LETTER LIV. To Lucius Lucceius. [A. U. 708.] ALL the letters I have received from you upon the subject of my late misfortune, were extremely acceptable to me, as instances of the highest affection and good sense. But the great advantage I have derived from them, principally results from the animating contempt with which you look down upon human affairs, and that exemplary fortitude which arms you against all the various assaults of fortune. I esteem it the most glorious privilege of philosophy to be thus superior to external accidents, and to depend for happiness on ourselves alone: a sentiment, which, although it was too deeply planted in my heart to be totally eradicated, has been somewhat weakened, I confess, by the violence of those repeated storms to which I have been lately exposed. But you have endeavoured, and with great success indeed, to restore it to all its usual strength and vigour. I cannot therefore either too often or too strongly assure you, that nothing could give me a higher satisfaction than your letter. But powerful as the various arguments of consolation are which you have collected for my use, and elegantly as you have enforced them; I must acknowledge, that nothing proved more effectual than that firmness of mind which I remarked in your letters, and which I should esteem as the utmost reproach not to imitate. But if I imitate, I must necessarily excel my guide and instructor in this lesson of fortitude: for I am altogether unsupported by the same hopes which I find you entertain, that public affairs will improve. Those illustrations indeed which you draw from the gladiatorial combats, together with the whole tendency of your reasoning in general, all concur in forbidding me to despair of the commonwealth. It would be nothing extraordinary, therefore, if you should be more composed than myself, whilst you are in possession of these pleasing hopes: the only wonder is, how you can possibly entertain any. For say, my friend, what is there of our constitution that is not utterly subverted? Look round the republic and tell me (you who so well understand the nature of our go : vernment) what part of it remains unbroken or unimpaired? Most unquestionably there is not one: as I would prove in detail, if I imagined my own discernment was superior to yours, or were capable (notwithstanding all your powerful admonitions and precepts) to dwell upon so melancholy a subject without being extremely affected. But I will bear my domestic misfortunes in the manner you assure me that I ought and as to those of the public, I shall support them, perhaps, with greater equanimity than even my friend. For (to repeat it again) you are not, it seems, without some sort of hopes; whereas for myself, I have absolutely none; and shall therefore, in pursuance of your advice, preserve my spirits even in the midst of despair. The pleasing recollection of those actions you recall to my remembrance, and which, indeed, I performed chiefly by your encouragement and recommendation, will greatly contribute to this end. To say the truth, I have done every thing for the service of my country that I ought, and more than could have been expected from the courage and counsels of any man. You will pardon me, I hope, for speaking in this advantageous manner of my own conduct: but as you advise me to alleviate my present uneasiness by a retrospect of my past actions, I will confess, that in thus commemorating them, I find great consolation. I shall punctually observe your admonitions, by calling off my mind as much as possible from every thing that may disturb its peace, and fixing it on those speculations which are at once an ornament to prosperity and the support of adversity. For this purpose I shall endeavour to spend as much of my time with you, as our health and years will mutually permit: and if we cannot meet so often as I am sure we both wish, we shall always at least scem present to each other by a sympathy of hearts, and an union in the same philosophical contemplations. Farewel. LETTER LV. Lucceius to Cicero. [A. U. 708.] I SHALL rejoice to hear that you are well. As to my own health, it is much as usual; or rather, I think, somewhat worse. I have frequently called at your door; and am much surprised to find that you have not been in Rome since Cæsar left it. What is it that so strongly draws you from hence? If any of your usual engagements of the literary kind renders you thus enamoured of solitude, I am so far from condemning your retirement, that I think of it with pleasure. There is no sort of life indeed that can be more agreeable, not only in times so disturbed as the present, but even in those of the most desirable calm and serenity; especially to a mind like yours, which may have occasion for repose from its public labours, and which is always capable of producing something that will afford both pleasure to others and honour to yourself. But if you have withdrawn from the world, in order to give a free vent to those tears which you so immoderately indulged when