me: such a wonderful change was

wrought either by the importance of the affair, the successful progress of the speech,

or the resolution of the advocate. After I had finished, Vejento attempted to reply; but

the general clamour raised against him not permitting him to go on, “I entreat you,

conscript fathers,”8 said he, “not to oblige me to implore the assistance of the

tribunes.”9 Immediately the tribune Murena cried out, “You have my permission,

most illustrious Vejento, to go on.” But still the clamour was renewed. In the interval,

the consul ordered the house to divide, and having counted the voices, dismissed the

senate, leaving Vejento in the midst, still attempting to speak. He made great

complaints of this affront (as he called it), applying the following lines of Homer to

himself:

“Great perils, father, wait the unequal fight;

Those younger champions will thy strength o’ercome.”10

There was hardly a man in the senate that did not embrace and kiss me, and all strove

who should applaud me most, for having, at the cost of private enmities, revived a

custom so long disused, of freely consulting the senate upon affairs that concern the

honour of the public; in a word, for having wiped off that reproach which was thrown

upon it by other orders in the state, “that the senators mutually favoured the members

of their own body, while they were very severe in animadverting upon the rest of their

fellow-citizens.” All this was transacted in the absence of Certus; who kept out of the

way either because he suspected something of this nature was intended to be moved,

or (as was alleged in his excuse) that he was really unwell. Caesar, however, did not

refer the examination of this matter to the senate. But I succeeded, nevertheless, in my

aim, another person being appointed to succeed Certus in the consulship, while the

election of his colleague to that office was confirmed. And thus, the wish with which I

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concluded my speech, was actually accomplished: “May he be obliged,” said I, “to

renounce, under a virtuous prince,11 that reward he received from an infamous

one!”12 Some time after I recollected, as well as I could, the speech I had made upon

this occasion; to which I made several additions. It happened (though indeed it had

the appearance of being something more than casual) that a few days after I had

published this piece, Certus was taken ill and died. I was told that his imagination was

continually haunted with this affair, and kept picturing me ever before his eyes, as a

man pursuing him with a drawn sword. Whether there was any truth in this rumour, I

will not venture to assert; but, for the sake of example, however, I could wish it might

gain credit. And now I have sent you a letter which (considering it is a letter) is as

long as the defence you say you have read: but you must thank yourself for not being

content with such information as that piece could afford you. Farewell.

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CII

To Genitor

I have received your letter, in which you complain of having been highly disgusted

lately at a very splendid entertainment, by a set of buffoons, mummers, and wanton

prostitutes, who were dancing about round the tables.1 But let me advise you to

smooth your knitted brow somewhat. I confess, indeed, I admit nothing of this kind at

my own house; however, I bear with it in others. “And why, then,” you will be ready

to ask, “not have them yourself?” The truth is, because the gestures of the wanton, the

pleasantries of the buffoon, or the extravagancies of the mummer, give me no

pleasure, as they give me no surprise. It is my particular taste, you see, not my

judgment, that I plead against them. And indeed, what numbers are there who think

the entertainments with which you and I are most delighted no better than impertinent

follies! How many are there who, as soon as a reader, a lyrist, or a comedian is

introduced, either take their leave of the company or, if they remain, show as much

dislike to this sort of thing as you did to those monsters, as you call them! Let us bear

therefore, my friend, with others in their amusements, that they, in return, may show

indulgence to ours. Farewell.

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CIII

To Sabinianus

Your freedman, whom you lately mentioned to me with displeasure, has been with

me, and threw himself at my feet with as much submission as he could have fallen at

yours. He earnestly requested me with many tears, and even with all the eloquence of

silent sorrow, to intercede for him; in short, he convinced me by his whole behaviour

that he sincerely repents of his fault. I am persuaded he is thoroughly reformed,

because he seems deeply sensible of his guilt. I know you are angry with him, and I

know, too, it is not without reason; but clemency can never exert itself more laudably

than when there is the most cause for resentment. You once had an affection for this

man, and, I hope, will have again; meanwhile, let me only prevail with you to pardon

him. If he should incur your displeasure hereafter, you will have so much the stronger

plea in excuse for your anger as you show yourself more merciful to him now.

Concede something to his youth, to his tears, and to your own natural mildness of

temper: do not make him uneasy any longer, and I will add too, do not make yourself

so; for a man of your kindness of heart cannot be angry without feeling great

uneasiness. I am afraid, were I to join my entreaties with his, I should seem rather to

compel than request you to forgive him. Yet I will not scruple even to write mine with

his; and in so much the stronger terms as I have very sharply and severely reproved

him, positively threatening never to interpose again in his behalf. But though it was

proper to say this to him, in order to make him more fearful of offending, I do not say

so to you. I may perhaps, again have occasion to entreat you upon this account, and

again obtain your forgiveness; supposing, I mean, his fault should be such as may

become me to intercede for, and you to pardon. Farewell.

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CIV

To Maximus

It has frequently happened, as I have been pleading before the Court of the Hundred,

that these venerable judges, after having preserved for a long period the gravity and

solemnity suitable to their character, have suddenly, as though urged by irresistible

impulse, risen up to a man and applauded me. I have often likewise gained as much

glory in the senate as my utmost wishes could desire: but I never felt a more sensible

pleasure than by an account which I lately received from Cornelius Tacitus. He

informed me that, at the last Circensian games, he sat next to a Roman knight, who,

after conversation had passed between them upon various points of learning, asked

him, “Are you an Italian, or a provincial?” Tacitus replied, “Your acquaintance with

literature must surely have informed you who I am.” “Pray, then, is it Tacitus or Pliny

I am talking with?” I cannot express how highly I am pleased to find that our names

are not so much the proper appellatives of men as a kind of distinction for learning

herself; and that eloquence renders us known to those who would otherwise be

ignorant of us. An accident of the same kind happened to me a few days ago. Fabius

Rufinus, a person of distinguished merit, was placed next to me at table; and below

him a countryman of his, who had just then come to Rome for the first time. Rufinus,

calling his friend’s attention to me, said to him, “You see this man?” and entered into

a conversation upon the subject of my pursuits: to whom the other immediately

replied, “This must undoubtedly be Pliny.” To confess the truth, I look upon these

instances as a very considerable recompense of my labours. If Demosthenes had

reason to be pleased with the old woman of Athens crying out, “This is

Demosthenes!” may not I, then, be allowed to congratulate myself upon the celebrity

my name has acquired? Yes, my friend, I will rejoice in it, and without scruple admit

that I do. As I only mention the judgment of others, not my own, I am not afraid of

incurring the censure of vanity; especially from you, who, whilst envying no man’s

reputation, are particularly zealous for mine. Farewell.

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To Sabinianus

I greatly approve of your having, in compliance with my letter,1 received again into

your favour and family a discarded freedman, who you once admitted into a share of

your affection. This will afford you, I doubt not, great satisfaction. It certainly has me,

both as a proof that your passion can be controlled, and as an instance of your paying

so much regard to me, as either to yield to my authority or to comply with my request.

Let me, therefore, at once both praise and thank you. At the same time I must advise

you to be disposed for the future to pardon the faults of your people, though there

should be none to interecede in their behalf. Farewell.

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CVI

To Lupercus

I said once (and, I think, not inaptly) of a certain orator of the present age, whose

compositions are extremely regular and correct, but deficient in grandeur and

embellishment, “His only fault is that he has none.” Whereas he, who is possessed of

the true spirit of oratory, should be bold and elevated, and sometimes even flame out,

be hurried away, and frequently tread upon the brink of a precipice: for danger is

generally near whatever is towering and exalted. The plain, it is true, affords a safer,

but for that reason a more humble and inglorious, path: they who run are more likely

to stumble than they who creep; but the latter gain no honour by not slipping, while

the former even fall with glory. It is with eloquence as with some other arts; she is

never more pleasing than when she risks most. Have you not observed what

acclamations our rope-dancers excite at the instant of imminent danger? Whatever is

most entirely unexpected, or as the Greeks more strongly express it, whatever is most

perilous, most excites our admiration. The pilot’s skill is by no means equally proved

in a calm as in a storm: in the former case he tamely enters the port, unnoticed and

unapplauded; but when the cordage cracks, the mast bends, and the rudder groans,

then it is that he shines out in all his glory, and is hailed as little inferior to a sea-god.

The reason of my making this observation is, because, if I mistake not, you have

marked some passages in my writings for being tumid, exuberant, and over-wrought,

which, in my estimation, are but adequate to the thought, or boldly sublime. But it is

material to consider whether your criticism turns upon such points as are real faults,

or only striking and remarkable expressions. Whatever is elevated is sure to be

observed; but it requires a very nice judgment to distinguish the bounds between true

and false grandeur; between loftiness and exaggeration. To give an instance out of

Homer, the author who can, with the greatest propriety, fly from one extreme of style

to another

“Heav’n in loud thunder bids the trumpet sound;

And wide beneath them groans the rending ground.”1

Again,

“Reclin’d on clouds his steed and armour lay.”2

So in this passage:

“As torrents roll, increas’d by numerous rills,

With rage impetuous down their echoing hills,

Rush to the vales, and pour’d along the plain,

Roar through a thousand channels to the main.”3

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It requires, I say, the nicest balance to poise these metaphors, and determine whether

they are incredible and meaningless, or majestic and sublime. Not that I think

anything which I have written, or can write, admits of comparison with these. I am not

quite so foolish; but what I would be understood to contend for is, that we should give

eloquence free rein, and not restrain the force and impetuosity of genius within too

narrow a compass. But it will be said, perhaps, that one law applies to orators, another

to poets. As if, in truth, Marc Tully were not as bold in his metaphors as any of the

poets! But not to mention particular instances from him, in a point where, I imagine,

there can be no dispute; does Demosthenes4 himself, that model and standard of true

oratory, does Demosthenes check and repress the fire of his indignation, in that well-

known passage which begins thus: “These wicked men, these flatterers, and these

destroyers of mankind,” &c. And again: “It is neither with stones nor bricks that I

have fortified this city,” &c.—And afterwards: “I have thrown up these out-works

before Attica, and pointed out to you all the resources which human prudence can

suggest,” &c.—And in another place: “O Athenians, I swear by the immortal gods

that he is intoxicated with the grandeur of his own actions,” &c.5 —But what can be

more daring and beautiful than that long digression, which begins in this manner: “A

terrible disease?”—The following passage likewise, though somewhat shorter, is

equally boldly conceived:—“Then it was I rose up in opposition to the daring Pytho,

who poured forth a torrent of menaces against you,” &c.6 —The subsequent stricture

is of the same stamp: “When a man has strengthened himself, as Philip has, in avarice

and wickedness, the first pretence, the first false step, be it ever so inconsiderable, has

overthrown and destroyed all,” &c.7 —So in the same style with the foregoing is

this:—“Railed off, as it were, from the privileges of society, by the concurrent and

just judgments of the three tribunals in the city.”—And in the same place: “O

Aristogiton! you have betrayed that mercy which used to be shown to offences of this

nature, or rather, indeed, you have wholly destroyed it. In vain then would you fly for

refuge to a port, which you have shut up, and encompassed with rocks.”—He has said

before: “I am afraid, therefore, you should appear in the judgment of some, to have

erected a public seminary of faction: for there is a weakness in all wickedness which

renders it apt to betray itself!”—And a little lower: “I see none of these resources

open to him; but all is precipice gulf, and profound abyss.”—And again: “Nor do I

imagine that our ancestors erected those courts of judicature that men of his character

should be planted there, but on the contrary, eradicated, that none may emulate their

evil actions.”—And afterwards: “If he is then the artificer of every wickedness, if he

only makes it his trade and traffic,” &c.—And a thousand other passages which I

might cite to the same purpose; not to mention those expressions which Aeschines

calls not words, but wonders.—You will tell me, perhaps, I have unwarily mentioned

Aeschines, since Demosthenes is condemned even by him, for running into these

figurative expressions. But observe, I entreat you, how far superior the former orator

is to his critic, and superior too in the very passage to which he objects; for in others,

the force of his genius, in those above quoted, its loftiness, makes itself manifest. But

does Aeschines himself avoid those errors which he reproves in Demosthenes? “The

orator,” says he, “Athenians, and the law, ought to speak the same language; but when

the voice of the law declares one thing, and that of the orator another we should give

our vote to the justice of the law, not to the impudence of the orator.”8 —And in

another place: “He afterwards manifestly discovered the design he had, of concealing

his fraud under cover of the decree, having expressly declared therein that the

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ambassadors sent to the Oretae gave the five talents, not to you, but to Callias. And

that you may be convinced of the truth of what I say (after having stripped the decree

of its gallies, its trim, and its arrogant ostentation), read the clause itself.”—And in

another part: “Suffer him not to break cover and escape out of the limits of the

question.” A metaphor he is so fond of that he repeats it again. “But remaining firm

and confident in the assembly, drive him into the merits of the question, and observe

well how he doubles.”—Is his style more reserved and simple when he says: “But

you are ever wounding our ears, and are more concerned in the success of your daily

harangues than for the salvation of the city?”—What follows is conceived in a yet

higher strain of metaphor: “Will you not expel this man as the common calamity of

Greece? Will you not seize and punish this pirate of the state, who sails about in quest

of favourable conjunctures,” &c.—With many other passages of a similar nature. And

now I expect you will make the same attacks upon certain expressions in this letter as

you did upon those I have been endeavouring to defend. The rudder that groans, and

the pilot compared to a sea-god, will not, I imagine, escape your criticism: for I

perceive, while I am suing for indulgence to my former style, I have fallen into the

same kind of figurative diction which you condemn. But attack them if you please

provided you will immediately appoint a day when we may meet to discuss these

matters in person: you will then either teach me to be less daring or I shall teach you

to be more bold. Farewell.

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CVII

To Caninius

I have met with a story, which, although authenticated by undoubted evidence, looks

very like fable, and would afford a worthy field for the exercise of so exuberant, lofty,

and truly poetical a genius as your own. It was related to me the other day over the

dinner table, where the conversation happened to run upon various kinds of marvels.

The person who told the story was a man of unsuspected veracity:—but what has a

poet to do with truth? However, you might venture to rely upon his testimony, even

though you had the character of a faithful historian to support. There is in Africa a

town called Hippo, situated not far from the sea-coast: it stands upon a navigable lake,

communicating with an estuary in the form of a river, which alternately flows into the

lake, or into the ocean, according to the ebb and flow of the tide. People of all ages

amuse themselves here with fishing, sailing, or swimming; especially boys, whom

love of play brings to the spot. With these it is a fine and manly achievement to be

able to swim the farthest; and he that leaves the shore and his companions at the

greatest distance gains the victory. It happened, in one of these trials of skill, that a

certain boy, bolder than the rest, launched out towards the opposite shore. He was met

by a dolphin, who sometimes swam before him, and sometimes behind him, then

played round him, and at last took him upon his back, and set him down, and

afterwards took him up again; and thus he carried the poor frightened fellow out into

the deepest part; when immediately he turns back again to the shore, and lands him

among his companions. The fame of this remarkable accident spread through the

town, and crowds of people flocked round the boy (whom they viewed as a kind of

prodigy) to ask him questions and hear him relate the story. The next day the shore

was thronged with spectators, all attentively watching the ocean, and (what indeed is

almost itself an ocean) the lake. Meanwhile the boys swam as usual, and among the

rest, the boy I am speaking of went into the lake, but with more caution than before.

The dolphin appeared again and came to the boy, who, together with his companions,

swam away with the utmost precipitation. The dolphin, as though to invite and call

them back, leaped and dived up and down, in a series of circular movements. This he

practised the next day, the day after, and for several days together, till the people

(accustomed from their infancy to the sea) began to be ashamed of their timidity.

They ventured, therefore, to advance nearer, playing with him and calling him to

them, while he, in return, suffered himself to be touched and stroked. Use rendered

them courageous. The boy, in particular, who first made the experiment, swam by the

side of him, and, leaping upon his back, was carried backwards and forwards in that

manner, and thought the dolphin knew him and was fond of him, while he too had

grown fond of the dolphin. There seemed, now, indeed, to be no fear on either side,

the confidence of the one and tameness of the other mutually increasing; the rest of

the boys, in the meanwhile, surrounding and encouraging their companion. It is very

remarkable that this dolphin was followed by a second, which seemed only as a

spectator and attendant on the former; for he did not at all submit to the same

familiarities as the first, but only escorted him backwards and forwards, as the boys

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did their comrade. But what is further surprising, and no less true than what I have

already related, is that this dolphin, who thus played with the boys and carried them

upon his back, would come upon the shore, dry himself in the sand, and, as soon as he

grew warm, roll back into the sea. It is a fact that Octavius Avitus, deputy governor of

the province, actuated by an absurd piece of superstition, poured some ointment1 over

him as he lay on the shore: the novelty and smell of which made him retire into the

ocean, and it was not till several days after that he was seen again, when he appeared

dull and languid; however, he recovered his strength and continued his usual playful

tricks. All the magistrates round flocked hither to view this sight, whose arrival, and

prolonged stay, was an additional expense, which the slender finances of this little

community would ill afford; besides, the quiet and retirement of the place was utterly

destroyed. It was thought proper, therefore, to remove the occasion of this concourse,

by privately killing the poor dolphin. And now, with what a flow of tenderness will

you describe this affecting catastrophe!2 and how will your genius adorn and heighten

this moving story! Though, indeed, the subject does not require any fictitious

embellishments; it will be sufficient to describe the actual facts of the case without

suppression or diminution. Farewell.

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CVIII

To Fuscus

You want to know how I portion out my day, in my summer villa at Tuscum? I get up

just when I please; generally about sunrise, often earlier, but seldom later than this. I

keep the shutters closed, as darkness and silence wonderfully promote meditation.

