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1.XXIV.--TO BAEBIUS HISPANUS.

My comrade Tranquillus wishes to buy a bit of land which your friend is
said to be offering for sale. I beg that you will see that he purchases
it at a fair price, for in that case he will be glad to have bought it.
A bad bargain is always annoying, and especially so as it seems to show
that the previous owner has played one a scurvy trick. As to the plot
in question, if only the price is right, there are many reasons that
tempt my friend Tranquillus to buy--the nearness of the city, the
convenient road, the modest dimensions of his villa and the extent of
the farm, which is just enough to pleasantly disengage his thoughts from
other things, but not enough to give him any worry. In fact learned
schoolmen, like Tranquillus, on turning land-owners, ought only to have
just sufficient land to enable them to get rid of headaches, cure their
eyes, walk lazily round their boundary paths, make one beaten track for
themselves, get to know all their vines and count their trees. I have
gone into these details that you might understand what a regard I have
for Tranquillus, and how greatly I shall be indebted to you if he is
enabled to purchase the estate which has all these advantages to commend
it at such a reasonable price that he will not regret having bought it.
Farewell.

BOOK II.

2.I.--TO ROMANUS.

Not for many years have the Roman people seen so striking and even so
memorable a spectacle as that provided by the public funeral of
Virginius Rufus, one of our noblest and most distinguished citizens, and
not less fortunate than distinguished. He lived in a blaze of glory for
thirty years. He read poems and histories composed in his honour, and
so enjoyed in life the fame that awaited him among posterity. He held
the consulship three times, so that he might attain the highest
distinction open to a private citizen, as he had declined to lay hands
on the sovereign power. He escaped unscathed from the Emperors, who
were suspicious of his motives and hated him for his virtues; while the
best Emperor of them all, and the one who was his devoted friend, he
left behind him safely installed on the throne, as though his life had
been preserved for this very reason, that he might be honoured with a
public funeral. He was eighty-three years of age when he died,
sublimely calm, and respected by all. He enjoyed good health, for
though his hands were palsied they gave him no pain: only the closing
scenes were rather painful and prolonged, but even in them he won men's
praise. For while he was getting ready a speech, to return thanks to
the Emperor during his consulship, he happened to take up a rather heavy
book. As he was an old man and standing at the time, its weight caused
it to fall from his hands, and while he was stooping to pick it up his
foot slipped on the smooth and slippery floor, and he fell and broke his
collar-bone. This was not very skilfully set for him, and owing to his
old age it did not heal properly. But his funeral was a source of glory
to the Emperor, to the age in which he lived, and even to the Roman
Forum and the rostra. His panegyric was pronounced by Cornelius
Tacitus, and Virginius's good fortune was crowned by this, that he had
the most eloquent man in Rome to speak his praises.

He died full of years, full of honours, full even of the honours he
refused. We shall seek his like in vain; we shall lose in him a living
example of an earlier age. I shall miss him most of all, for my
affection equalled my admiration, not only of his public virtue but of
his private life. In the first place, we came from the same district,
we belonged to neighbouring municipalities, our estates and property lay
alongside, and, moreover, he was left as my guardian and showed me all
the affection of a parent. When I was a candidate for office he
honoured me with his support; in all my elections he left his private
retreat and hastened to escort me in all my entries upon office--though
for years he had ceased to show his friends these attentions,--and on
the day when the priests are accustomed to nominate those they think to
be worthiest of the priesthood he always gave me his nomination. Even
in his last illness, when he was afraid lest he should be appointed one
of the commission of five who were being appointed on the decree of the
Senate to lessen public expenditure, he chose me, young as I am--though
he had a number of friends still surviving who were much older than I
and men of consular rank--to act as his substitute, and he used these
words: "Even if I had a son, I should give this commission to you."
Hence it is that I cannot help but mourn his death on your bosom, as
though he had died before his time; if indeed it is right to mourn at
all in such a case, or speak of death in connection with such a man, who
has rather ceased to be mortal than ceased to live. For he still lives
and will do for all time, and he will acquire a broader existence in the
memories and conversation of mankind, now that he has gone from our
sight.