Thus free and abstracted from these outward objects which dissipate attention, I am

left to my own thoughts; nor suffer my mind to wander with my eyes, but keep my

eyes in subjection to my mind, which, when they are not distracted by a multiplicity

of external objects, see nothing but what the imagination represents to them. If I have

any work in hand, this is the time I choose for thinking it out, word for word, even to

the minutest accuracy of expression. In this way I compose more or less, according as

the subject is more or less difficult, and I find myself able to retain it. I then call my

secretary, and, opening the shutters, dictate to him what I have put into shape, after

which I dismiss him, then call him in again, and again dismiss him. About ten or

eleven o’clock (for I do not observe one fixed hour), according to the weather, I either

walk upon my terrace or in the covered portico, and there I continue to meditate or

dictate what remains upon the subject in which I am engaged. This completed, I get

into my chariot, where I employ myself as before, when I was walking, or in my

study; and find this change of scene refreshes and keeps up my attention. On my

return home, I take a little nap, then a walk, and after that repeat out loud and

distinctly some Greek or Latin speech, not so much for the sake of strengthening my

voice as my digestion;1 though indeed the voice at the same time is strengthened by

this practice. I then take another walk, am anointed, do my exercises, and go into the

bath. At supper, if I have only my wife or a few friends with me, some author is read

to us; and after supper we are entertained either with music or an interlude. When that

is finished, I take my walk with my family, among whom I am not without some

scholars. Thus we pass our evenings in varied conversation; and the day, even when at

the longest, steals imperceptibly away. Upon some occasions I change the order in

certain of the articles abovementioned. For instance, if I have studied longer or

walked more than usual, after my second sleep, and reading a speech or two aloud,

instead of using my chariot I get on horseback; by which means I ensure as much

exercise and lose less time. The visits of my friends from the neighbouring villages

claim some part of the day; and sometimes, by an agreeable interruption, they come in

very seasonably to relieve me when I am feeling tired. I now and then amuse myself

with hunting, but always take my tablets into the field, that, if I should meet with no

game, I may at least bring home something. Part of my time too (though not so much

as they desire) is allotted to my tenants; whose rustic complaints, along with these city

occupations, make my literary studies still more delightful to me. Farewell.

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CIX

To Paulinus

As you are not of a disposition to expect from your friends the ordinary ceremonial

observances of society when they cannot observe them without inconvenience to

themselves, so I love you too steadfastly to be apprehensive of your taking otherwise

than I wish you should my not waiting upon you on the first day of your entrance

upon the consular office, especially as I am detained here by the necessity of letting

my farms upon long leases. I am obliged to enter upon an entirely new plan with my

tenants: for under the former leases, though I made them very considerable

abatements, they have run greatly in arrear. For this reason several of them have not

only taken no sort of care to lessen a debt which they found themselves incapable of

wholly discharging, but have even seized and consumed all the produce of the land, in

the belief that it would now be of no advantage to themselves to spare it. I must

therefore obviate this increasing evil, and endeavour to find out some remedy against

it. The only one I can think of is, not to reserve my rent in money, but in kind, and so

place some of my servants to overlook the tillage, and guard the stock; as indeed there

is no sort of revenue more agreeable to reason than what arises from the bounty of the

soil, the seasons, and the climate. It is true, this method will require great honesty,

sharp eyes, and many hands. However, I must risk the experiment, and, as in an

inveterate complaint, try every change of remedy. You see, it is not any pleasurable

indulgence that prevents my attending you on the first day of your consulship. I shall

celebrate it, nevertheless, as much as if I were present, and pay my vows for you here,

with all the warmest tokens of joy and congratulation. Farewell.

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To Fuscus

You are much pleased, I find, with the account I gave you in my former letter of how

I spend the summer season at Tuscum, and desire to know what alteration I make in

my method when I am at Laurentum in the winter. None at all, except abridging

myself of my sleep at noon, and borrowing a good piece of the night before daybreak

and after sunset for study: and if business is very urgent (which in winter very

frequently happens), instead of having interludes or music after supper, I reconsider

whatever I have previously dictated, and improve my memory at the same time by

this frequent mental revision. Thus I have given you a general sketch of my mode of

life in summer and winter; to which you may add the intermediate seasons of spring

and autumn, in which, while losing nothing out of the day, I gain but little from the

night. Farewell.

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CORRESPONDENCE

WITH THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

TO THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

The pious affection you bore, most sacred Emperor, to your august father induced you

to wish it might be late ere you succeeded him. But the immortal gods thought proper

to hasten the advancement of those virtues to the helm of the commonwealth which

had already shared in the steerage.2 May you then, and the world through your means,

enjoy every prosperity worthy of your reign: to which let me add my wishes, most

excellent Emperor, upon a private as well as public account, that your health and

spirits may be preserved firm and unbroken.

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To The Emperor Trajan

You have occasioned me, Sir, an inexpressible pleasure in deeming me worthy of

enjoying the privilege which the laws confer on those who have three children. For

although it was from an indulgence to the request of the excellent Julius Servianus,

your own most devoted servant, that you granted this favour, yet I have the

satisfaction to find by the words of your rescript that you complied the more willingly

as his application was in my behalf. I cannot but look upon myself as in possession of

my utmost wish, after having thus received, at the beginning of your most auspicious

reign, so distinguishing a mark of your peculiar favour; at the same time that it

considerably heightens my desire of leaving a family behind me. I was not entirely

without this desire even in the late most unhappy times: as my two marriages will

induce you to believe. But the gods decreed it better, by reserving every valuable

privilege to the bounty of your generous dispensations. And indeed the pleasure of

being a father will be so much more acceptable to me now, that I can enjoy it in full

security and happiness.

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III

To The Emperor Trajan

The experience, most excellent Emperor, I have had of your unbounded generosity to

me, in my own person, encourages me to hope I may be yet farther obliged to it, in

that of my friends. Voconius Romanus (who was my schoolfellow and companion

from our earliest years) claims the first rank in that number; in consequence of which

I petitioned your sacred father to promote him to the dignity of the senatorial order.

But the completion of my request is reserved to your goodness; for his mother had not

then advanced, in the manner the law directs, the liberal gift3 of four hundred

thousand sesterces, which she engaged to give him, in her letter to the late emperor,

your father. This, however, by my advice she has since done, having made over

certain estates to him, as well as completed every other act necessary to make the

conveyance valid. The difficulties therefore being removed which deferred the

gratification of our wishes, it is with full confidence I venture to assure you of the

worth of my friend Romanus, heightened and adorned as it is not only by liberal

culture, but by his extraordinary tenderness to his parents as well. It is to that virtue he

owes the present liberality of his mother; as well as his immediate succession to his

late father’s estate, and his adoption by his father-in-law. To these personal

qualifications, the wealth and rank of his family give additional lustre; and I persuade

myself it will be some further recommendation that I solicit in his behalf. Let me,

then, entreat you, Sir, to enable me to congratulate Romanus on so desirable an

occasion, and at the same time to indulge an eager and, I hope, laudable ambition, of

having it in my power to boast that your favourable regards are extended not only to

myself, but also to my friend.

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To The Emperor Trajan

When by your gracious indulgence, Sir, I was appointed to preside at the treasury of

Saturn, I immediately renounced all engagements of the bar (as indeed I never

blended business of that kind with the functions of the state), that no avocations might

call off my attention from the post to which I was appointed. For this reason, when the

province of Africa petitioned the senate that I might undertake their cause against

Marius Priscus, I excused myself from that office; and my excuse was allowed. But

when afterwards the consul elect proposed that the senate should apply to us again,

and endeavour to prevail with us to yield to its inclinations, and suffer our names to

be thrown into the urn, I thought it most agreeable to that tranquillity and good order

which so happily distinguishes your times not to oppose (especially in so reasonable

an instance) the will of that august assembly. And, as I am desirous that all my words

and actions may receive the sanction of your exemplary virtue, I hope you approve of

my compliance.

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Trajan To Pliny

You acted as became a good citizen and a worthy senator, by paying obedience to the

just requisition of that august assembly: and I have full confidence you will faithfully

discharge the business you have undertaken.

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To The Emperor Trajan

Having been attacked last year by a very severe and dangerous illness, I employed a

physician, whose care and diligence, Sir, I cannot sufficiently reward, but by your

gracious assistance. I entreat you therefore to make him a denizen of Rome; for as he

is the freedman of a foreign lady, he is, consequently, himself also a foreigner. His

name is Harpocras; his patroness (who has been dead a considerable time) was

Thermuthis, the daughter of Theon. I further entreat you to bestow the full privileges

of a Roman citizen upon Hedia and Antonia Harmeris, the freedwomen of Antonia

Maximilla, a lady of great merit. It is at her desire I make this request.

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VII

To The Emperor Trajan

I return you thanks, Sir, for your ready compliance with my desire, in granting the

complete privileges of a Roman to the freedwomen of a lady to whom I am allied and

also for making Harpocras, my physician, a denizen of Rome. But when, agreeably to

your directions, I gave in an account of his age, and estate, I was informed by those

who are better skilled in the affairs than I pretend to be that, as he is an Egyptian, I

ought first to have obtained for him the freedom of Alexandria before he was made

free of Rome. I confess, indeed, as I was ignorant of any difference in this case

between those of Egypt and other countries, I contented myself with only acquainting

you that he had been manumitted by a foreign lady long since deceased. However, it

is an ignorance I cannot regret, since it affords me an opportunity of receiving from

you a double obligation in favour of the same person. That I may legally therefore

enjoy the benefit of your goodness, I beg you would be pleased to grant him the

freedom of the city of Alexandria, as well as that of Rome. And that your gracious

intentions may not meet with any further obstacles, I have taken care, as you directed,

to send an account to your freedman of his age and possessions.

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VIII

Trajan To Pliny

It is my resolution, in pursuance of the maxim observed by the princes my

predecessors, to be extremely cautious in granting the freedom of the city of

Alexandria: however, since you have obtained of me the freedom of Rome for you

physician Harpocras, I cannot refuse you this other request. You must let me know to

what district he belongs, that I may give you a letter to my friend Pompeius Planta,

governor of Egypt.

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To The Emperor Trajan

I cannot express, Sir, the pleasure your letter gave me, by which I am informed that

you have made my physician Harpocras a denizen of Alexandria; notwithstanding

your resolution to follow the maxim of your predecessors in this point, by being

extremely cautious in granting that privilege. Agreeably to your directions, I acquaint

you that Harpocras belongs to the district of Memphis.1 I entreat you then, most

gracious Emperor, to send me, as you promised, a letter to your friend Pompeius

Planta, governor of Egypt.

As I purpose (in order to have the earliest enjoyment of your presence, so ardently

wished for here) to come to meet you, I beg, Sir, you would permit me to extend my

journey as far as possible.

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To The Emperor Trajan

I was greatly obliged, Sir, in my late illness, to Posthumius Marinus, my physician;

and I cannot make him a suitable return, but by the assistance of your wonted gracious

indulgence. I entreat you then to make Chrysippus Mithridates and his wife Stratonica

(who are related to Marinus) denizens of Rome. I entreat likewise the same privilege

in favour of Epigonus and Mithridates, the two sons of Chrysippus; but with this

restriction1 that they may remain under the dominion of their father, and yet reserve

their right of patronage over their own freedmen. I further entreat you to grant the full

privileges of a Roman to L. Satrius Abascantius, P. Caesius Phosphorus, and

Pancharia Soteris. This request I make with the consent of their patrons.

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To The Emperor Trajan

After your late sacred father, Sir, had, in a noble speech, as well as by his own

generous example, exhorted and encouraged the public to acts of munificence, I

implored his permission to remove the several statues which I had of the former

emperors to my corporation, and at the same time requested permission to add his

own to the number. For as I had hitherto let them remain in the respective places in

which they stood when they were left to me by several different inheritances, they

were dispersed in distant parts of my estate. He was pleased to grant my request, and

at the same time to give me a very ample testimony of his approbation. I immediately,

therefore, wrote to the decurii, to desire they would allot a piece of ground, upon

which I might build a temple at my own expense; and they, as a mark of honour to my

design, offered me the choice of any site I might think proper. However, my own ill-

health in the first place, and later that of your father, together with the duties of that

employment which you were both pleased to entrust me, prevented my proceeding

with that design. But I have now, I think, a convenient opportunity of making an

excursion for the purpose, as my monthly attendance1 ends on the 1st of September,

and there are several festivals in the month following. My first request, then, is that

you would permit me to adorn the temple I am going to erect with your statue, and

next (in order to the execution of my design with all the expedition possible) that you

would indulge me with leave of absence. It would ill become the sincerity I profess,

were I to dissemble that your goodness in complying with this desire will at the same

time be extremely serviceable to me in my own private affairs. It is absolutely

necessary I should not defer any longer the letting of my lands in that province; for,

besides that they amount to above four hundred thousand sesterces,2 the time for

dressing the vineyards is approaching, and that business must fall upon my new

tenants. The unfruitfulness of the seasons besides, for several years past, obliges me to

think of making some abatements in my rents; which I cannot possibly settle unless I

am present. I shall be indebted then to your indulgence, Sir, for the expedition of my

work of piety, and the settlement of my own private affairs, if you will be pleased to

grant me leave of absence3 for thirty days. I cannot give myself a shorter time, as the

town and the estate of which I am speaking lie above a hundred and fifty miles from

Rome.

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XII

Trajan To Pliny

You have given me many private reasons, and every public one, why you desire leave

of absence; but I need no other than that it is your desire: and I doubt not of your

returning as soon as possible to the duty of an office which so much requires your

attendance. As I would not seem to check any instance of your affection towards me, I

shall not oppose your erecting my statue in the place you desire; though in general I

am extremely cautious in giving any encouragement to honours of that kind.

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XIII

To The Emperor Trajan

As I am sensible, Sir, that the highest applause my actions can receive is to be

distinguished by so excellent a prince, I beg you would be graciously pleased to add

either the office of augur or septemvir1 (both which are now vacant) to the dignity I

already enjoy by your indulgence; that I may have the satisfaction of publicly offering

up those vows for your prosperity, from the duty of my office, which I daily prefer to

the gods in private, from the affection of my heart.

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XIV

To The Emperor Trajan

Having safely passed the promontory of Malea, I am arrived at Ephesus with all my

retinue, notwithstanding I was detained for some time by contrary winds: a piece of

information, Sir, in which, I trust, you will feel yourself concerned. I propose

pursuing the remainder of my journey to the province1 partly in light vessels, and

partly in post-chaises: for as the excessive heats will prevent my travelling altogether

by land, so the Etesian winds,2 which are now set in, will not permit me to proceed

entirely by sea.

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Trajan To Pliny

Your information, my dear Pliny, was extremely agreeable to me, as it does concern

me to know in what manner you arrive at your province. It is a wise intention of yours

to travel either by sea or land, as you shall find most convenient.

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XVI

To The Emperor Trajan

As I had a very favourable voyage to Ephesus, so in travelling by post-chaise from

thence I was extremely troubled by the heats, and also by some slight feverish attacks,

which kept me some time at Pergamus. From there, Sir, I got on board a coasting

vessel, but, being again detained by contrary winds, did not arrive at Bithynia so soon

as I had hoped. However, I have no reason to complain of this delay, since (which

indeed was the most auspicious circumstance that could attend me) I reached the

province in time to celebrate your birthday. I am at present engaged in examining the

finances of the Prusenses,1 their expenses, revenues, and credits; and the farther I

proceed in this work, the more I am convinced of the necessity of my enquiry. Several

large sums of money are owing to the city from private persons, which they neglect to

pay upon various pretences; as, on the other hand, I find the public funds are, in some

instances, very unwarrantably applied. This, Sir, I write to you immediately on my

arrival. I entered this province on the 17th of September,2 and found in it that

obedience and loyalty towards yourself which you justly merit from all mankind. You

will consider, Sir, whether it would not be proper to send a surveyor here; for I am

inclined to think much might be deducted from what is charged by those who have the

conduct of the public works if a faithful admeasurement were to be taken: at least I

am of that opinion from what I have already seen of the accounts of this city, which I

am now going into as fully as is possible.

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XVII

Trajan To Pliny

I should have rejoiced to have heard that you arrived at Bithynia without the smallest

inconvenience to yourself or any of your retinue, and that your journey from Ephesus

had been as easy as your voyage to that place was favourable. For the rest, your letter

informs me, my dearest Secundus, on what day you reached Bithynia. The people of

that province will be convinced, I persuade myself, that I am attentive to their interest;

as your conduct towards them will make it manifest that I could have chosen no more

proper person to supply my place. The examination of the public accounts ought

certainly to be your first employment, as they are evidently in great disorder. I have

scarcely surveyors sufficient to inspect those works3 which I am carrying on at Rome,

and in the neighbourhood; but persons of integrity and skill in this art may be found,

most certainly, in every province, so that they will not fail you if only you will make

due enquiry.

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XVIII

To The Emperor Trajan

Though I am well assured, Sir, that you, who never omit any opportunity of exerting

your generosity, are not unmindful of the request I lately made to you, yet, as you

have often indulged me in this manner, give me leave to remind and earnestly entreat

you to bestow the praetorship now vacant upon Attius Sura. Though his ambition is

extremely moderate, yet the quality of his birth, the inflexible integrity he has

preserved in a very narrow fortune, and, more than all, the felicity of your times,

which encourages conscious virtue to claim your favour, induce him to hope he may

experience it in the present instance.

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XIX

To The Emperor Trajan

I congratulate both you and the public, most excellent Emperor, upon the great and

glorious victory you have obtained; so agreeable to the heroism of ancient Rome. May

the immortal gods grant the same happy success to all your designs, that, under the

administration of so many princely virtues, the splendour of the empire may shine out,

not only in its former, but with additional lustre.1

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To The Emperor Trajan

My lieutenant, Servilius Pudens, came to Nicomedia,1 Sir, on the 24th of November,

and by his arrival freed me, at length, from the anxiety of a very uneasy expectation.

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XXI

To The Emperor Trajan

Your generosity to me, Sir, was the occasion of uniting me to Rosianus Geminus, by

the strongest ties; for he was my quaestor when I was consul. His behaviour to me

during the continuance of our offices was highly respectful, and he has treated me

ever since with so peculiar a regard that, besides the many obligations I owe him upon

a public account, I am indebted to him for the strongest pledges of private friendship.

I entreat you, then, to comply with my request for the advancement of one whom (if

my recommendation has any weight) you will even distinguish with your particular

favour; and whatever trust you shall repose in him, he will endeavour to show himself

still deserving of an higher. But I am the more sparing in my praises of him, being

persuaded his integrity, his probity, and his vigilance are well known to you, not only

from those high posts which he has exercised in Rome within your immediate

inspection, but from his behaviour when he served under you in the army. One thing,

however, my affection for him inclines me to think, I have not yet sufficiently done;

and therefore, Sir, I repeat my entreaties that you will give me the pleasure, as early as

possible, of rejoicing in the advancement of my quaestor, or, in other words, of

receiving an addition to my own honours, in the person of my friend.

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XXII

To The Emperor Trajan

It is not easy, Sir, to express the joy I received when I heard you had, in compliance

with the request of my mother-in-law and myself, granted Coelius Clemens the

proconsulship of this province after the expiration of his consular office; as it is from

thence I learn the full extent of your goodness towards me, which thus graciously

extends itself through my whole family. As I dare not pretend to make an equal return

to those obligations I so justly owe you, I can only have recourse to vows, and

ardently implore the gods that I may not be found unworthy of those favours which

you are the repeatedly conferring upon me.

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XXIII

To The Emperor Trajan

I received, Sir, a dispatch from your freedman, Lycormas, desiring me, if any

embassy from Bosporus1 should come here on the way to Rome, that I would detain it

till his arrival. None has yet arrived, at least in the city2 where I now am. But a

courier passing through this place from the king of Sarmatia,3 I embrace the

opportunity which accidentally offers itself, of sending with him the messenger which

Lycormas despatched hither, that you might be informed by both their letters of what,

perhaps, it may be expedient you should be acquainted with at one and the same time.

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XXIV

To The Emperor Trajan

I am informed by a letter from the king of Sarmatia that there are certain affairs of

which you ought to be informed as soon as possible. In order, therefore, to hasten the

despatches which his courier was charged with to you, I granted him an order to make

use of the public post.1

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XXV

To The Emperor Trajan

The ambassador from the king of Sarmatia having remained two days, by his own

choice, at Nicea, I did not think it reasonable, Sir, to detain him any longer: because,

in the first place, it was still uncertain when your freedman, Lycormas, would arrive,

and then again some indispensable affairs require my presence in a different part of

the province. Of this I thought it necessary that you should be informed, because I

lately acquainted you in a letter that Lycormas had desired, if any embassy should

come this way from Bosporus, that I would detain it till his arrival. But I saw no

plausible pretext for keeping him back any longer, especially as the despatches from

Lycormas, which (as I mentioned before) I was not willing to detain, would probably

reach you some days sooner than this ambassador.

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XXVI

To The Emperor Trajan

I received a letter, Sir, from Apuleius, a military man, belonging to the garrison at

Nicomedia, informing me that one Callidromus, being arrested by Maximus and

Dionysius (two bakers, to whom he had hired himself), fled for refuge to your statue;1

that, being brought before a magistrate, he declared he was formerly slave to Laberius

Maximus, but being taken prisoner by Susagus2 in Moesia,3 he was sent as a present

from Decebalus to Pacorus, king of Parthia, in whose service he continued several

years, from whence he made his escape, and came to Nicomedia. When he was

examined before me, he confirmed this account, for which reason I thought it

necessary to send4 him to you. This I should have done sooner, but I delayed his

journey in order to make an inquiry concerning a seal ring which he said was taken

from him, upon which was engraven the figure of Pacorus in his royal robes; I was

desirous (if it could have been found) of transmitting this curiosity to you, with a

small gold nugget which he says he brought from out of the Parthian mines. I have

affixed my seal to it, the impression of which is a chariot drawn by four horses.

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XXVII

To The Emperor Trajan

Your freedman and procurator,5 Maximus, behaved, Sir, during all the time we were

together, with great probity, attention, and diligence; as one strongly attached to your

interest, and strictly observant of discipline. This testimony I willingly give him; and I

give it with all the fidelity I owe you.

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XXVIII

To The Emperor Trajan

After having experienced, Sir, in Gabius Bassus, who commands on the Pontic1 coast,

the greatest integrity, honour, and diligence, as well as the most particular respect to

myself, I cannot refuse him my best wishes and suffrage; and I give them to him with

all that fidelity which is due to you. I have found him abundantly qualified by having

served in the army under you; and it is owing to the advantages of your discipline that

he has learned to merit your favour. The soldiery and the people here, who have had

full experience of his justice and humanity, rival each other in that glorious testimony

they give of his conduct, both in public and in private; and I certify this with all the

sincerity you have a right to expect from me.

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XXIX

To The Emperor Trajan

Nymphidius Lupus,2 Sir, and myself, served in the army together; he commanded a

body of the auxiliary forces at the same time that I was military tribune; and it was

from thence my affection for him began. A long acquaintance has since mutually

endeared and strengthened our friendship. For this reason I did violence to his repose,

and insisted upon his attending me into Bithynia, as my assessor in council. He most

readily granted me this proof of his friendship; and without any regard to the plea of

age, or the ease of retirement, he shared, and continues to share, with me, the fatigue

of public business. I consider his relations, therefore, as my own; in which number

Nymphidius Lupus, his son, claims my particular regard. He is a youth of great merit

and indefatigable application, and in every respect well worthy of so excellent a

father. The early proof he gave of his merit, when he commanded a regiment of foot,

shows him to be equal to any honour you may think proper to confer upon him; and it

gained him the strongest testimony of approbation from those most illustrious

personages, Julius Ferox and Fuscus Salinator. And I will add, Sir, that I shall rejoice

in any accession of dignity which he shall receive as an occasion of particular

satisfaction to myself.

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XXX

To The Emperor Trajan

I beg your determination, Sir, on a point I am exceedingly doubtful about: it is

whether I should place the public slaves1 as sentries round the prisons of the several

cities in this province (as has been hitherto the practice) or employ a party of soldiers

for that purpose? On the one hand, I am afraid the public slaves will not attend this

duty with the fidelity they ought; and on the other, that it will engage too large a body

of the soldiery. In the meanwhile I have joined a few of the latter with the former. I

am apprehensive, however, there may be some danger that this method will occasion

a general neglect of duty, as it will afford them a mutual opportunity of throwing the

blame upon each other.

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XXXI

Trajan To Pliny

There is no occasion, my dearest Secundus, to draw off any soldiers in order to guard

the prisons. Let us rather persevere in the ancient customs observed in this province,

of employing the public slaves for that purpose; and the fidelity with which they shall

execute their duty will depend much upon your care and strict discipline. It is greatly

to be feared, as you observe, if the soldiers should be mixed with the public slaves,

they will mutually trust to each other, and by that means grow so much the more

negligent. But my principal objection is that as few soldiers as possible should be

withdrawn from their standard.

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XXXII

To The Emperor Trajan

Gabius Bassus, who commands upon the frontiers of Pontica, in a manner suitable to

the respect and duty which he owes you, came to me, and has been with me, Sir, for

several days. As far as I could observe, he is a person of great merit and worthy of

your favour. I acquainted him it was your order that he should retain only ten

beneficiary1 soldiers, two horse-guards, and one centurion out of the troops which

you were pleased to assign to my command. He assured me those would not be

sufficient, and that he would write to you accordingly; for which reason I thought it

proper not immediately to recall his supernumeraries.

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XXXIII

Trajan To Pliny

I have received from Gabius Bassus the letter you mention, acquainting me that the

number of soldiers I had ordered him was not sufficient; and for your information I

have directed my answer to be hereunto annexed. It is very material to distinguish

between what the exigency of affairs requires and what an ambitious desire of

extending power may think necessary. As for ourselves, the public welfare must be

our only guide: accordingly it is incumbent upon us to take all possible care that the

soldiers shall not be absent from their standard.

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XXXIV

To The Emperor Trajan

The Prusenses, Sir, having an ancient bath which lies in a ruinous state, desire your

leave to repair it; but, upon examination, I am of opinion it ought to be rebuilt. I think,

therefore, you may indulge them in this request, as there will be a sufficient fund for

that purpose, partly from those debts which are due from private persons to the public

which I am now collecting in; and partly from what they raise among themselves

towards furnishing the bath with oil, which they are willing to apply to the carrying on

of this building; a work which the dignity of the city and the splendour of your times

seem to demand.

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XXXV

Trajan To Pliny

If the erecting a public bath will not be too great a charge upon the Prusenses, we may

comply with their request; provided, however, that no new tax be levied for this

purpose, nor any of those taken off which are appropriated to necessary services.

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XXXVI

To The Emperor Trajan

I am assured, Sir, by your freedman and receiver-general Maximus, that it is

necessary he should have a party of soldiers assigned to him, over and besides the

beneficiarii, which by your orders I allotted to the very worthy Gemellinus. Those

therefore which I found in his service, I thought proper he should retain, especially as

he was going into Paphlagonia,1 in order to procure corn. For his better protection

likewise, and because it was his request, I added two of the cavalry. But I beg you

would inform me, in your next despatches, what method you would have me observe

for the future in points of this nature.

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XXXVII

Trajan To Pliny

As my freedman Maximus was going upon an extraordinary commission to procure

corn, I approve of your having supplied him with a file of soldiers. But when he shall

return to the duties of his former post, I think two from you and as many from his

coadjutor, my receiver-general Virdius Gemellinus, will be sufficient.

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XXXVIII

To The Emperor Trajan

The very excellent young man Sempronius Caelianus, having discovered two slaves2

among the recruits, has sent them to me. But I deferred passing sentence till I had

consulted you, the restorer and upholder of military discipline, concerning the

punishment proper to be inflicted upon them. My principal doubt is that, whether,

although they have taken the military oath, they are yet entered into any particular

legion. I request you therefore, Sir, to inform me what course I should pursue in this

affair, especially as it concerns example.

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XXXIX

Trajan To Pliny

Sempronius Caelinus has acted agreeably to my orders, in sending such persons to be

tried before you as appear to deserve capital punishment. It is material however, in the

case in question, to inquire whether these slaves inlisted themselves voluntarily, or

were chosen by the officers, or presented as substitutes for others. If they were

chosen, the officer is guilty; if they are substitutes, the blame rests with those who

deputed them; but if, conscious of the legal inabilities of their station, they presented

themselves voluntarily, the punishment must fall upon their own heads. That they are

not yet entered into any legion, makes no great difference in their case; for they ought

to have given a true account of themselves immediately, upon their being approved as

fit for the service.

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To The Emperor Trajan

As I have your permission, Sir, to address myself to you in all my doubts, you will not

consider it beneath your dignity to descend to those humbler affairs which concern

my administration of this province. I find there are in several cities, particularly those

of Nicomedia and Nicea, certain persons who take upon themselves to act as public

slaves, and receive an annual stipend accordingly; notwithstanding they have been

condemned either to the mines, the public games,1 or other punishments of the like

nature. Having received information of this abuse I have been long debating with

myself what I ought to do. On the one hand, to send them back again to their

respective punishments (many of them being now grown old, and behaving, as I am

assured, with sobriety and modesty) would, I thought, be proceeding against them too

severely; on the other, to retain convicted criminals in the public service, seemed not

altogether decent. I considered at the same time to support these people in idleness

would be an useless expense to the public; and to leave them to starve would be

dangerous. I was obliged therefore to suspend the determination of this matter till I

could consult with you. You will be desirous, perhaps, to be informed how it

happened that these persons escaped the punishments to which they were condemned.

This enquiry I have also made, but cannot return you any satisfactory answer. The

decrees against them were indeed produced; but no record appears of their having

ever been reversed. It was asserted, however, that these people were pardoned upon

their petition to the proconsuls, or their lieutenants; which seems likely to be the truth,

as it is improbable any person would have dared to set them at liberty without

authority.

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XLI

Trajan To Pliny

You will remember you were sent into Bithynia for the particular purpose of

correcting those many abuses which appeared in need of reform. Now none stands

more so than that of criminals who have been sentenced to punishment should not

only be set at liberty (as your letter informs me) without authority, but even appointed

to employments which ought only to be exercised by persons whose characters are

irreproachable. Those therefore among them who have been convicted within these

ten years, and whose sentence has not been reversed by proper authority, must be sent

back again to their respective punishments: but where more than ten years have

elapsed since their conviction, and they are grown old and infirm, let them be

disposed of in such employments as are but few degrees removed from the

punishments to which they were sentenced; that is, either to attend upon the public

baths, cleanse the common sewers, or repair the streets and highways, the usual

offices assigned to such persons.

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XLII

To The Emperor Trajan

While I was making a progress in a different part of the province, a most extensive

fire broke out at Nicomedia, which not only consumed several private houses, but also

two public buildings; the town-house and the temple of Isis, though they stood on

contrary sides of the street. The occasion of its spreading thus far was partly owing to

the violence of the wind, and partly to the indolence of the people, who, manifestly,

stood idle and motionless spectators of this terrible calamity. The truth is the city was

not furnished with either engines,1 buckets, or any single instrument suitable for

extinguishing fires; which I have now however given directions to have prepared.

You will consider, Sir, whether it may not be advisable to institute a company of fire-

men, consisting only of one hundred and fifty members. I will take care none but

those of that business shall be admitted into it, and that the privileges granted them

shall not be applied to any other purpose. As this corporate body will be restricted to

so small a number of members, it will be easy to keep them under proper regulation.

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XLIII

Trajan To Pliny

You are of opinion it would be proper to establish a company of fire-men in

Nicomedia, agreeably to what has been practised in several other cities. But it is to be

remembered that societies of this sort have greatly disturbed the peace of the province

in general, and of those cities in particular. Whatever name we give them, and for

whatever purposes they may be founded, they will not fail to form themselves into

factious assemblies, however short their meetings may be. It will therefore be safer to

provide such machines as are of service in extinguishing fires, enjoining the owners of

houses to assist in preventing the mischief from spreading, and, if it should be

necessary, to call in the aid of the populace.

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XLIV

To The Emperor Trajan

We have acquitted, Sir, and renewed our annual vows1 for your prosperity, in which

that of the empire is essentially involved, imploring the gods to grant us ever thus to

pay and thus to repeat them.

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XLV

Trajan To Pliny

I received the satisfaction, my dearest Secundus, of being informed by your letter that

you, together with the people under your government, have both discharged and

renewed your vows to the immortal gods for my health and happiness.

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XLVI

To The Emperor Trajan

The citizens of Nicomedia, Sir, have expended three millions three hundred and

twenty-nine sesterces2 in building an aqueduct; but, not being able to finish it, the

works are entirely falling to ruin. They made a second attempt in another place, where

they laid out two millions.2 But this likewise is discontinued; so that, after having

been at an immense charge to no purpose, they must still be at a further expense, in

order to be accommodated with water. I have examined a fine spring from whence the

water may be conveyed over arches (as was attempted in their first design) in such a

manner that the higher as well as level and low parts of the city may be supplied.

There are still remaining a very few of the old arches; and the square stones, however,

employed in the former building, may be used in turning the new arches. I am of

opinion part should be raised with brick, as that will be the easier and cheaper

material. But that this work may not meet with the same ill-success as the former, it

will be necessary to send here an architect, or some one skilled in the construction of

this kind of waterworks. And I will venture to say, from the beauty and usefulness of

the design, it will be an erection well worthy the splendour of your times.

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XLVII

Trajan To Pliny

Care must be taken to supply the city of Nicomedia with water; and that business, I

am well persuaded, you will perform with all the diligence you ought. But really it is

no less incumbent upon you to examine by whose misconduct it has happened that

such large sums have been thrown away upon this, lest they apply the money to

private purposes, and the aqueduct in question, like the preceding, should be begun,

and afterwards left unfinished. You will let me know the result of your inquiry.

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XLVIII

To The Emperor Trajan

The citizens of Nicea, Sir, are building a theatre, which, though it is not yet finished,

has already exhausted, as I am informed (for I have not examined the account myself),

above ten millions of sesterces;1 and, what is worse, I fear to no purpose. For either

from the foundation being laid in soft, marshy ground, or that the stone itself is light

and crumbling, the walls are sinking, and cracked from top to bottom. It deserves your

consideration, therefore, whether it would be best to carry on this work, or entirely

discontinue it, or rather, perhaps, whether it would not be most prudent absolutely to

destroy it: for the buttresses and foundations by means of which it is from time to time

kept up appear to me more expensive than solid. Several private persons have

undertaken to build the compartment of this theatre at their own expense, some

engaging to erect the portico, others the galleries over the pit:2 but this design cannot

be executed, as the principal building which ought first to be completed is now at a

stand. This city is also rebuilding, upon a far more enlarged plan, the gymnasium,3

which was burnt down before my arrival in the province. They have already been at

some (and, I rather fear, a fruitless) expense. The structure is not only irregular and

ill-proportioned, but the present architect (who, it must be owned, is a rival to the

person who was first employed) asserts that the walls, although twenty-two feet4 in

thickness, are not strong enough to support the superstructure, as the interstices are

filled up with quarrystones, and the walls are not overlaid with brickwork. Also the

inhabitants of Claudiopolis5 are sinking (I cannot call it erecting) a large public bath,

upon a low spot of ground which lies at the foot of a mountain. The fund appropriated

for the carrying on of this work arises from the money which those honorary members

you were pleased to add to the senate paid (or, at least, are ready to pay whenever I

call upon them) for their admission.6 As I am afraid, therefore, the public money in

the city of Nicea, and (what is infinitely more valuable than any pecuniary

consideration) your bounty in that of Nicopolis, should be ill applied, I must desire

you to send hither an architect to inspect, not only the theatre, but the bath; in order to

consider whether, after all the expense which has already been laid out, it will be

better to finish them upon the present plan, or alter the one, and remove the other, in

as far as may seem necessary: for otherwise we may perhaps throw away our future

cost in endeavouring not to lose what we have already expended.