I wished to write to you on many other subjects, but my whole mind is
given up to and fixed on this one subject of thought. I keep thinking
of Virginius, I dream of him, and, though my dreams are illusory, they
are so vivid that I seem to hear his voice, to speak to him, to embrace
him. It may be that we have other citizens like him in his virtues, and
shall continue to have them, but there is none to equal with him in
glory. Farewell.

2.II.--TO PAULINUS.

I am angry with you; whether I ought to be I am not quite sure, but I am
angry all the same. You know how affection is often biassed, how it is
always liable to make a man unreasonable, and how it causes him to flare
up on even small provocation. But I have serious grounds for my anger,
whether they are just or not, and so I am assuming that they are as just
as they are serious, and am downright cross with you because you have
not sent me a line for such a long time. There is only one way that you
can obtain forgiveness, and that is by your writing me at once a number
of long letters. That will be the only excuse I shall take as genuine;
any others you may send I shall regard as false. For I won't listen to
such stuff as "I was away from Rome," or "I have been fearfully busy."
As for the plea, "I have not been at all well," I hope Providence has
been too kind to let you write that. I am at my country house, enjoying
study and idleness in turns, and both of these delights are born of
leisure-hours. Farewell.

2.III.--TO NEPOS.

Isaeus's reputation--and it was a great one--had preceded him to Rome,
but it was found to fall short of his merits. He has consummate
oratorical power, fluency and choice of expression, and though he always
speaks extempore his speeches might have been carefully written out long
beforehand. He speaks in Greek, and that the purest Attic; his
prefatory remarks are polished, neat and agreeable, and occasionally
stately and sparkling. He asks to be supplied with a number of subjects
for discussion, and allows his audience to choose which they will have
and often which side they would like him to take. Then he rises to his
feet, wraps his gown round him, and begins. Without losing a moment he
has everything at his fingers' ends, irrespective of the subject
selected. Deep thoughts come crowding into his mind and words flow to
his lips. And such words--exquisitely choice! Every now and then there
come flashes which show how widely he has read and how much he has
written. He opens his case to the point; he states his position
clearly; his arguments are incisive; his conclusions are forcible; his
word-painting is magnificent. In a word, he instructs, delights, and
impresses his hearers, so that you can hardly say wherein he most
excels. He makes constant use of rhetorical arguments, his syllogisms
are crisp and finished--though that is not an easy matter to attain even
with a pen. He has a wonderful memory and can repeat, without missing a
single word, even his extempore speeches. He has attained this facility
by study and constant practice, for he does nothing else day or night:
either as a listener or speaker he is for ever discussing. He has
passed his sixtieth year and is still only a rhetorician, and there is
no more honest and upright class of men living. For we who are always
rubbing shoulders with others in the Forum and in the lawsuits of
everyday life, cannot help picking up a good deal of roguery, while in
the imaginary cases of the lecture hall and the schoolroom it is like
fighting with the button on the foil and quite harmless, and is every
whit as enjoyable, especially for men of years. For what can be more
enjoyable for men in their old age than that which gave them the keenest
pleasure in their youth?

Consequently, I look upon Isaeus not only as a wonderfully learned man
but as one who possesses a most enviable lot, and you must be made of
flint and iron if you do not burn to make his acquaintance. So if there
is nothing else to draw you here, if I myself am not a sufficient
attraction, do come to hear Isaeus. Have you never read of the man who
lived at Gades who was so fired by the name and glory of Titus Livius
that he came from the remotest corner of the world to see him, and
returned the moment he had set eyes on him? It would stamp a man as an
illiterate boor and a lazy idler, it would be disgraceful almost for any
one not to think the journey worth the trouble when the reward is a
study which is more delightful, more elegant, and has more of the
humanities than any other. You will say: "But I have here authors just
as learned, whose works I can read." Granted, but you can always read
an author, while you cannot always listen to him. Moreover, as the
proverb goes, the spoken word is invariably much more impressive than
the written one; for however lively what you read may be, it does not
sink so deeply into the mind as what is pressed home by the accent, the
expression, and the whole bearing and action of a speaker. This must be
admitted unless we think the story of Aeschines untrue, when, after
reading a speech of Demosthenes at Rhodes, he is said to have exclaimed
to those who expressed their admiration of it: "Yes, but what would you
have said if you had heard the beast himself?" And yet Aeschines
himself, if we are to believe Demosthenes, had a very striking delivery!
None the less he acknowledged that the author of the speech delivered it
far better than he had done. All these things point to this, that you
should hear Isaeus, if only to enable you to say that you have heard
him. Farewell.