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XLIX

Trajan To Pliny

You, who are upon the spot, will best be able to consider and determine what is

proper to be done concerning the theatre which the inhabitants of Nicea are building;

as for myself, it will be sufficient if you let me know your determination. With respect

to the particular parts of this theatre which are to be raised at a private charge, you

will see those engagements fulfilled when the body of the building to which they are

to be annexed shall be finished.—These paltry Greeks1 are, I know, immoderately

fond of gymnastic diversions, and therefore, perhaps, the citizens of Nicea have

planned a more magnificent building for this purpose than is necessary; however, they

must be content with such as will be sufficient to answer the purpose for which it is

intended. I leave it entirely to you to persuade the Claudiopolitani as you shall think

proper with regard to their bath, which they have placed, it seems, in a very improper

situation. As there is no province that is not furnished with men of skill and ingenuity,

you cannot possibly want architects; unless you think it the shortest way to procure

them from Rome, when it is generally from Greece that they come to us.

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To The Emperor Trajan

When I reflect upon the splendour of your exalted station, and the magnanimity of

your spirit, nothing, I am persuaded, can be more suitable to both than to point out to

you such works as are worthy of your glorious and immortal name, as being no less

useful than magnificent. Bordering upon the territories of the city of Nicomedia is a

most extensive lake; over which marbles, fruits, woods, and all kinds of materials, the

commodities of the country, are brought over in boats up to the high-road, at little

trouble and expense, but from thence are conveyed in carriages to the sea-side, at a

much greater charge and with great labour. To remedy this inconvenience, many

hands will be in request; but upon such an occasion they cannot be wanting: for the

country, and particularly the city, is exceedingly populous; and one may assuredly

hope that every person will readily engage in a work which will be of universal

benefit. It only remains then to send hither, if you shall think proper, a surveyor or an

architect, in order to examine whether the lake lies above the level of the sea; the

engineers of this province being of opinion that the former is higher by forty cubits.1 I

find there is in the neighbourhood of this place a large canal, which was cut by a king

of this country; but as it is left unfinished, it is uncertain whether it was for the

purpose of draining the adjacent fields, or making a communication between the lake

and the river. It is equally doubtful too whether the death of the king, or the despair of

being able to accomplish the design, prevented the completion of it. If this was the

reason, I am so much the more eager and warmly desirous, for the sake of your

illustrious character (and I hope you will pardon me the ambition), that you may have

the glory of executing what kings could only attempt.

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Trajan To Pliny

There is something in the scheme you propose of opening a communication between

the lake and the sea, which may, perhaps, tempt me to consent. But you must first

carefully examine the situation of this body of water, what quantity it contains, and

from whence it is supplied; lest, by giving it an opening into the sea, it should be

totally drained. You may apply to Calpurnius Macer for an engineer, and I will also

send you from hence some one skilled in works of this nature.

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LII

To The Emperor Trajan

Upon examining into the public expenses of the city of Byzantium, which, I find, are

extremely great, I was informed, Sir, that the appointments of the ambassador whom

they send yearly to you with their homage, and the decree which passes in the senate

upon that occasion, amount to twelve thousand sesterces.1 But knowing the generous

maxims of your government, I thought proper to send the decree without the

ambassador, that, at the same time they discharged their public duty to you, their

expense incurred in the manner of paying it might be lightened. This city is likewise

taxed with the sum of three thousand sesterces2 towards defraying the expense of an

envoy, whom they annually send to compliment the governor of Moesia: this expense

I have also directed to be spared. I beg, Sir, you would deign either to confirm my

judgment or correct my error in these points, by acquainting me with your sentiments.

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LIII

Trajan To Pliny

I entirely approve, my dearest Secundus, of your having excused the Byzantines that

expense of twelve thousand sesterces in sending an ambassador to me. I shall esteem

their duty as sufficiently paid, though I only receive the act of their senate through

your hands. The governor of Moesia must likewise excuse them if they compliment

him at a less expense.

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LIV

To The Emperor Trajan

I beg, Sir, you would settle a doubt I have concerning your diplomas;1 whether you

think proper that those diplomas the dates of which are expired shall continue in

force, and for how long? For I am apprehensive I may, through ignorance, either

confirm such of these instruments as are illegal or prevent the effect of those which

are necessary.

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Trajan To Pliny

The diplomas whose dates are expired must by no means be made use of. For which

reason it is an inviolable rule with me to send new instruments of this kind into all the

provinces before they are immediately wanted.

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LVI

To The Emperor Trajan

Upon intimating, Sir, my intention to the city of Apamea,1 of examining into the state

of their public dues, their revenue and expenses, they told me they were all extremely

willing I should inspect their accounts, but that no proconsul had ever yet looked them

over, as they had a privilege (and that of a very ancient date) of administering the

affairs of their corporation in the manner they thought proper. I required them to draw

up a memorial of what they then asserted, which I transmit to you precisely as I

received it; though I am sensible it contains several things foreign to the question. I

beg you will deign to instruct me as to how I am to act in this affair, for I should be

extremely sorry either to exceed or fall short of the duties of my commission.

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LVII

Trajan To Pliny

The memorial of the Apameans annexed to your letter has saved me the necessity of

considering the reasons they suggest why the former proconsuls forbore to inspect

their accounts, since they are willing to submit them to your examination. Their

honest compliance deserves to be rewarded; and they may be assured the enquiry you

are to make in pursuance of my orders shall be with a full reserve to their privileges.

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LVIII

To The Emperor Trajan

The Nicomedians, Sir, before my arrival in this province, had begun to build a new

forum adjoining their former, in a corner of which stands an ancient temple dedicated

to the mother of the gods.1 This fabric must either be repaired or removed, and for

this reason chiefly, because it is a much lower building than that very lofty one which

is now in process of erection. Upon enquiry whether this temple had been

consecrated, I was informed that their ceremonies of dedication differ from ours. You

will be pleased therefore, Sir, to consider whether a temple which has not been

consecrated according to our rites may be removed,2 consistently with the reverence

due to religion: for, if there should be no objection from that quarter, the removal in

every other respect would be extremely convenient.

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LIX

Trajan To Pliny

You may without scruple, my dearest Secundus, if the situation requires it, remove the

temple of the mother of the gods, from the place where it now stands, to any other

spot more convenient. You need be under no difficulty with respect to the act of

dedication; for the ground of a foreign city3 is not capable of receiving that kind of

consecration which is sanctified by our laws.

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To The Emperor Trajan

We have celebrated, Sir (with those sentiments of joy your virtues so justly merit), the

day of your accession to the empire, which was also its preservation, imploring the

gods to preserve you in health and prosperity; for upon your welfare the security and

repose of the world depends. I renewed at the same time the oath of allegiance at the

head of the army, which repeated it after me in the usual form, the people of the

province zealously concurring in the same oath.

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LXI

Trajan To Pliny

Your letter, my dearest Secundus, was extremely acceptable, as it informed me of the

zeal and affection with which you, together with the army and the provincials,

solemnised the day of my accession to the empire.

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LXII

To The Emperor Trajan

The debts which we are owing to the public are, by the prudence, Sir, of your

counsels, and the care of my administration, either actually paid in or now being

collected: but I am afraid the money must lie unemployed. For as on one side there

are few or no opportunities of purchasing land, so, on the other, one cannot meet with

any person who is willing to borrow of the public1 (especially at 12 per cent. interest)

when they can raise money upon the same terms from private sources. You will

consider then, Sir, whether it may not be advisable, in order to invite responsible

persons to take this money, to lower the interest; or if that scheme should not succeed,

to place it in the hands of the decurii, upon their giving sufficient security to the

public. And though they should not be willing to receive it, yet as the rate of interest

will be diminished, the hardship will be so much the less.

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LXIII

Trajan To Pliny

I agree with you, my dear Pliny, that there seems to be no other method of facilitating

the placing out of the public money than by lowering the interest; the measure of

which you will determine according to the number of the borrowers. But to compel

persons to receive it who are not disposed to do so, when possibly they themselves

may have no opportunity of employing it, is by no means consistent with the justice of

my government.

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LXIV

To The Emperor Trajan

I return you my warmest acknowledgments, Sir, that, among the many important

occupations in which you are engaged you have condescended to be my guide on

those points on which I have consulted you: a favour which I must now again beseech

you to grant me. A certain person presented himself with a complaint that his

adversaries, who had been banished for three years by the illustrious Servilius Calvus,

still remained in the province: they, on the contrary, affirmed that Calvus had revoked

their sentence, and produced his edict to that effect. I thought it necessary therefore to

refer the whole affair to you. For as I have your express orders not to restore any

person who has been sentenced to banishment either by myself or others so I have no

directions with respect to those who, having been banished by some of my

predecessors in this government, have by them also been restored. It is necessary for

me, therefore, to beg you would inform me, Sir, how I am to act with regard to the

above-mentioned persons, as well as others, who, after having been condemned to

perpetual banishment, have been found in the province without permission to return;

for cases of that nature have likewise fallen under my cognisance. A person was

brought before me who had been sentenced to perpetual exile by the proconsul Julius

Bassus, but knowing that the acts of Bassus, during his administration, had been

rescinded, and that the senate had granted leave to all those who had fallen under his

condemnation of appealing from his decision at any time within the space of two

years, I enquired of this man whether he had, accordingly, stated his case to the

proconsul. He replied he had not. I beg then you would inform me whether you would

have him sent back into exile or whether you think some more severe and what kind

of punishment should be inflicted upon him, and such others who may hereafter be

found under the same circumstances. I have annexed to my letter the decree of

Calvus, and the edict by which the persons above-mentioned were restored, as also

the decree of Bassus.

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LXV

Trajan To Pliny

I will let you know my determination concerning those exiles which were banished

for three years by the proconsul P. Servilius Calvus, and soon afterwards restored to

the province by his edict, when I shall have informed myself from him of the reasons

of this proceeding. With respect to that person who was sentenced to perpetual

banishment by Julius Bassus, yet continued to remain in the province, without making

his appeal if he thought himself aggrieved (though he had two years given him for

that purpose), I would have sent in chains to my praetorian prefects:1 for, only to

remand him back to a punishment which he has contumaciously eluded will by no

means be a sufficient punishment.

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LXVI

To The Emperor Trajan

When I cited the judges, Sir, to attend me at a sessions2 which I was going to hold,

Flavius Archippus claimed the privilege of being excused as exercising the profession

of a philosopher.3 It was alleged by some who were present that he ought not only to

be excused from that office, but even struck out of the rolls of judges, and remanded

back to the punishment from which he had escaped, by breaking his chains. At the

same time a sentence of the proconsul Velius Paullus was read, by which it appeared

that Archippus had been condemned to the mines for forgery. He had nothing to

produce in proof of this sentence having ever been reversed. He alleged, however, in

favour of his restitution, a petition which he presented to Domitian, together with a

letter from that prince, and a decree of the Prusensians in his honour. To these he

subjoined a letter which he had received from you; as also an edict and a letter of your

august father confirming the grants which had been made to him by Domitian. For

these reasons, notwithstanding crimes of so atrocious a nature were laid to his charge,

I did not think proper to determine anything concerning him, without first consulting

with you, as it is an affair which seems to merit your particular decision. I have

transmitted to you, with this letter, the several allegations on both sides.

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Domitian’S Letter To Terentius Maximus

“Flavius Archippus the philosopher has prevailed with me to give an order that six

hundred thousand sesterces3 be laid out in the purchase of an estate for the support of

him and his family, in the neighbourhood of Prusias,4 his native country. Let this be

accordingly done; and place that sum to the account of my benefactions.”

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From The Same To L. Appius Maximus

“I recommend, my dear Maximus, to your protection that worthy philosopher

Archippus; a person whose moral conduct is agreeable to the principles of the

philosophy he professes; and I would have you pay entire regard to whatever he shall

reasonably request.”

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The Edict Of The Emperor Nerva

“There are some points no doubt, Quirites, concerning which the happy tenour of my

government is a sufficient indication of my sentiments; and a good prince need not

give an express declaration in matters wherein his intention cannot but be clearly

understood. Every citizen in the empire will bear me witness that I gave up my private

repose to the security of the public, and in order that I might have the pleasure of

dispensing new bounties of my own, as also of confirming those which had been

granted by predecessors. But lest the memory of him5 who conferred these grants, or

the diffidence of those who received them, should occasion any interruption to the

public joy, I thought it as necessary as it is agreeable to me to obviate these suspicions

by assuring them of my indulgence. I do not wish any man who has obtained a private

or a public privilege from one of the former emperors to imagine he is to be deprived

of such a privilege, merely that he may owe the restoration of it to me; nor need any

who have received the gratifications of imperial favour petition me to have them

confirmed. Rather let them leave me at leisure for conferring new grants, under the

assurance that I am only to be solicited for those bounties which have not already

been obtained, and which the happier fortune of the empire has put it in my power to

bestow.”

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From The Same To Tullius Justus

“Since I have publicly decreed that all acts begun and accomplished in former reigns

should be confirmed, the letters of Domitian must remain valid.”

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LXVII

To The Emperor Trajan

Flavius Archippus has conjured me, by all my vows for your prosperity, and by your

immortal glory, that I would transmit to you the memorial which he presented to me. I

could not refuse a request couched in such terms; however, I acquainted the

prosecutrix with this my intention, from whom I have also received a memorial on her

part. I have annexed them both to this letter; that by hearing, as it were, each party,

you may the better be enabled to decide.

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LXVIII

Trajan To Pliny

It is possible that Domitian might have been ignorant of the circumstances in which

Archippus was when he wrote the letter so much to that philosopher’s credit.

However, it is more agreeable to my disposition to suppose that prince designed he

should be restored to his former situation; especially since he so often had the honour

of a statue decreed to him by those who could not be ignorant of the sentence

pronounced against him by the proconsul Paullus. But I do not mean to intimate, my

dear Pliny, that if any new charge should be brought against him, you should be the

less disposed to hear his accusers. I have examined the memorial of his prosecutrix,

Furia Prima, as well as that of Archippus himself, which you sent with your last letter.

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LXIX

To The Emperor Trajan

The apprehensions you express, Sir, that the lake will be in danger of being entirely

drained if a communication should be opened between that and the sea, by means of

the river, are agreeable to that prudence and forethought you so eminently possess;

but I think I have found a method to obviate that inconvenience. A channel may be

cut from the lake up to the river so as not quite to join them, leaving just a narrow

strip of land between, preserving the lake; by this means it will not only be kept quite

separate from the river, but all the same purposes will be answered as if they were

united: for it will be extremely easy to convey over that little intervening ridge

whatever goods shall be brought down by the canal. This is a scheme which may be

pursued, if it should be found necessary; but I hope there will be no occasion to have

recourse to it. For, in the first place, the lake itself is pretty deep; and in the next, by

damming up the river which runs from it on the opposite side and turning its course as

we shall find expedient, the same quantity of water may be retained. Besides, there

are several brooks near the place where it is proposed the channel shall be cut which,

if skilfully collected, will supply the lake with water in proportion to what it shall

discharge. But if you should rather approve of the channel’s being extended farther

and cut narrower, and so conveyed directly into the sea, without running into the

river, the reflux of the tide will return whatever it receives from the lake. After all, if

the nature of the place should not admit of any of these schemes, the course of the

water may be checked by sluices. These, however, and many other particulars, will be

more skilfully examined into by the engineer, whom, indeed, Sir, you ought to send,

according to your promise, for it is an enterprise well worthy of your attention and

magnificence. In the meanwhile, I have written to the illustrious Calpurnius Macer, in

pursuance of your orders, to send me the most skilful engineer to be had.

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LXX

Trajan To Pliny

It is evident, my dearest Secundus, that neither your prudence nor your care has been

wanting in this affair of the lake, since, in order to render it of more general benefit,

you have provided so many expedients against the danger of its being drained. I leave

it to your own choice to pursue whichever of the schemes shall be thought most

proper. Calpurnius Macer will furnish you, no doubt, with an engineer, as artificers of

that kind are not wanting in his province.

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LXXI

To The Emperor Trajan

A very considerable question, Sir, in which the whole province is interested, has been

lately started, concerning the state1 and maintenance of deserted children.2 I have

examined the constitutions of former princes upon this head, but not finding anything

in them relating, either in general or particular, to the Bithynians, I thought it

necessary to apply to you for your directions: for in a point which seems to require the

special interposition of your authority, I could not content myself with following

precedents. An edict of the emperor Augustus (as pretended) was read to me,

concerning one Annia; as also a letter from Vespasian to the Lacedaemonians, and

another from Titus to the same, with one likewise from him to the Achaeans, also

some letters from Domitian, directed to the proconsuls Avidius Nigrinus and

Armenius Brocchus, together with one from that prince to the Lacedaemonians: but I

have not transmitted them to you, as they were not correct (and some of them too of

doubtful authenticity), and also because I imagine the true copies are preserved in

your archives.

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LXXII

Trajan To Pliny

The question concerning children who were exposed by their parents, and afterwards

preserved by others, and educated in a state of servitude, though born free, has been

frequently discussed; but I do not find in the constitutions of the princes my

predecessors any general regulation upon this head, extending to all the provinces.

There are, indeed, some rescripts of Domitian to Avidius Nigrinus and Armenius

Brocchus, which ought to be observed; but Bithynia is not comprehended in the

provinces therein mentioned. I am of opinion therefore that the claims of those who

assert their right of freedom upon this footing should be allowed; without obliging

them to purchase their liberty by repaying the money advanced for their

maintenance.1

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LXXIII

To The Emperor Trajan

Having been petitioned by some persons to grant them the liberty (agreeably to the

practice of former proconsuls) of removing the relics of their deceased relations, upon

the suggestion that either their monuments were decayed by age or ruined by the

inundations of the river, or for other reasons of the same kind, I thought proper, Sir,

knowing that in cases of this nature it is usual at Rome to apply to the college of

priests, to consult you, who are the sovereign of that sacred order, as to how you

would have me act in this case.

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LXXIV

Trajan To Pliny

It will be a hardship upon the provincials to oblige them to address themselves to the

college of priests whenever they may have just reasons for removing the ashes of their

ancestors. In this case, therefore, it will be better you should follow the example of the

governors your predecessors, and grant or deny them this liberty as you shall see

reasonable.