2.IV.--TO CALVINA.

If your father had owed his other creditors, or any one of them, as much
as he owed to me, there would perhaps have been good reason for you to
hesitate about entering on the inheritance of an estate which even a man
might find burdensome. However, I am now the sole creditor, for as we
are relations I thought it my duty to pay off all those who were--I will
not say importunate--but were rather more particular about getting their
money. When your father was alive, and you were about to be married, I
contributed 100,000 sesterces towards your dower, in addition to the sum
which your father assigned as your wedding portion, out of my pocket--
for it had to be paid out of my money,--so you have ample proof of my
leniency towards you in money matters, and you may boldly rely thereon
and defend the credit and honour of your dead father. Moreover, to show
you that I can be generous with my purse as well as with my advice, I
authorise you to enter as paid whatever sum was owing by your father to
me. You need not be afraid that my generosity will embarrass my
finances. Though my means are modest, though my position is expensive
to keep up and my income is equally small and precarious owing to the
state of the land market, my unemployed capital is increased by my
economical living, and this is the source, as I may call it, from which
I gratify my generosity. I have to husband it carefully lest the source
should dry up if I draw on it too freely; but such caution is reserved
for others. In your case I can easily justify my liberality, even
though it be rather larger than usual. Farewell.

2.V.--TO LUPERCUS.

I have forwarded to you the speech which you have often asked for, and
which I have often promised to send, but not the whole of it. A portion
thereof is still undergoing the polishing process. Meanwhile, I thought
it would not be out of place to submit to your judgment the parts which
seemed to me to be more finished. I hope you will bestow on them the
same critical attention that the writer has given them. I have never
handled any subject that demanded greater pains from me, for whereas in
other speeches I have submitted merely my carefulness and good faith to
men's judgment, in this I submit my patriotism as well. It is out of
that that the speech has grown, for it is a pleasure to sing the praises
of one's native place and at the same time to do what I could to help
its interests and its fame. But be sure you prune even these passages
according to your judgment. For when I think of the fastidiousness of
the general reader and the niceties of his taste, I understand that the
best way to win praise is to keep within moderate limits.

Yet at the same time, though I ask you to show this strictness, I feel
bound to request you to display the opposite quality also and deal
indulgently with many of the passages. For we must make certain
concessions to our young readers, especially if the subject-matter
allows of it. Descriptions of scenery, of which there are more than
usual in this speech, should be treated not in a strict historical
fashion, but with some approach to poetic licence. However, if any one
thinks that I have written more ornately than is warranted by the
serious nature of the subject, the remaining portions of the address
ought to mollify what one may call the austerity of such a man. I have
certainly tried, by varying the character of the style, to get hold of
all sorts and conditions of readers, and though I am afraid that each
individual reader will not find every single passage to his liking, yet
I think I may be pretty confident that the variety of styles will
recommend the whole to all classes. For at a banquet, though we each
one of us taboo certain dishes, yet we all praise the banquet as a
whole, nor do the dishes which our palate declines make those we like
any less enjoyable. I want my speech to be taken in the same spirit,
not because I think I have succeeded in my aim, but because I have tried
to succeed therein, and I believe my efforts will not have been in vain
if only you will take pains now with what I enclose in this letter and
afterwards with the remaining portions.

You will say that you cannot do this sufficiently carefully until you
have gone through the entire speech. That is so; but for the present
you will be able to get a thorough acquaintance with what I send you,
and there are sure to be certain passages that can be altered in part.
For if you were to see the head or any limb of a statue torn from the
trunk, though you might not be able to speak definitely of its symmetry
and proportion to the rest of the body, you would at least be able to
judge whether the part you were looking at was sufficiently well shaped.
That is the only reason why authors send round to their friends
specimens of their speeches, because any part can be judged to be
perfect or not apart from the remainder. The pleasure of speaking with
you has led me farther than I intended, but I will conclude for fear of
exceeding in a letter the limits which I think ought to be set to a
speech. Farewell.

2.VI.--TO AVITUS.