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LXXV

To The Emperor Trajan

I have enquired, Sir, at Prusa, for a proper place on which to erect the bath you were

pleased to allow that city to build, and I have found one to my satisfaction. It is upon

the site where formerly, I am told, stood a very beautiful mansion, but which is now

entirely fallen into ruins. By fixing upon that spot, we shall gain the advantage of

ornamenting the city in a part which at present is exceedingly deformed, and

enlarging it at the same time without removing any of the buildings; only restoring

one which is fallen to decay. There are some circumstances attending this structure of

which it is proper I should inform you. Claudius Polyaenus bequeathed it to the

emperor Claudius Caesar, with directions that a temple should be erected to that

prince in a colonnade-court, and that the remainder of the house should be let in

apartments. The city received the rents for a considerable time; but partly by its

having been plundered, and partly by its being neglected, the whole house, colonnade-

court, and all, is entirely gone to ruin, and there is now scarcely anything remaining of

it but the ground upon which it stood. If you shall think proper, Sir, either to give or

sell this spot of ground to the city, as it lies so conveniently for their purpose, they

will receive it as a most particular favour. I intend, with your permission, to place the

bath in the vacant area, and to extend a range of porticoes with seats in that part where

the former edifice stood. This new erection I purpose dedicating to you, by whose

bounty it will rise with all the elegance and magnificence worthy of your glorious

name. I have sent you a copy of the will, by which, though it is inaccurate, you will

see that Polyaenus left several articles of ornament for the embellishment of this

house; but these also are lost with all the rest: I will, however, make the strictest

enquiry after them that I am able.

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LXXVI

Trajan To Pliny

I have no objection to the Prusenses making use of the ruined court and house, which

you say are untenanted, for the erection of their bath. But it is not sufficiently clear by

your letter whether the temple in the centre of the colonnade-court was actually

dedicated to Claudius or not; for if it were, it is still consecrated ground.1

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LXXVII

To The Emperor Trajan

I have been pressed by some persons to take upon myself the enquiry of causes

relating to claims of freedom by birth-right, agreeably to a rescript of Domitian’s to

Minucius Rufus, and the practice of former proconsuls. But upon casting my eye on

the decree of the senate concerning cases of this nature, I find it only mentions the

proconsular provinces.2 I have therefore, Sir, deferred interfering in this affair, till I

shall receive your instructions as to how you would have me proceed.

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LXXVIII

Trajan To Pliny

If you will send me the decree of the senate, which occasioned your doubt, I shall be

able to judge whether it is proper you should take upon yourself the enquiry of causes

relating to claims of freedom by birth-right.

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LXXIX

To The Emperor Trajan

Julius Largus, of Ponus1 (a person whom I never saw nor indeed ever heard his name

till lately), in confidence, Sir, of your distinguishing judgment in my favour, has

entrusted me with the execution of the last instance of his loyalty towards you. He has

left me, by his will, his estate upon trust, in the first place to receive out of it fifty

thousand sesterces2 for my own use, and to apply the remainder for the benefit of the

cities of Heraclea and Tios,3 either by erecting some public edifice dedicated to your

honour or instituting athletic games, according as I shall judge proper. These games

are to be celebrated every five years, and to be called Trajan’s games. My principal

reason for acquainting you with this bequest is that I may receive your directions

which of the respective alternatives to choose.

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LXXX

Trajan To Pliny

By the prudent choice Julius Largus has made of a trustee, one would imagine he had

known you perfectly well. You will consider then what will most tend to perpetuate

his memory, under the circumstances of the respective cities, and make your option

accordingly.

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LXXXI

To The Emperor Trajan

You acted agreeably, Sir, to your usual prudence and foresight in ordering the

illustrious Calpurnius Macer to send a legionary centurion to Byzantium: you will

consider whether the city of Juliopolis1 does not deserve the same regard, which,

though it is extremely small, sustains very great burthens, and is so much the more

exposed to injuries as it is less capable of resisting them. Whatever benefits you shall

confer upon that city will in effect be advantageous to the whole country; for it is

situated at the entrance of Bithynia, and is the town through which all who travel into

this province generally pass.

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LXXXII

Trajan To Pliny

The circumstances of the city of Byzantium are such, by the great confluence of

strangers to it, that I held it incumbent upon me, and consistent with the customs of

former reigns, to send thither a legionary centurion’s guard to preserve the privileges

of that state. But if we should distinguish the city of Juliopolis in the same way, it will

be introducing a precedent for many others, whose claim to that favour will rise in

proportion to their want of strength. I have so much confidence, however, in your

administration as to believe you will omit no method of protecting them from injuries.

If any persons shall act contrary to the discipline I have enjoined, let them be instantly

corrected; or if they happen to be soldiers, and their crimes should be too enormous

for immediate chastisement, I would have them sent to their officers, with an account

of the particular misdemeanour you shall find they have been guilty of; but if the

delinquents should be on their way to Rome, inform me by letter.

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LXXXIII

To The Emperor Trajan

By a law of Pompey’s2 concerning the Bithynians, it is enacted, Sir, that no person

shall be a magistrate, or be chosen into the senate, under the age of thirty. By the same

law it is declared that those who have exercised the office of magistrate are qualified

to be members of the senate. Subsequent to this law, the emperor Augustus published

an edict, by which it was ordained that persons of the age of twenty-two should be

capable of being magistrates. The question therefore is whether those who have

exercised the functions of a magistrate before the age of thirty may be legally chosen

into the senate by the censors?2 And if so, whether, by the same kind of construction,

they may be elected senators, at the age which entitles them to be magistrates, though

they should not actually have borne any office? A custom which, it seems, has

hitherto been observed, and is said to be expedient, as it is rather better that persons of

noble birth should be admitted into the senate than those of plebeian rank. The

censors elect having desired my sentiments upon this point, I was of opinion that both

by the law of Pompey and the edict of Augustus those who had exercised the

magistracy before the age of thirty might be chosen into the senate; and for this

reason, because the edict allows the office of magistrate to be undertaken before

thirty; and the law declares that whoever has been a magistrate should be eligible for

the senate. But with respect to those who never discharged any office in the state,

though they were of the age required for that purpose, I had some doubt: and

therefore, Sir, I apply to you for your directions. I have subjoined to this letter the

heads of the law, together with the edict of Augustus.

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LXXXIV

Trajan To Pliny

I agree with you, my dearest Secundus, in your construction, and am of opinion that

the law of Pompey is so far repealed by the edict of the emperor Augustus that those

persons who are not less than twenty-two years of age may execute the office of

magistrates, and, when they have, may be received into the senate of their respective

cities. But I think that they who are under thirty years of age, and have not discharged

the function of a magistrate, cannot, upon pretence that in point of years they were

competent to the office, legally be elected into the senate of their several

communities.

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LXXXV

To The Emperor Trajan

Whilst I was despatching some public affairs, Sir, at my apartments in Prusa, at the

foot of Olympus, with the intention of leaving that city the same day, the magistrate

Asclepiades informed me that Eumolpus had appealed to me from a motion which

Cocceianus Dion made in their senate. Dion, it seems, having been appointed

supervisor of a public building, desired that it might be assigned1 to the city in form.

Eumolpus, who was counsel for Flavius Archippus, insisted that Dion should first be

required to deliver in his accounts relating to this work, before it was assigned to the

corporation; suggesting that he had not acted in the manner he ought. He added, at the

same time, that in this building, in which your statue is erected, the bodies of Dion’s

wife and son are entombed,2 and urged me to hear this cause in the public court of

judicature. Upon my at once assenting to his request, and deferring my journey for

that purpose, he desired a longer day in order to prepare matters for hearing, and that I

would try this cause in some other city. I appointed the city of Nicea; where, when I

had taken my seat, the same Eumolpus, pretending not to be yet sufficiently

instructed, moved that the trial might be again put off: Dion, on the contrary, insisted

it should be heard. They debated this point very fully on both sides, and entered a

little into the merits of the cause; when being of opinion that it was reasonable it

should be adjourned, and thinking it proper to consult with you in an affair which was

of consequence in point of precedent, I directed them to exhibit the articles of their

respective allegations in writing; for I was desirous you should judge from their own

representations of the state of the question between them. Dion promised to comply

with this direction and Eumolpus also assured me he would draw up a memorial of

what he had to allege on the part of the community. But he added that, being only

concerned as advocate on behalf of Archippus, whose instructions he had laid before

me, he had no charge to bring with respect to the sepulchres. Archippus, however, for

whom Eumolpus was counsel here, as at Prusa, assured me he would himself present

a charge in form upon this head. But neither Eumolpus nor Archippus (though I have

waited several days for that purpose) have yet performed their engagement: Dion

indeed has; and I have annexed his memorial to this letter. I have inspected the

buildings in question, where I find your statue is placed in a library, and as to the

edifice in which the bodies of Dion’s wife and son are said to be deposited, it stands

in the middle of a court, which is enclosed with a colonnade. Deign, therefore, I

entreat you, Sir, to direct my judgment in the determination of this cause above all

others as it is a point to which the public is greatly attentive, and necessarily so, since

the fact is not only acknowledged, but countenanced by many precedents.

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LXXXVI

Trajan To Pliny

You well know, my dearest Secundus, that it is my standing maxim not to create an

awe of my person by severe and rigorous measures, and by construing every slight

offence into an act of treason; you had no reason, therefore, to hesitate a moment

upon the point concerning which you thought proper to consult me. Without entering

therefore into the merits of that question (to which I would by no means give any

attention, though there were ever so many instances of the same kind), I recommend

to your care the examination of Dion’s accounts relating to the public works which he

has finished; as it is a case in which the interest of the city is concerned, and as Dion

neither ought nor, it seems, does refuse to submit to the examination.

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LXXXVII

To The Emperor Trajan

The Niceans having, in the name of their community, conjured me, Sir, by all my

hopes and wishes for your prosperity and immortal glory (an adjuration which is and

ought to be most sacred to me), to present to you their petition, I did not think myself

at liberty to refuse them: I have therefore annexed it to this letter.

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LXXXVIII

Trajan To Pliny

The Niceans I find, claim a right, by an edict of Augustus, to the estate of every

citizen who dies intestate. You will therefore summon the several parties interested in

this question, and, examining these pretensions, with the assistance of the procurators

Virdius Gemellinus, and Epimachus, my freedman (having duly weighed every

argument that shall be alleged against the claim), determine as shall appear most

equitable.

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LXXXIX

To The Emperor Trajan

May this and many succeeding birthdays be attended, Sir, with the highest felicity to

you; and may you, in the midst of an uninterrupted course of health and prosperity, be

still adding to the increase of that immortal glory which your virtues justly merit!

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Trajan To Pliny

Your wishes, my dearest Secundus, for my enjoyment of many happy birthdays

amidst the glory and prosperity of the republic were extremely agreeable to me.

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XCI

To The Emperor Trajan

The inhabitants of Sinope1 are ill supplied, Sir, with water, which however may be

brought thither from about sixteen miles’ distance in great plenty and perfection. The

ground, indeed, near the source of this spring is, for rather over a mile, of a very

suspicious and marshy nature; but I have directed an examination to be made (which

will be effected at a small expense) whether it is sufficiently firm to support any

superstructure. I have taken care to provide a sufficient fund for this purpose, if you

should approve, Sir, of a work so conducive to the health and enjoyment of this

colony, greatly distressed by a scarcity of water.

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XCII

Trajan To Pliny

I would have you proceed, my dearest Secundus, in carefully examining whether the

ground you suspect is firm enough to support an aqueduct. For I have no manner of

doubt that the Sinopian colony ought to be supplied with water; provided their

finances will bear the expense of a work so conducive to their health and pleasure.

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XCIII

To The Emperor Trajan

The free and confederate city of the Amiseni1 enjoys, by your indulgence, the

privilege of its own laws. A memorial being presented to me there, concerning a

charitable institution,2 I have subjoined it to this letter, that you may consider, Sir,

whether, and how far, this society ought to be licensed or prohibited.

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XCIV

Trajan To Pliny

If the petition of the Amiseni which you have transmitted to me, concerning the

establishment of a charitable society, be agreeable to their own laws, which by the

articles of alliance it is stipulated they shall enjoy, I shall not oppose it; especially if

these contributions are employed, not for the purpose of riot and faction, but for the

support of the indigent. In other cities, however, which are subject to our laws, I

would have all assemblies of this nature prohibited.

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XCV

To The Emperor Trajan

Suetonius Tranquillus, Sir, is a most excellent, honourable, and learned man. I was so

much pleased with his tastes and disposition that I have long since invited him into

my family, as my constant guest and domestic friend; and my affection for him

increased the more I knew of him. Two reasons concur to render the privilege3 which

the law grants to those who have three children particularly necessary to him; I mean

the bounty of his friends, and the ill-success of his marriage. Those advantages,

therefore, which nature has denied to him, he hopes to obtain from your goodness, by

my intercession. I am thoroughly sensible, Sir, of the value of the privilege I am

asking; but I know, too, I am asking it from one whose gracious compliance with all

my desires I have amply experienced. How passionately I wish to do so in the present

instance, you will judge by my thus requesting it in my absence; which I would not,

had it not been a favour which I am more than ordinarily anxious to obtain.

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XCVI

Trajan To Pliny

You cannot but be sensible, my dearest Secundus, how reserved I am in granting

favours of the kind you desire; having frequently declared in the senate that I had not

exceeded the number of which I assured that illustrious order I would be contented

with. I have yielded, however, to your request, and have directed an article to be

inserted in my register, that I have conferred upon Tranquillus, on my usual

conditions, the privilege which the law grants to these who have three children.

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XCVII1

To The Emperor Trajan

It is my invariable rule, Sir, to refer to you in all matters where I feel doubtful; for

who is more capable of removing my scruples, or informing my ignorance? Having

never been present at any trials concerning those who profess Christianity, I am

unacquainted not only with the nature of their crimes, or the measure of their

punishment, but how far it is proper to enter into an examination concerning them.

Whether, therefore, any difference is usually made with respect to ages, or no

distinction is to be observed between the young and the adult; whether repentance

entitles them to a pardon; or if a man has been once a Christian, it avails nothing to

desist from his error; whether the very profession of Christianity, unattended with any

criminal act, or only the crimes themselves inherent in the profession are punishable;

on all these points I am in great doubt. In the meanwhile, the method I have observed

towards those who have been brought before me as Christians is this: I asked them

whether they were Christians; if they admitted it, I repeated the question twice, and

threatened them with punishment; if they persisted, I ordered them to be at once

punished: for I was persuaded, whatever the nature of their opinions might be, a

contumacious and inflexible obstinacy certainly deserved correction. There were

others also brought before me possessed with the same infatuation, but being Roman

citizens,2 I directed them to be sent to Rome. But this crime spreading (as is usually

the case) while it was actually under prosecution, several instances of the same nature

occurred. An anonymous information was laid before me containing a charge against

several persons, who upon examination denied they were Christians, or had ever been

so. They repeated after me an invocation to the gods, and offered religious rites with

wine and incense before your statue (which for that purpose I had ordered to be

brought, together with those of the gods), and even reviled the name of Christ:

whereas there is no forcing, it is said, those who are really Christians into any of these

compliances: I thought it proper, therefore, to discharge them. Some among those

who were accused by a witness in person at first confessed themselves Christians, but

immediately after denied it; the rest owned indeed that they had been of that number

formerly, but had now (some above three, others more, and a few above twenty years

ago) renounced that error. They all worshipped your statue and the images of the

gods, uttering imprecations at the same time against the name of Christ. They

affirmed the whole of their guilt, or their error, was, that they met on a stated day

before it was light, and addressed a form of prayer to Christ, as to a divinity, binding

themselves by a solemn oath, not for the purposes of any wicked design, but never to

commit any fraud, theft, or adultery, never to falsify their word, nor deny a trust when

they should be called upon to deliver it up; after which it was their custom to separate,

and then reassemble, to eat in common a harmless meal. From this custom, however,

they desisted after the publication of my edict, by which, according to your

commands, I forbade the meeting of any assemblies. After receiving this account, I

judged it so much the more necessary to endeavor to extort the real truth, by putting

two female slaves to the torture, who were said to officiate3 in their religious rites: but

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all I could discover was evidence of an absurd and extravagant superstition. I deemed

it expedient, therefore, to adjourn all further proceedings, in order to consult you. For

it appears to be a matter highly deserving your consideration, more especially as great

numbers must be involved in the danger of these prosecutions, which have already

extended, and are still likely to extend, to persons of all ranks and ages, and even of

both sexes. In fact, this contagious superstition is not confined to the cities only, but

has spread its infection among the neighbouring villages and country. Nevertheless, it

still seems possible to restrain its progress. The temples, at least, which were once

almost deserted, begin now to be frequented; and the sacred rites, after a long

intermission, are again revived; while there is a general demand for the victims, which

till lately found very few purchasers. From all this it is easy to conjecture what

numbers might be reclaimed if a general pardon were granted to those who shall

repent of their error.

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XCVIII

Trajan To Pliny

You have adopted the right course, my dearest Secundus, in investigating the charges

against the Christians who were brought before you. It is not possible to lay down any

general rule for all such cases. Do not go out of your way to look for them. If indeed

they should be brought before you, and the crime is proved, they must be punished;1

with the restriction, however, that where the party denies he is a Christian, and shall

make it evident that he is not, by invoking our gods, let him (notwithstanding any

former suspicion) be pardoned upon his repentance. Anonymous informations ought

not to be received in any sort of prosecution. It is introducing a very dangerous

precedent, and is quite foreign to the spirit of our age.

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XCIX

To The Emperor Trajan

The elegant and beautiful city of Amastris,2 Sir, has, among other principal

constructions, a very fine street and of considerable length, on one entire side of

which runs what is called indeed a river, but in fact is no other than a vile common

sewer, extremely offensive to the eye, and at the same time very pestilential on

account of its noxious smell. It will be advantageous, therefore, in point of health, as

well as decency, to have it covered; which shall be done with your permission: as I

will take care, on my part, that money be not wanting for executing so noble and

necessary a work.

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Trajan To Pliny

It is highly reasonable, my dearest Secundus, if the water which runs through the city

of Amastris is prejudicial, while uncovered, to the health of the inhabitants, that it

should be covered up. I am well assured you will, with your usual application, take

care that the money necessary for this work shall not be wanting.

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To The Emperor Trajan

We have celebrated, Sir, with great joy and festivity, those votive solemnities which

were publicly proclaimed as formerly, and renewed them the present year,

accompanied by the soldiers and provincials, who zealously joined with us in

imploring the gods that they would be graciously pleased to preserve you and the

republic in that state of prosperity which your many and great virtues, particularly

your piety and reverence towards them, so justly merit.

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CII

Trajan To Pliny

It was agreeable to me to learn by your letter that the army and the provincials

seconded you, with the most joyful unanimity, in those vows which you paid and

renewed to the immortal gods for my preservation and prosperity.

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CIII

To The Emperor Trajan

We have celebrated, with all the warmth of that pious zeal we justly ought, the day on

which, by a most happy succession, the protection of mankind was committed over

into your hands; recommending to the gods, from whom you received the empire, the

object of your public vows and congratulations.

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CIV

Trajan To Pliny

I was extremely well pleased to be informed by your letter that you had, at the head of

the soldiers and the provincials, solemnised my accession to the empire with all due

joy and zeal.

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To The Emperor Trajan

Valerius Paulinus, Sir, having bequeathed to me the right of patronage1 over all his

freedmen, except one, I intreat you to grant the freedom of Rome to three of them. To

desire you to extend this favour to all of them would, I fear, be too unreasonable a

trespass upon your indulgence; which, in proportion as I have amply experienced, I

ought to be so much the more cautious in troubling. The persons for whom I make

this request are C. Valerius Astraeus, C. Valerius Dionysius, and C. Valerius Aper.

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CVI

Trajan To Pliny

You act most generously in so early soliciting in favour of those whom Valerius

Paulinus has confided to your trust. I have accordingly granted the freedom of the city

to such of his freedmen for whom you requested it, and have directed the patent to be

registered: I am ready to confer the same on the rest, whenever you shall desire me.

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CVII

To The Emperor Trajan

P. Attius Aquila, a centurion of the sixth equestrian cohort, requested me, Sir, to

transmit his petition to you, in favour of his daughter. I thought it would be unkind to

refuse him this service, knowing, as I do, with what patience and kindness you attend

to the petitions of the soldiers.

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CVIII

Trajan To Pliny

I have read the petition of P. Attius Aquila, centurion of the sixth equestrian cohort,

which you sent to me; and in compliance with his request, I have conferred upon his

daughter the freedom of the city of Rome. I send you at the same time the patent,

which you will deliver to him.

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CIX

To The Emperor Trajan

I request, Sir, your directions with respect to the recovering those debts which are due

to the cities of Bithynia and Pontus, either for rent, or goods sold, or upon any other

consideration. I find they have a privilege conceded to them by several proconsuls, of

being preferred to other creditors; and this custom has prevailed as if it had been

established by law. Your prudence, I imagine, will think it necessary to enact some

settled rule, by which their rights may always be secured. For the edicts of others,

how wisely soever founded, are but feeble and temporary ordinances, unless

confirmed and sanctioned by your authority.

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Trajan To Pliny

The right which the cities either of Pontus or Bithynia claim relating to the recovery

of debts of whatever kind, due to their several communities, must be determined

agreeably to their respective laws. Where any of these communities enjoy the

privilege of being preferred to other creditors, it must be maintained; but, where no

such privilege prevails, it is not just I should establish one, in prejudice of private

property.

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CXI

To The Emperor Trajan

The solicitor to the treasury of the city of Amisis instituted a claim, Sir, before me

against Julius Piso of about forty thousand denarii,1 presented to him by the public

above twenty years ago, with the consent of the general council and assembly of the

city: and he founded his demand upon certain of your edicts, by which donations of

this kind are prohibited. Piso, on the other hand, asserted that he had conferred large

sums of money upon the community, and, indeed, had thereby expended almost the

whole of his estate. He insisted upon the length of time which had intervened since

this donation, and hoped that he should not be compelled, to the ruin of the remainder

of his fortunes, to refund a present which had been granted him long since, in return

for many good offices he had done the city. For this reason, Sir, I thought it necessary

to suspend giving any judgment in this cause till I shall receive your directions.

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CXII

Trajan To Pliny

Though by my edicts I have ordained that no largesses shall be given out of the public

money, yet, that numberless private persons may not be disturbed in the secure

possession of their fortunes, those donations which have been made long since ought

not to be called in question or revoked. We will not therefore enquire into anything

that has been transacted in this affair so long ago as twenty years; for I would be no

less attentive to secure the repose of every private man than to preserve the treasure of

every public community.

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CXIII

To The Emperor Trajan

The Pompeian law, Sir, which is observed in Pontus and Bithynia, does not direct that

any money for their admission shall be paid in by those who are elected into the

senate by the censors. It has, however, been usual for such members as have been

admitted into those assemblies, in pursuance of the privilege which you were pleased

to grant to some particular cities, of receiving above their legal number, to pay one1

or two thousand denarii2 on their election. Subsequent to this, the proconsul Anicius

Maximus ordained (though indeed his edict related to some few cities only) that those

who were elected by the censors should also pay into the treasury a certain sum,

which varied in different places. It remains, therefore, for your consideration whether

it would not be proper to settle a certain sum for each member who is elected into the

councils to pay upon his entrance; for it well becomes you, whose every word and

action deserves to be immortalized, to establish laws that shall endure for ever.

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CXIV

Trajan To Pliny

I can give no general directions applicable to all the cities of Bithynia, in relation to

those who are elected members of their respective councils, whether they shall pay an

honorary fee upon their admittance or not. I think that the safest method which can be

pursued is to follow the particular laws of each city; and I also think that the censors

ought to make the sum less for those who are chosen into the senate contrary to their

inclinations than for the rest.

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CXV

To The Emperor Trajan

The Pompeian law, Sir, allows the Bithynians to give the freedom of their respective

cities to any person they think proper, provided he is not a foreigner, but native of

some of the cities of this province. The same law specifies the particular causes for

which the censors may expel any member the senate, but makes no mention of

foreigners. Certain of the censors therefore have desired my opinion whether they

ought to expel a member if he should happen to be a foreigner. But I thought it

necessary to receive your instructions in this case; not only because the law, though it

forbids foreigners to be admitted citizens, does not direct that a senator shall be

expelled for the same reason, but because I am informed that in every city in the

province a great number of the senators are foreigners. If, therefore, this clause of the

law, which seems to be antiquated by a long custom to the contrary, should be

enforced, many cities, as well as private persons, must be injured by it. I have

annexed the heads of this law to my letter.

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CXVI

Trajan To Pliny

You might well be doubtful, my dearest Secundus, what reply to give to the censors,

who consulted you concerning their right to elect into the senate foreign citizens,

though of the same province. The authority of the law on one side, and long custom

prevailing against it on the other, might justly occasion you to hesitate. The proper

mean to observe in this case will be to make no change in what is past, but to allow

those senators who are already elected, though contrary to law, to keep their seats, to

whatever city they may belong; in all future elections, however, to pursue the

directions of the Pompeian law: for to give it a retrospective operation would

necessarily introduce great confusion.

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CXVII

To The Emperor Trajan

It is customary here upon any person taking the manly robe, solemnising his marriage,

entering upon the office of a magistrate, or dedicating any public work, to invite the

whole senate, together with a considerable part of the commonalty, and distribute to

each of the company one or two denarii.1 I request you to inform me whether you

think proper this ceremony should be observed, or how far you approve of it. For

myself, though I am of opinion that upon some occasions, especially those of public

festivals, this kind of invitation may be permitted, yet, when carried so far as to draw

together a thousand persons, and sometimes more, it seems to be going beyond a

reasonable number, and has somewhat the appearance of ambitious largesses.

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CXVIII

Trajan To Pliny

You very justly apprehended that those public invitations which extend to an

immoderate number of people, and where the dole is distributed, not singly to a few

acquaintances, but, as it were, to whole collective bodies, may be turned to the

factious purposes of ambition. But I appointed you to your present government, fully

relying upon your prudence, and in the persuasion that you would take proper

measures for regulating the manners and settling the peace of the province.

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CXIX

To The Emperor Trajan

The athletic victors, Sir, in the Iselastic1 games, conceive that the stipend you have

established for the conquerors becomes due from the day they are crowned: for it is

not at all material, they say, what time they were triumphantly conducted into their

country, but when they merited that honour. On the contrary, when I consider the

meaning of the term Iselastic, I am strongly inclined to think that it is intended the

stipend should commence from the time of their public entry. They likewise petition

to be allowed the treat you give at those combats which you have converted into

Iselastic, though they were conquerors before the appointment of that institution: for it

is but reasonable, they assert, that they should receive the reward in this instance, as

they are deprived of it at those games which have been divested of the honour of

being Iselastic, since their victory. But I am very doubtful, whether a retrospect

should be admitted in the case in question, and a reward given, to which the claimants

had no right at the time they obtained the victory. I beg, therefore, you would be

pleased to direct my judgment in these points, by explaining the intention of your own

benefactions.

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CXX

Trajan To Pliny

The stipend appointed for the conqueror in the Iselastic games ought not, I think, to

commence till he makes his triumphant entry into his city. Nor are the prizes, at those

combats which I thought proper to make Iselastic, to be extended backwards to those

who were victors before that alteration took place. With regard to the plea which these

athletic combatants urge, that they ought to receive the Iselastic prize at those combats

which have been made Iselastic subsequent to their conquests, as they are denied it in

the same case where the games have ceased to be so, it proves nothing in their favour;

for notwithstanding any new arrangements which has been made relating to these

games, they are not called upon to return the recompense which they received prior to

such alteration.

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CXXI

To The Emperor Trajan

I have hitherto never, Sir, granted an order for postchaises to any person, or upon any

occasion, but in affairs that relate to your administration. I find myself, however, at

present under a sort of necessity of breaking through this fixed rule. My wife having

received an account of her grandfather’s death, and being desirous to wait upon her

aunt with all possible expedition, I thought it would be unkind to deny her the use of

this privilege; as the grace of so tender an office consists in the early discharge of it,

and as I well knew a journey which was founded in filial piety could not fail of your

approbation. I should think myself highly ungrateful therefore, were I not to

acknowledge that, among other great obligations which I owe to your indulgence, I

have this in particular, that, in confidence of your favour, I have ventured to do,

without consulting you, what would have been too late had I waited for your consent.

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CXXII

Trajan To Pliny

You did me justice, my dearest Secundus, in confiding in my affection towards you.

Without doubt, if you had waited for my consent to forward your wife in her journey

by means of those warrants which I have entrusted to your care, the use of them

would not have answered your purpose; since it was proper this visit to her aunt

should have the additional recommendation of being paid with all possible expedition.

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[1 ]A pupil and intimate friend of Paetus Thrasea, the distinguished Stoic philosopher.

Arulenus was put to death by Domitian for writing a panegyric upon Thrasea.

[2 ]The impropriety of this expression, in the original, seems to lie in the word

stigmosum, which Regulus, probably either coined through affectation or used

through ignorance. It is a word, at least, which does not occur in any author of

authority: the translator has endeavoured, therefore, to preserve the same sort of

impropriety, by using an expression of like unwarranted stamp in his own tongue. M.

[3 ]An allusion to a wound he had received in the war between Vitellius and

Vespasian.

[4 ]A brother of Piso Galba’s adopted son. He was put to death by Nero.

[5 ]Sulpicius Camerinus, put to death by the same emperor, upon some frivolous

charge.

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[6 ]A select body of men who formed a court of judicature, called the centumviral

court. Their jurisdiction extended chiefly, if not entirely, to questions of wills and

intestate estates. Their number, it would seem, amounted to 105. M.

[7 ]Junius Mauricus, the brother of Rusticus Arulenus. Both brothers were sentenced

on the same day, Arulenus to execution and Mauricus to banishment.

[8 ]There seems to have been a cast of uncommon blackness in the character of this

Regulus; otherwise the benevolent Pliny would scarcely have singled him out, as he

has in this and some following letters, for the subject of his warmest contempt and

indignation. Yet, infamous as he was, he had his flatterers and admirers; and a

contemporary poet frequently represents him as one of the most finished characters of

the age, both in eloquence and virtue. M.

[1 ]The Decurii were a sort of senators in the municipal or corporate cities of Italy. M.

[1 ]“Euphrates was a native of Tyre, or, according to others, of Byzantium. He

belonged to the Stoic school of philosophy. In his old age he became tired of life, and

asked and obtained from Hadrian permission to put an end to himself by poison.”

Smith’s Dict. of Greek and Roman Biog.

[1 ]A pleader and historian of some distinction, mentioned by Tacitus, Ann. xiv. 19,

and by Quintilian, x. 1, 102.

[1 ]Padua.

[1 ]Domitian.

[2 ]Iliad, xii. 243. Pope.

[1 ]Equal to about $4,000 of our money. After the reign of Augustus the value of the

sestertius.

[2 ]“The equestrian dignity, or that order of the Roman people which we commonly

call knights, had nothing in it analogous to any order of modern knighthood, but

depended entirely upon a valuation of their estates; and every citizen, whose entire

fortune amounted to 400,000 sesterces, that is, to about $16,000 of our money, was

enrolled, of course, in the list of knights, who were considered as a middle order

between the senators and common people, yet, without any other distinction than the

privilege of wearing a gold ring, which was the peculiar badge of their order.” Life of

Cicero, vol. i. iii. in note. M.

[1 ]An elegant Attic orator, remarkable for the grace and lucidity of his style, also for

his vivid and accurate delineations of character.

[2 ]A graceful and powerful orator, and friend of Demosthenes.

[3 ]A Roman orator of the Augustan age. He was a poet and historian as well, but

gained most distinction as an orator.

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[4 ]A man of considerable taste, talent, and eloquence, but profligate and extravagant.

He was on terms of some intimacy with Cicero.

[5 ]The praetor was assisted by ten assessors, five of whom were senators, and the rest

knights. With these he was obliged to consult before he pronounced sentence. M.

[6 ]A contemporary and rival of Aristophanes.

[7 ]Aristophanes, Ach. 531.

[8 ]Thersites. Iliad, ii. v. 212.

[9 ]Ulysses. Iliad, iii. v. 222.

[10 ]Menelaus. Iliad, iii. v. 214.

[1 ]Great-grandfather of the Emperor M. Aurelius.

[2 ]An eminent lawyer of Trajan’s reign.

[3 ]The philosophers used to hold their disputations in the gymnasia and porticoes,

being places of the most public resort for walking, &c. M.

[1 ]“Verginius Rufus was governor of Upper Germany at the time of the revolt of

Julius Vindex in Gaul, 68. The soldiers of Verginius wished to raise him to the

empire, but he refused the honour, and marched against Vindex, who perished before

Vesontio. After the death of Nero, Verginius supported the claims of Galba, and

accompanied him to Rome. Upon Otho’s death, the soldiers again attempted to

proclaim Verginius emperor, and in consequence of his refusal of the honour, he

narrowly escaped with his life.” (See Smith’s Dict. of Greek and Rom. Biog., &c.)

[2 ]Nerva.

[3 ]The historian.

[4 ]Namely, of augurs. “This college, as regulated by Sylla, consisted of fifteen, who

were all persons of the first distinction in Rome; it was a priesthood for life, of a

character indelible, which no crime or forfeiture could efface; it was necessary that

every candidate should be nominated to the people by two augurs, who gave a solemn

testimony upon oath of his dignity and fitness for that office.” Middleton’s Life of

Cicero, p. 147. M.

[1 ]The ancient Greeks and Romans did not sit up at the table as we do, but reclined

round it on couches, three and sometimes even four occupying one couch, at least this

latter was the custom among the Romans. Each guest lay flat upon his chest while

eating, reaching out his hand from time to time to the table, for what he might require.

As soon as he had made a sufficient meal, he turned over upon his left side, leaning

on the elbow.

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[1 ]A people of Germany.

[1 ]“Any Roman priest devoted to the service of one particular god was designated

Flamen, receiving a distinguishing epithet from the deity to whom he ministered. The

office was understood to last for life; but a flamen might be compelled to resign for a

breach of duty, or even on account of the occurrence of an ill-omened accident while

discharging his functions.” Smith’s Dictionary of Antiquities.

[2 ]Trajan.

[3 ]By a law passed a. u. 762, it was enacted that every citizen of Rome who had three

children should be excused from all troublesome offices where he lived. This

privilege the emperors sometimes extended to those who were not legally entitled to

it.

[1 ]About 54 cents.

[1 ]Avenue.

[2 ]“Windows made of a transparent stone called lapis specularis (mica), which was

first found in Hispania Citerior, and afterwards in Cyprus, Cappadocia, Sicily, and

Africa; but the best came from Spain and Cappadocia. It was easily split into the

thinnest sheets. Windows made of this stone were called specularia.” Smith’s

Dictionary of Antiquities.

[3 ]A feast held in honour of the god Saturn, which began on the 19th of December,

and continued, as some say, for seven days. It was a time of general rejoicing,

particularly among the slaves, who had at this season the privilege of taking great

liberties with their masters. M.

[1 ]Cicero and Quintilian have laid down rules how far, and in what instances, this

liberty was allowable, and both agree it ought to be used with great sagacity and

judgment. The latter of these excellent critics mentions a witticism of Flavius

Virginius, who asked one of these orators, “Quot millia passuum declamasset?” How

many miles he had declaimed. M.

[1 ]This was an act of great ceremony; and if Aurelia’s dress was of the kind which

some of the Roman ladies used, the legacy must have been considerable which

Regulus had the impudence to ask. M.

[2 ]$2,350,000.

[1 ]A poet to whom Quintilian assigns the highest rank, as a writer of tragedies,

among his contemporaries (book x. c. i. 98). Tacitus also speaks of him in terms of

high appreciation (Annals, v. 8).

[2 ]Stepson of Augustus and brother to Tiberius. An amiable and popular prince. He

died at the close of his third campaign, from a fracture received by falling from his

horse.