It would be a long story--and it is of no importance--to tell you how I
came to be dining--for I am no particular friend of his--with a man who
thought he combined elegance with economy, but who appeared to me to be
both mean and lavish, for he set the best dishes before himself and a
few others and treated the rest to cheap and scrappy food. He had
apportioned the wine in small decanters of three different kinds, not in
order to give his guests their choice but so that they might not refuse.
He had one kind for himself and us, another for his less distinguished
friends--for he is a man who classifies his acquaintances--and a third
for his own freedmen and those of his guests. The man who sat next to
me noticed this and asked me if I approved of it. I said no. "Then how
do you arrange matters?" he asked. "I set the same before all," I
answered, "for I invite my friends to dine not to grade them one above
the other, and those whom I have set at equal places at my board and on
my couches I treat as equals in every respect." What! even the
freedmen?" he said. "Yes," I replied, "for then I regard them as my
guests at table, not as freedmen." He went on: "It must cost you a
lot." "Not at all," said I. "Then how do you manage it?" "It's easily
done; because my freedmen do not drink the same wine as I do, but I
drink the same that they do." And, by Jove, the fact is that if you
keep off gluttony it is not at all ruinously expensive to entertain a
number of people to the fare you have yourself. It is this gluttony
which is to be put down, to be reduced as it were to the ranks, if you
wish to cut down expenses, and you will find it better to consult your
own moderate living than to care about the nasty things people may say
of you. What then is my point? Just this, that I don't want you, who
are a young man of great promise, to be taken in by the extravagance
with which some people load their tables under the guise of economy.
Whenever such a concrete instance comes in my way it becomes the
affection I bear you to warn you of what you ought to avoid by giving
you an example. So remember that there is nothing you should eschew
more than this new association of extravagance and meanness; they are
abominable qualities when separated and single, and still more so when
you get a combination of them. Farewell.

2.VII.--TO MACRINUS.

Yesterday, on the motion of the Emperor, a triumphal statue was decreed
to Vestricius Spurinna. He is not one of those heroes, of whom there
have been many, who have never stood in battle, never seen a camp, and
never heard the call of the trumpets except at the public shows: no, he
is one of the real heroes who used to win that decoration by the sweat
of their brow, by shedding their blood and doing mighty deeds. For
Spurinna restored by force of arms the king of the Bructeri to his
kingdom, and, after threatening war, subdued that savage race by the
terror of his name, which is the noblest kind of victory. That was the
reward of his valour, and the fact that his son Cottius, whom he lost
while he was away on his duties, was deemed worthy of being honoured
with a statue has solaced his grief for his loss. Young men rarely
attain such distinction, but his father deserved this additional honour,
for it required some considerable solace to heal his bitter wound.
Moreover, Cottius himself had given such striking proofs of his splendid
character that his short and narrow life ought to be prolonged by the
immortality, so to speak, that a statue confers upon him; for his
uprightness, his weight of character, his influence were such that his
virtues served as a spur even to the older men with whom he has now been
placed on an equality by the honour paid to him.

If I understand the matter aright, in conferring that dignity upon him,
regard was had not only to the memory of the dead man and the grief of
his father, but also to the effect it would have upon others. When such
splendid rewards are bestowed upon young men--provided they deserve
them--they will serve to sharpen the inclinations of the rising
generation to the practice of the honourable arts; they will make our
leading men more desirous of bringing up their children, increase the
joy they will have in them if they survive, and provide a glorious
consolation if they lose them. It is for these reasons that I rejoice
on public grounds that a statue has been decreed to Cottius, and on
personal grounds I am equally delighted. My affection for that most
accomplished youth was as strong as is my ungovernable sorrow at his
loss. So I shall find it soothing from time to time to gaze upon his
statue, to look back upon it, to stand beneath it, and to walk past it.
For if the busts of the dead that we set up in our private houses
assuage our grief, how much more soothing should be the statues of our
dead friends erected in the most frequented spots, which recall to us
not only the form and face of our lost ones, but also their dignities
and glory? Farewell.

2.VIII.--TO CANINIUS.