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[3 ]A historian under Augustus and Tiberius. He wrote part of a history of Rome,

which was continued by the elder Pliny; also an account of the German war, to which

Quintilian makes allusion (Inst. x. 103), pronouncing him, as a historian, “estimable

in all respects, yet in some things failing to do himself justice.”

[4 ]The distribution of time among the Romans was very different from ours. They

divided the night into four equal parts, which they called watches, each three hours in

length; and part of these they devoted either to the pleasures of the table or to study.

The natural day they divided into twelve hours, the first beginning with sunrise, and

the last ending with sunset; by which means their hours were of unequal length,

varying according to the different seasons of the year. The time for business began

with sunrise, and continued to the fifth hour, being that of dinner, which with them

was only a slight repast. From thence to the seventh hour was a time of repose; a

custom which still prevails in Italy. The eighth hour was employed in bodily

exercises; after which they constantly bathed, and from thence went to supper. M.

[5 ]$16,000.

[1 ]Born about 25. He acquired some distinction as an advocate. The only poem of his

which has come down to us is a heavy prosaic performance in seventeen books,

entitled “Tunica,” and containing an account of the events of the Second Punic War,

from the capture of Saguntum to the triumph of Scipio Africanus. See Smith’s Dict. of

Gr. and Rom. Biog.

[2 ]Trajan.

[1 ]Spurinna’s wife.

[1 ]Domitian banished the philosophers not only from Rome, but Italy, as Suetonius

(Dom. c. x.) and Aulus Gellius (Noct. Att. b. xv. cxi. 3, 4, 5) inform us; among these

was the celebrated Epictetus. M.

[1 ]The following is the story, as related by several of the ancient historians. Paetus,

having joined Scribonianus, who was in arms, in Illyria, against Claudius, was taken

after the death of Scribonianus, and condemned to death. Arria having, in vain,

solicited his life, persuaded him to destroy himself, rather than suffer the ignominy of

falling by the executioner’s hands; and, in order to encourage him to an act, to which,

it seems, he was not particularly inclined, she set him the example in the manner Pliny

relates. M.

[1 ]Trajan.

[1 ]The Romans used to employ their criminals in the lower offices of husbandry,

such as ploughing, &c. Plin. H. N. l. 18, 3. M.

[2 ]About $100,000.

[3 ]About $200,000.

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[1 ]One of the famous seven hills upon which Rome was situated. M.

[2 ]Mart. lx. 19.

[1 ]Calpurnia, Pliny’s wife.

[2 ]Now Citta di Castello.

[1 ]The Romans had an absolute power over their children, of which no age or station

of the latter deprived them.

[1 ]Their business was to interpret dreams, oracles, prodigies, &c., and to foretell

whether any action should be fortunate or prejudicial, to particular persons, or to the

whole commonwealth. Upon this account, they very often occasioned the displacing

of magistrates, the deferring of public assemblies, &c. Kennet’s Rom. Antiq. M.

[2 ]Trajan.

[1 ]A slave was incapable of property; and, therefore, whatever he acquired became

the right of his master. M.

[1 ]“Their office was to attend upon the rites of Vesta, the chief part of which was the

preservation of the holy fire. If this fire happened to go out, it was considered impiety

to light it at any common flame, but they made use of the pure and unpolluted rays of

the sun for that purpose. There were various other duties besides connected with their

office. The chief rules prescribed them were, to vow the strictest chastity for the space

of thirty years. After this term was completed, they had liberty to leave the order. If

they broke their vow of virginity, they were buried alive in a place allotted to that

peculiar use.” Kennet’s Antiq. Their reputation for sanctity was so high that Livy

mentions the fact of two of those virgins having violated their vows, as a prodigy that

threatened destruction to the Roman state. Lib. xxii. c. 57. And Suetonius informs us

that Augustus had so high an opinion of this religious order that he consigned the care

of his will to the Vestal Virgins. Suet. in vit. Aug. c. 101. M.

[2 ]It was usual with Domitian to triumph, not only without a victory, but even after a

defeat. M.

[3 ]Euripides’ Hecuba.

[4 ]The punishment inflicted upon the violators of Vestal chastity was to be scourged

to death. M.

[1 ]Calpurnia, Pliny’s wife.

[1 ]Gratilla was the wife of Rusticus: Rusticus was put to death by Domitian, and

Gratilla banished. It was sufficient crime in the reign of that execrable prince to be

even a friend of those who were obnoxious to him. M.

[1 ]In the original, scrinium, a box for holding MSS.

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[1 ]The hippodromus, in its proper signification, was a place, among the Grecians, set

apart for horse-racing and other exercises of that kind. But it seems here to be nothing

more than a particular walk, to which Pliny perhaps gave that name, from its bearing

some resemblance in its form to the public places so called. M.

[2 ]Now called Frascati, Tivoli, and Palestrina, all of them situated in the Campagna

di Roma, and at no great distance from Rome. M.

[3 ]“This is said in allusion to the idea of Nemesis supposed to threaten excessive

prosperity.” (Church and Brodribb.)

[1 ]About $15,000.

[2 ]About $42,000.

[1 ]None had the right of using family pictures or statues but those whose ancestors or

themselves had borne some of the highest dignities. So that the jus imaginis was much

the same thing among the Romans as the right of bearing a coat of arms among us.

Ken. Antiq. M.

[1 ]The Roman physicians used to send their patients in consumptive cases into

Egypt, particularly to Alexandria. M.

[2 ]Frejus, in Provence, the southern part of France. M.

[1 ]A court of justice erected by Julius Caesar in the forum, and opposite to the

basilica Aemilia.

[2 ]The decemviri seem to have been magistrates for the administration of justice,

subordinate to the praetors, who (to give the English reader a general notion of their

office) may be termed lords chief justices, as the judges here mentioned were

something in the nature of our juries. M.

[3 ]About $400.

[1 ]This silly piece of superstition seems to have been peculiar to Regulus, and not of

any general practice; at least it is a custom of which we find no other mention in

antiquity. M.

[2 ]“We gather from Martial that the wearing of these was not an unusual practice

with fops and dandies. See Epig. ii. 29, in which he ridicules a certain Rufus, and

hints that if you were to strip off the ‘splenia’ ” (plasters) “from his face, you would

find out that he was a branded runaway slave.” (Church and Brodribb.)

[1 ]His wife.

[1 ]Hom. Il. lib. i. v. 88.

[1 ]Now Alzia, not far from Como.

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[1 ]Nevertheless, Javolenus Priscus was one of the most eminent lawyers of his time,

and is frequently quoted in the Digesta of Justinian.

[2 ]In the Bay of Naples.

[2 ]The Romans used to lie or walk naked in the sun, after anointing their bodies with

oil, which was esteemed as greatly contributing to health, and therefore daily

practised by them. This custom, however, of anointing themselves, is inveighed

against by the satirists as in the number of their luxurious indulgences: but since we

find the elder Pliny here, and the amiable Spurinna in a former letter, practising this

method, we can not suppose the thing itself was esteemed unmanly, but only when it

was attended with some particular circumstances of an over-refined delicacy. M.

[3 ]Now called Castelamare, in the Bay of Naples. M.

[1 ]The Stoic and Epicurean philosophers held that the world was to be destroyed by

fire, and all things fall again into original chaos; not excepting even the national gods

themselves from the destruction of this general conflagration. M.

[1 ]The lake Larius.

[1 ]Those families were styled patrician whose ancestors had been members of the

senate in the earliest times of the regal or consular government. M.

[1 ]Trajan.

[2 ]The consuls, though they were chosen in August, did not enter upon their office

till the first of January, during which interval they were styled consules designati,

consuls elect. It was usual for them upon that occasion to compliment the emperor, by

whose appointment, after the dissolution of the republican government, they were

chosen. M.

[1 ]So called, because it formerly belonged to Camillus. M.

[2 ]Civita Vecchia.

[3 ]Trajan.

[3 ]An officer in the Roman legions, answering in some sort to a captain in our

companies. M.

[4 ]This law was made by Augustus Caesar; but it nowhere clearly appears what was

the peculiar punishment it inflicted. M.

[5 ]An officer employed by the emperor to receive and regulate the public revenue in

the provinces. M.

[6 ]Comprehending Transylvania, Moldavia, and Walachia. M.

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[7 ]Polycletus was a freedman, and great favourite of Nero. M.

[8 ]Memmius, or Rhemmius (the critics are not agreed which), was author of a law by

which it was enacted that whosoever was convicted of calumny and false accusation

should be stigmatised with a mark in his forehead; and by the law of the twelve tables,

false accusers were to suffer the same punishment as would have been inflicted upon

the person unjustly accused if the crime had been proved. M.

[9 ]Trajan.

[1 ]Unction was much esteemed and prescribed by the ancients. Celsus expressly

recommends it in the remission of acute distempers: “ungi leniterque pertractari

corpus, etiam in acutis et recentibus morbis oportet; in remissione tamen,” &c. Celsi

Med. ed. Almeloveen, p. 88. M.

[1 ]His wife.

[2 ]See book v. letter xx.

[2 ]Trajan.

[3 ]One of the Bithynians employed to manage the trial. M.

[1 ]About $28,000.

[2 ]About $36,000.

[1 ]There is a kind of witticism in this expression, which will be lost to the mere

English reader, unless he be informed that the Romans had a privilege, confirmed to

them by several laws which passed in the earlier ages of the republic, of appealing

from the decisions of the magistrates to the general assembly of the people: and they

did so in the form of words which Pomponius here applies to a different purpose. M.

[1 ]The priests, as well as other magistrates, exhibited public games to the people

when they entered upon their office. M.

[2 ]A famous lawyer who flourished in the reign of the emperor Claudius: those who

followed his opinions were said to be Cassians, or of the school of Cassius. M.

[1 ]A Stoic philosopher and native of Tarsus. He was tutor for some time to Octavius,

afterwards Augustus, Caesar.

[1 ]Balzac very prettily observes: “Il y a des rivières qui ne font jamais tant de bien

que quand elles se débordent; de même, l’amitié n’a rien meilleur que l’excès.” M.

[1 ]Persons of rank and literature among the Romans retained in their families a

domestic whose sole business was to read to them. M.

[1 ]It was a doctrine maintained by the Stoics that all crimes are equal. M.

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[2 ]About $400.

[3 ]About $600.

[4 ]About $93.

[5 ]Hom. Il. lib. ix. v. 319.

[1 ]Those of Nero and Domitian. M.

[2 ]When Nerva and Trajan received the empire. M.

[1 ]A slave could acquire no property, and consequently was incapable by law of

making a will. M.

[1 ]Now called Amelia, a town in Ombria. M.

[2 ]Now Laghetto di Bassano. M.

[1 ]A province in Anatolia, or Asia Minor. M.

[1 ]The performers at these games were divided into companies, distinguished by the

particular colour of their habits; the principal of which were the white, the red, the

blue, and the green. Accordingly the spectators favoured one or the other colour, as

humour and caprice inclined them. In the reign of Justinian a tumult arose in

Constantinople, occasioned merely by a contention among the partisans of these

several colours, wherein no less than 30,000 men lost their lives. M.

[2 ]Now called Castello di Baia, in Terra di Lavoro. It was the place the Romans

chose for their winter retreat; and which they frequented upon account of its warm

baths. Some few ruins of the beautiful villas that once covered this delightful coast

still remain; and nothing can give one a higher idea of the prodigious expense and

magnificence of the Romans in their private buildings than the manner in which some

of these were situated. It appears from this letter, as well as from several other

passages in the classic writers, that they actually projected into the sea, being erected

upon vast piles sunk for that purpose.

[2 ]The buskin was a kind of high shoe worn upon the stage by the actors of tragedy,

in order to give them a more heroical elevation of stature; as the sock was something

between a shoe and stocking, it was appropriated to the comic players. M.

[1 ]Lyons.

[1 ]He was accused of treason, under pretence that in a dramatic piece which he

composed he had, in the characters of Paris and Oenone, reflected upon Domitian for

divorcing his wife Domitia. Suet. in Vit. Domit. c. 10. M.

[2 ]Helvidius.

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[3 ]Upon the accession of Nerva to the empire, after the death of Domitian. M.

[4 ]Our author’s first wife; of whom we have no particular account. After her death,

he married his favourite Calpurnia. M.

[5 ]It is very remarkable that, when any senator was asked his opinion in the house, he

had the privilege of speaking as long as he pleased upon any other affair before he

came to the point in question. Aul. Gell. lib. iv. c. 10. M.

[6 ]Aeneid, lib. vi. v. 105.

[7 ]Arria and Fannia.

[8 ]The appellation by which the senate was addressed. M.

[9 ]The tribunes were magistrates chosen at first out of the body of the commons, for

the defence of their liberties, and to interpose in all grievances offered by their

superiors. Their authority extended even to the deliberations of the senate. M.

[10 ]Diomed’s speech to Nestor, advising him to retire from the field of battle. Iliad,

viii. 102. Pope. M.

[11 ]Nerva.

[12 ]Domitian; by whom he had been appointed consul elect, though he had not yet

entered upon that office. M.

[1 ]These persons were introduced at most of the tables of the great, for the purposes

of mirth and gaiety, and constituted an essential part in all polite entertainments

among the Romans. It is surprising how soon this great people fell off from their

original severity of manners, and were tainted with the stale refinements of foreign

luxury. Livy dates the rise of this and other unmanly delicacies from the conquest of

Scipio Asiaticus over Antiochus; that is, when the Roman name had scarce subsisted

above a hundred and threescore years. “Luxuriae peregrinae origio,” says he,

“exercitu Asiatico in urbem invecta est.” This triumphant army caught, it seems, the

contagious softness of the people it subdued; and, on its return to Rome, spread an

infection among their countrymen, which worked by slow degrees, till it effected their

total destruction. Thus did Eastern luxury revenge itself on Roman arms. It may be

wondered that Pliny should keep his own temper, and check the indignation of his

friends at a scene which was fit only for the dissolute revels of the infamous

Trimalchio. But it will not, perhaps, be doing justice to our author to take an estimate

of his real sentiments upon this point from the letter before us. Genitor, it seems, was

a man of strict, but rather of too austere morals for the free turn of the age:

“emendatus et gravis: paulo etiam horridior et durior ut in hac licentia temporum”

(Ep. iii. l. 3). But as there is a certain seasonable accommodation to the manners of

the times, not only extremely consistent with, but highly conducive to, the interests of

virtue, Pliny, probably, may affect a greater latitude than he in general approved, in

order to draw off his friend from that stiffness and unyielding disposition which might

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prejudice those of a gayer turn against him, and consequently lessen the beneficial

influence of his virtues upon the world. M.

[1 ]See letter CIII.

[1 ]Iliad, xxi. 387. Pope. M.

[2 ]Iliad, v. 356, speaking of Mars. M.

[3 ]Iliad, iv. 452. Pope.

[4 ]The design of Pliny in this letter is to justify the figurative expressions he had

employed, probably, in some oration, by instances of the same warmth of colouring

from those great masters of eloquence, Demosthenes and his rival Aeschines. But the

force of the passages which he produces from these orators must necessarily be

greatly weakened to a mere modern reader, some of them being only hinted at, as

generally well known; and the metaphors in several of the others have either lost

much of their original spirit and boldness, by being introduced and received in

common language, or cannot, perhaps, be preserved in an English translation. M.

[5 ]See 1st Philippic.

[6 ]See Demosthenes’ speech in defence of Cteisphon.

[7 ]See 2nd Olynthiac.

[8 ]See Aeschines’ speech against Ctesiphon.

[1 ]It was a religious ceremony practised by the ancients to pour precious ointments

upon the statues of their gods: Avitus, it is probable, imagined this dolphin was some

sea-divinity, and therefore expressed his veneration of him by the solemnity of a

sacred unction. M.

[2 ]The overflowing humanity of Pliny’s temper breaks out upon all occasions, but he

discovers it in nothing more strongly than by the impression which this little story

appears to have made upon him. True benevolence, indeed, extends itself through the

whole compass of existence, and sympathises with the distress of every creature of

sensation. Little minds may be apt to consider a compassion of this inferior kind as an

instance of weakness; but it is undoubtedly the evidence of a noble nature. Homer

thought it not unbecoming the character even of a hero to melt into tears at a distress

of this sort, and has given us a most amiable and affecting picture of Ulysses weeping

over his faithful dog Argus, when he expires at his feet:

. . . . αυταρ ο νοσ?ιν ιδων απομορξατο δακρυ.

Ρεια λαθων Ευμαιον. . . . .

“Soft pity touch’d the mighty master’s soul;

Adown his cheek the tear unbidden stole,

Stole unperceived; he turn’d his head and dry’d

The drop humane.” . . .

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(Odyss. xvii. Pope.) M.

[1 ]By the regimen which Pliny here follows, one would imagine, if he had not told us

who were his physicians, that the celebrated Celsus was in the number. That author

expressly recommends reading aloud, and afterwards walking, as beneficial in

disorders of the stomach: “Si quis stomacho laborat, legere clare debet; post

lectionem ambulare,” &c. Celsi Medic. l. i. c. 8. M.

[1 ]The greater part of the following letters were written by Pliny during his

administration in the province of Bithynia. They are of a style and character extremely

different from those in the preceding collection; whence some critics have

injudiciously inferred that they are the production of another hand: not considering

that the occasion necessarily required a different manner. In letters of business, as

these chiefly are, turn and sentiment would be foreign and impertinent; politeness and

elegance of expression being the essentials that constitute perfection in this kind: and

in that view, though they may be less entertaining, they have not less merit than the

former. But besides their particular excellence as letters, they have a farther

recommendation as so many valuable pieces of history, by throwing a strong light

upon the character of one of the most amiable and glorious princes in the Roman

annals. Trajan appears throughout in the most striking attitude that majesty can be

placed in; in the exertion of power to the godlike purposes of justice and benevolence:

and what one of the ancient historians has said of him is here clearly verified, that “he

rather chose to be loved than flattered by his people.” To have been distinguished by

the favour and friendship of a monarch of so exalted a character is an honour that

reflects the brightest lustre upon our author; as to have been served and celebrated by

a courtier of Pliny’s genius and virtues is the noblest monument of glory that could

have been raised to Trajan. M.