Are you at your books, or are you fishing, or hunting, or doing all
three together? For the latter is possible in the neighbourhood of our
Larian lake. The lake supplies fish in plenty, the woods that girdle
its shores are full of game, and their secluded recesses inspire one to
study. But whether you combine the three at once, or occupy yourself
with either one of them, I cannot say "I grudge you your happiness,"
though I feel annoyed to think that I am debarred from pleasures which I
long for as ardently as an invalid longs for wine, and the baths, and
the fountains. If I cannot unloose the close meshes of the net that
enfolds me, shall I never snap them asunder? Never, I am afraid, for
new business keeps piling up on top of the old, and that without even
the old being got rid of. Every day the entangling chain of my
engagements seems to lengthen by acquiring additional links. Farewell.

2.IX.--TO APOLLINARIS.

I am worried and anxious about the candidature of my friend Sextus
Erucius. I am quite careworn, and feel for my second self, as it were,
a solicitude that I did not feel on my own account. Besides, my honour,
my reputation, my position are all at stake: for it was I who obtained
from our Emperor for Sextus the right to wear the latus clavis, it was I
who secured for him the quaestorship; it was owing to my interest that
he was advanced to the right of standing for the tribunate, and unless
he is elected by the Senate, I am afraid that it will look as if I had
deceived the Emperor. Consequently, I have to do my best to induce all
the senators to take the same favourable view of him that the Emperor
did on my recommendation. If this were not reason sufficient to rouse
my zeal in his behalf, yet I should like to see a young man helped on,
who is of such sterling character, who is of such weight and learning,
and is fully worthy of any and every praise, as indeed are all the
members of his family.

His father, Erucius Clarus, is a man of probity of the old-fashioned
sort, full of learning and an experienced counsel, conducting his cases
with splendid honesty, perseverance, and modesty as well. His uncle is
Caius Septicius, than whom I never met any one more sterling, simple,
frank, and trustworthy. They all see who can shower most affection upon
me, though they all love me equally, and now I can repay the love of all
in the person of young Erucius. So I am button-holing all my friends,
begging them for their support, going round to see them and haunting
their houses and favourite resorts, and I am putting both my position
and influence to the test by my entreaties. I beg of you to think it
worth your while to relieve me of some part of my burden. I will do the
same for you whenever you ask the return favour; nay I will do so even
if you do not ask me. You are a favourite with many, people seek your
society, and you have a wide circle of friends. Do you but give a hint
that you have a wish, and there will be plenty who will make your wish
their desire. Farewell.

2.X.--TO OCTAVIUS.

What an indolent fellow you are, or perhaps I should say how hard-
hearted you are and almost cruel to keep back so long such splendid
volumes of verse! How long will you deprive yourself of the chorus of
praise that awaits you, and us of the pleasure of reading them? Do let
them be borne on the lips of men and circulate through all the wide
regions where the Roman tongue is spoken. People have long been eagerly
looking forward to your publishing them, and you really ought not to
cheat and disappoint them any longer. Some of your verses have become
known, and--no thanks to you--have broken down the barriers you set
round them, and unless you rescue them and include them in the main body
of your work they will one day, like vagrant slaves, find some one else
to claim the ownership of them. Don't lose sight of the fact that you
are but mortal, and that you can only defend yourself from being
forgotten by such a monument as this: all other titles to fame are
fragile and perishable, and come to a sudden end as soon as the breath
is out of your body. You will say, as usual, "Oh! my friends must see
to that for me." Well, I hope you have friends loyal enough, learned
enough, painstaking enough, to be capable and desirous of undertaking
such a responsible task, but I would have you consider whether it is
altogether prudent to expect from other people the toil which you will
not undergo for yourself. However, as to publishing, do as you please,
but at least give some public readings, in order to stir you on to
publishing, and that you may at length see how pleased people will be to
hear you, as I have for a long time been bold enough to anticipate on
your account. For I picture to myself what a run there will be to hear
you, how they will admire your work, what applause is in store for you,
and what a hush of attention. Personally, when I speak or recite I like
a hush quite as much as loud applause, provided that the people are
quiet, because they are keenly interested and eager to hear more. With
such a reward before you so absolutely certain, do not go on chilling
our enthusiasm by that never-ending hesitation of yours, for if it once
gets over a certain line, there is a danger of people giving it another
name and saying you are idle, slothful, or even nervous. Farewell.

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