[2 ]Nerva, who succeeded Domitian, reigned but sixteen months and a few days.

Before his death he not only adopted Trajan, and named him for his successor, but

actually admitted him into a share of the government; giving him the titles of Caesar,

Germanicus, and Imperator. Vid. Plin. Paneg. M.

[3 ]$16,000.

[1 ]One of the four governments of Lower Egypt. M.

[1 ]The extensive power of paternal authority was (as has been observed in the notes

above) peculiar to the Romans. But after Chrysippus was made a denizen of Rome, he

was not, it would seem, consequentially entitled to that privilege over those children

which were born before his denization. On the other hand, if it was expressly granted

him, his children could not preserve their right of patronage over their own freedmen,

because that right would of course devolve to their father, by means of this acquired

dominion over them. The denization therefore of his children is as expressly solicited

as his own. But both parties becoming quirites, the children by this creation, and not

pleading in right of their father, would be patres fam. To prevent which the clause is

added, “ita ut sint in patris potestate:” as there is another to save to them their rights

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of patronage over their freedmen, though they were reduced in patriam potestatem.

[1 ]Pliny enjoyed the office of treasurer in conjunction with Cornutus Tertullus. It was

the custom at Rome for those who had colleagues to administer the duties of their

posts by monthly turns. Buchner. M.

[2 ]About $16,000; the annual income of Pliny’s estate in Tuscany. He mentions

another near Comum in Milan, the yearly value of which does not appear. We find

him likewise meditating the purchase of an estate, for which he was to give about

$117,000 of our money; but whether he ever completed that purchase is uncertain.

This, however, we are sure of, that his fortunes were but moderate, considering his

high station and necessary expenses: and yet, by the advantage of a judicious

economy, we have seen him, in the course of these letters, exercising a liberality of

which afterages have furnished no parallel. M.

[3 ]The senators were not allowed to go from Rome into the provinces without having

first obtained leave of the emperor. Sicily, however, had the privilege to be excepted

out of that law; as Gallia Narbonensis afterwards was, by Claudius Caesar. Tacit.

Ann. xii. c. 23. M.

[1 ]One of the seven priests who presided over the feasts appointed in honour of

Jupiter and the other gods, an office, as appears, of high dignity, since Pliny ranks it

with the augurship.

[1 ]Bithynia, a province in Anatolia, or Asia Minor, of which Pliny was appointed

governor by Trajan, in the sixth year of his reign, 103, not as an ordinary proconsul,

but as that emperor’s own lieutenant, with powers extraordinary. (See Dio.) The

following letters were written during his administration of that province. M.

[2 ]A north wind in the Grecian seas, which rises yearly some time in July, and

continues to the end of August; though others extend it to the middle of September.

They blow only in the day-time. Varenius’s Geogr. v. i. p. 513. M.

[1 ]The inhabitants of Prusa (Brusa), a principal city of Bithynia.

[2 ]In the sixth year of Trajan’s reign, 103, and the 41st of our author’s age: he

continued in this province about eighteen months. Vid. Mass. in Vit. Plin. 129. M.

[3 ]Among other noble works which this glorious emperor executed, the forum or

square which went by his name seems to have been the most magnificent. It was built

with the foreign spoils he had taken in war. The covering of this edifice was all brass,

the porticoes exceedingly beautiful and magnificent, with pillars of more than

ordinary height and dimensions. In the centre of this forum was erected the famous

pillar which has been already described.

[1 ]It is probable the victory here alluded to was that famous one which Trajan gained

over the Dacians; some account of which has been given in the notes above. It is

certain, at least, Pliny lived to see his wish accomplished, this emperor having carried

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the Roman splendour to its highest pitch, and extended the dominions of the empire

farther than any of his predecessors; as after his death it began to decline. M.

[1 ]The capital of Bithynia; its modern name is Izmid.

[1 ]The town of Panticapoeum, also called Bosporus, standing on the European side

of the Cimmerian Bosporus (Straits of Kaffa), in the modern Crimea.

[2 ]Nicea (as appears by the 15th letter of this book), a city in Bithynia, now called

Isnik. M.

[3 ]Sarmatia was divided into European, Asiatic, and German Sarmatia. It is not

exactly known what bounds the ancients gave to this extensive region; however, in

general, it comprehended the northern part of Russia, and the greater part of Poland,

&c. M.

[1 ]The first invention of public couriers is ascribed to Cyrus, who, in order to receive

the earliest intelligence from the governors of the several provinces, erected post-

houses throughout the kingdom of Persia, at equal distances, which supplied men and

horses to forward the public despatches. Augustus was the first who introduced this

most useful institution among the Romans, by employing post-chaises, disposed at

convenient distances, for the purpose of political intelligence. The magistrates of

every city were obliged to furnish horses for these messengers, upon producing a

diploma, or a kind of warrant, either from the emperor himself or from those who had

that authority under him. Sometimes, though upon very extraordinary occasions,

persons who travelled upon their private affairs, were allowed the use of these post-

chaises. It is surprising they were not sooner used for the purposes of commerce and

private communication. Louis XI. first established them in France, in the year 1474;

but it was not till the 12th of Car. II. that the post-office was settled in England by Act

of Parliament. M.

[1 ]Particular temples, altars, and statues were allowed among the Romans as places

of privilege and sanctuary to slaves, debtors, and malefactors. This custom was

introduced by Romulus, who borrowed it probably from the Greeks; but during the

free state of Rome, few of these asylums were permitted. This custom prevailed most

under the emperors, till it grew so scandalous that the Emperor Pius found it

necessary to restrain those privileged places by an edict. See Lipsii Excurs. ad Taciti

Ann. iii. c. 36. M.

[2 ]General under Decebalus, king of the Dacians. M.

[3 ]A province in Dacia, comprehending the southern parts of Servia and part of

Bulgaria. M.

[4 ]The second expedition of Trajan against Decebalus was undertaken the same year

that Pliny went governor into this province; the reason therefore why Pliny sent this

Callidromus to the emperor seems to be that some use might possibly be made of him

in favour of that design. M.

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[5 ]Receiver of the finances. M.

[1 ]The coast round the Black Sea.

[2 ]The text calls him primipilarem, that is, one who had been primipilus, an officer in

the army, whose post was both highly honourable and profitable; among other parts of

his office he had the care of the eagle, or chief standard of the legion. M.

[1 ]Slaves who were purchased by the public. M.

[1 ]The most probable conjecture (for it is a point of a good deal of obscurity)

concerning the beneficiarii seems to be that they were a certain number of soldiers

exempted from the usual duty of their office, in order to be employed as a sort of

body-guards to the general. These were probably foot; as the equites here mentioned

were perhaps of the same nature, only that they served on horseback. Equites

singulares Caesaris Augusti, &c., are frequently met with upon ancient inscriptions,

and are generally supposed to mean the body-guards of the emperor. M.

[1 ]A province in Asia Minor, bounded by the Black Sea on the north. Bithynia on the

west, Pontus on the east, and Phrygia on the south.

[2 ]The Roman policy excluded slaves from entering into military service, and it was

death if they did so. However, upon cases of great necessity, this maxim was

dispensed with; but then they were first made free before they were received into the

army, excepting only (as Servius in his notes upon Virgil) observes after the fatal

battle of Cannae; when the public distress was so great that the Romans recruited their

army with their slaves, though they had not time to give them their freedom. One

reason, perhaps, of this policy might be that they did not think it safe to arm so

considerable a body of men, whose numbers, in the times when the Roman luxury

was at its highest, we may have some idea of by the instance which Pliny the

naturalist mentions of Claudius Isodorus, who at the time of his death was possessed

of no less than 4,116 slaves, notwithstanding he had lost great numbers in the civil

wars. Plin. Hist. Nat. xxxiii. 10. M.

[1 ]A punishment among the Romans, usually inflicted upon slaves, by which they

were to engage with wild beasts, or perform the part of gladiators, in the public

shows. M.

[1 ]It has been generally imagined that the ancients had not the art of raising water by

engines; but this passage seems to favour the contrary opinion. The word in the

original is sipho, which Hesychius explains (as one of the commentators observes)

“instrumentum ad jaculandas aquas adversus incendia;” “an instrument to throw up

water against fires.” But there is a passage in Seneca which seems to put this matter

beyond conjecture, though none of the critics upon this place have taken notice of it:

“Solemus,” says he, “duabus manibus inter se junctis aquam concipere, et compressa

utrinque palma in modum siphonis exprimere” (Q. N. 1. ii. 16); where we plainly see

the use of this sipho was to throw up water, and consequently the Romans were

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acquainted with that art. The account which Pliny gives of his fountains at Tuscum is

likewise another evident proof. M.

[1 ]This was an anniversary custom observed throughout the empire on the 30th of

December. M.

[2 ]About $132,000.

[2 ]About $80,000.

[1 ]About $400,000. To those who are not acquainted with the immense riches of the

ancients, it may seem incredible that a city, and not the capital one either, of a

conquered province should expend so large a sum of money upon only the shell (as it

appears to be) of a theatre: but Asia was esteemed the most considerable part of the

world for wealth; its fertility and exportations (as Tully observes) exceeding that of all

other countries. M.

[2 ]The word cavea, in the original, comprehends more than what we call the pit in

our theatres, as it means the whole space in which the spectators sat. These theatres

being open at the top, the galleries here mentioned were for the convenience of

retiring in bad weather. M.

[3 ]A place in which the athletic exercises were performed, and where the

philosophers also used to read their lectures. M.

[4 ]The Roman foot consisted of 11.7 inches of our standard. M.

[5 ]A colony in the district of Cataonia, in Cappadocia.

[6 ]The honorary senators, that is, such who were not received into the council of the

city by election, but by the appointment of the emperor, paid a certain sum of money

upon their admission into the senate. M.

[1 ]“Graeculi. Even under the empire, with its relaxed morality and luxurious tone,

the Romans continued to apply this contemptuous designation to a people to whom

they owed what taste for art and culture they possessed.” Church and Brodribb.

[1 ]A Roman cubit is equal to 1 foot 5.406 inches of our measure. Arbuthnot’s Tab.

[1 ]About $480.

[2 ]About $120.

[1 ]A diploma is properly a grant of certain privileges either to particular places or

persons. It signifies also grants of other kinds; and it sometimes means post-warrants,

as, perhaps, it does in this place. M.

[1 ]A city in Bithynia. M.

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[1 ]Cybele, Rhea, or Ops, as she is otherwise called; from whom, according to the

pagan creed, the rest of the gods are supposed to have descended. M.

[2 ]Whatever was legally consecrated was ever afterwards unapplicable to profane

uses. M.

[3 ]That is, a city not admitted to enjoy the laws and privileges of Rome. M.

[1 ]The reason why they did not choose to borrow of the public at the same rate of

interest which they paid to private persons was (as one of the commentators observes)

because in the former instance they were obliged to give security, whereas in the latter

they could raise money upon their personal credit. M.

[1 ]These, in the original institution as settled by Augustus, were only commanders of

his body-guards; but in the later times of the Roman empire they were next in

authority under the emperor, to whom they seem to have acted as a sort of prime

ministers. M.

[2 ]The provinces were divided into a kind of circuits called conventus, whither the

proconsuls used to go in order to administer justice. The judges here mentioned must

not be understood to mean the same sort of judicial officers as with us; they rather

answered to our juries. M.

[3 ]By the imperial constitutions the philosophers were exempted from all public

functions. Catanaeus. M.

[3 ]About $24,000.

[4 ]Geographers are not agreed where to place this city; Cellarius conjectures it may

possibly be the same with Prusa ad Olympum, Prusa at the foot of Mount Olympus in

Mysia.

[5 ]Domitian.

[1 ]That is, whether they should be considered in a state of freedom or slavery. M.

[2 ]“Parents throughout the entire ancient world had the right to expose their children

and leave them to their fate. Hence would sometimes arise the question whether such

a child, if found and brought up by another, was entitled to his freedom, whether also

the person thus adopting him must grant him his freedom without repayment for the

cost of maintenance.” Church and Brodribb.

[1 ]“This decision of Trajan, the effect of which would be that persons would be slow

to adopt an abandoned child which, when brought up, its unnatural parents could

claim back without any compensation for its nurture, seems harsh, and we find that it

was disregarded by the later emperors in their legal decisions on the subject.” Church

and Brodribb.

[1 ]And consequently by the Roman laws unapplicable to any other purpose. M.

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[2 ]The Roman provinces in the times of the emperors were of two sorts: those which

were distinguished by the name of the provinciae Caesaris and the provinciae

senatus. The provinciae Caesaris, or imperial provinces, were such as the emperor,

for reasons of policy, reserved to his own immediate administration, or of those whom

he thought proper to appoint: the provinciae senatus, or proconsular provinces, were

such as he left to the government of proconsuls or praetors, chosen in the ordinary

method of election. (Vid. Suet. in Aug. c. 47.) Of the former kind was Bithynia, at the

time when our author presided there. (Vid. Masson. Vit. Plin. p. 133.) M.

[1 ]A province in Asia, bordering upon the Black Sea, and by some ancient

geographers considered as one province with Bithynia. M.

[2 ]About $2,000. M.

[3 ]Cities of Pontus near the Euxine or Black Sea. M.

[1 ]Gordium, the old capital of Phrygia. It afterwards, in the reign of the Emperor

Augustus, received the name of Juliopolis. (See Smith’s Classical Dict.)

[2 ]Pompey the Great having subdued Mithridates, and by that means greatly enlarged

the Roman empire, passed several laws relating to the newly conquered provinces,

and, among others, that which is here mentioned. M.

[2 ]The right of electing senators did not originally belong to the censors, who were

only, as Cicero somewhere calls them, guardians of the discipline and manners of the

city; but in process of time they engrossed the whole privilege of conferring that

honour. M.

[1 ]This, probably, was some act whereby the city was to ratify and confirm the

proceedings of Dion under the commission assigned to him.

[2 ]It was a notion which generally prevailed with the ancients, in the Jewish as well

as heathen world, that there was a pollution in the contact of dead bodies, and this

they extended to the very house in which the corpse lay, and even to the uncovered

vessels that stood in the same room. (Vid. Pot. Antiq. v. ii. 181.) From some such

opinion as this it is probable that the circumstance here mentioned, of placing Trajan’s

statue where these bodies were deposited, was esteemed as a mark of disrespect to his

person.

[1 ]A thriving Greek colony in the territory of Sinopis, on the Euxine.

[1 ]A colony of Athenians in the province of Pontus. Their town, Amisus, on the

coast, was one of the residences of Mithridates.

[2 ]Casaubon, in his observations upon Theophrastus (as cited by one of the

commentators) informs us that there were at Athens and other cities of Greece certain

fraternities which paid into a common chest a monthly contribution towards the

support of such of their members who had fallen into misfortunes; upon condition

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that, if ever they arrived to more prosperous circumstances, they should repay into the

general fund the money so advanced. M.

[3 ]By the law for encouragement of matrimony (some account of which has already

been given in the notes above), as a penalty upon those who lived bachelors, they

were declared incapable of inheriting any legacy by will; so likewise, if being

married, they had no children, they could not claim the full advantage of benefactions

of that kind.

[1 ]This letter is esteemed as almost the only genuine monument of ecclesiastical

antiquity relating to the times immediately succeeding the Apostles, it being written at

most not above forty years after the death of St. Paul. It was preserved by the

Christians themselves as a clear and unsuspicious evidence of the purity of their

doctrines, and is frequently appealed to by the early writers of the Church against the

calumnies of their adversaries. M.

[2 ]It was one of the privileges of a Roman citizen, secured by the Sempronian law,

that he could not be capitally convicted but by the suffrage of the people; which

seems to have been still so far in force as to make it necessary to send the persons

here mentioned to Rome. M.

[3 ]These women, it is supposed, exercised the same office as Phoebe mentioned by

St. Paul, whom he styles deaconess of the church of Cenchrea. Their business was to

tend the poor and sick, and other charitable offices; as also to assist at the ceremony

of female baptism, for the more decent performance of that rite: as Vossius observes

upon this passage. M.

[1 ]If we impartially examine this prosecution of the Christians, we shall find it to

have been grounded on the ancient constitution of the state, and not to have proceeded

from a cruel or arbitrary temper in Trajan. The Roman legislature appears to have

been early jealous of any innovation in point of public worship; and we find the

magistrates, during the old republic, frequently interposing in cases of that nature.

Valerius Maximus has collected some instances to that purpose (L. i. c. 3), and Livy

mentions it as an established principle of the earlier ages of the commonwealth, to

guard against the introduction of foreign ceremonies of religion. It was an old and

fixed maxim likewise of the Roman government not to suffer any unlicensed

assemblies of the people. From hence it seems evident that the Christians had

rendered themselves obnoxious not so much to Trajan as to the ancient and settled

laws of the state, by introducing a foreign worship, and assembling themselves

without authority. M.

[2 ]On the coast of Paphlagonia.

[1 ]By the Papian law, which passed in the consulship of M. Papius Mutilus and Q.

Poppeas Secundus, u. c. 761, if a freedman died worth a hundred thousand sesterces

(or about $4,000 of our money), leaving only one child, his patron (that is, the master

from whom he received his liberty) was entitled to half his estate; if he left two

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children, to one-third; but if more than two, then the patron was absolutely excluded.

This was afterwards altered by Justinian, Inst. l. iii. tit. 8. M.

[1 ]About $7,000.

[1 ]About $175.

[2 ]About $350.

[1 ]The denarius=17 cents. The sum total, then, distributed among one thousand

persons at the rate of, say, two denarii a piece would amount to about $350.

[1 ]These games are called Iselastic from the Greek word ε?σελαυνω, invehor,

because the victors, drawn by white horses, and wearing crowns on their heads, were

conducted with great pomp into their respective cities, which they entered through a

breach in the walls made for that purpose; intimating, as Plutarch observes, that a city

which produced such able and victorious citizens, had little occasion for the defence

of walls (Catanaeus). They received also annually a certain honourable stipend from

the public. M.

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