you were here, I shall lament indeed your grief; but (if you will allow me to speak the truth) I never can excuse it. For tell me, my friend, is it possible that a man of your uncommon discernment should not perceive what is obvious to all mankind? Is it possible you can be ignorant that your perpetual complaints can profit nothing, and only serve to increase those disquietudes which your good sense requires you to subdue? But if arguments cannot prevail, intreaties perhaps may. Let me conjure you then by all the regard you bear me, to dispel this gloom that hangs upon your heart; to return to that society and to those occupations which were either common to us both, or peculiar to your self. But though I would fain dissuade you from continuing your present way of life, yet I would by no means suffer my zeal to be troublesome. In the difficulty therefore of steering between these two inclinations, I will only add my request, that you would either comply with my advice, or excuse me for offering it. Farewel. though it was by no means new to me, I could not but observe with peculiar satisfaction; I would say pleasure, if that were not a word to which I have now for ever bidden adieu: not merely, however, for the cause you suspect, and for which, under the gentlest and most affectionate terms, you in fact very severely reproach me; but because all that ought in reason to assuage the anguish of so deepa wound, is absolutely no more. For whither shall I fly for consolation? Is it to the bosom of my friends? But tell me (for we have generally shared the same common amities together), how few of that number are remaining? how few that have not perished by the sword, or that are not become strangely insensible? You will say, perhaps, that I might seek my relief in your society: and there indeed I would willingly seek it. The same habitudes and studies, a long intercourse of friendship-in short, is there any sort of bond, any single circumstance of connection wanting to unite us together? Why then are we such strangers to one another? For my own part, I know not: but this I know, that we have hitherto seldom met, I do not say in Rome, where the Forum usually brings every body together *, but when we were near neighbours at Tusculum and Puteola. I know not by what ill fate it has happened, that at an age when I might expect to flourish in the greatest credit and dignity, I should find myself in so wretched a situation as to be ashamed that I am still in being. Despoiled indeed of every honour and every comfort that adorned my public life, or smoothed iny private; what is it that can now afford me any refuge? My books, I imagine you will tell me; and to these indeed I very assiduously apply. For to what else can I possibly have recourse? Yet even these seem to exclude me from that peaceful port which I fain would reach, and reproach me, as it were, for prolonging that life which only increases my sorrows with my years. Can you wonder then that I absent myself from Rome, where there is nothing under my own roof to • The Forum was a place of general resort for the whole city. It was here that the lawyers pleaded their causes, that the poets recited their works, and that funeral orations were spoken in honour of the dead. It was here, in short, every thing was going forward that could engage the active or amuse the idle. afford me any satisfaction, and where I abhor both public men and public measures, both the Forum and the Senate? For this reason it is that I wear away my days in a total application to literary pursuits: not indeed as entertaining so vain a hope, that I may find in them a complete cure for my misfortunes, but in order to obtain at least some little respite from their bitter remembrance. If those dangers with which we were daily menaced, had not formerly prevented both you and myself from reflecting with that coolness we ought, we should never have been thus separated. Had that proved to have been the case, we should both of us have spared ourselves much uneasiness; as I should not have indulged so many groundless fears for your health, nor you for the consequences of my grief. Let us repair then this unlucky mistake as well as we may: and as nothing can be more suitable to both of us than the company of each other, I purpose to be with you in a few days. Farewel LETTER LVII. To Tiro. [A. U. 708.] BELIEVE me, my dear Tiro, I am greatly anxious for your health: however, if you persevere in the same cautious regimen which you have hitherto observed, you will soon, I trust, be well. As to my library, I beg you would put the books in order, and take a catalogue of them, when your physician shall give you his consent: for it is by his directions you must now be governed. With respect to the garden, I leave you to adjust matters as you shall judge pro per. LETTER LVIII. To the same. [A. U. 708.] WHY should you not direct your letters to me with the familiar superscription which one friend generally uses to another? However, if you are unwilling to hazard the envy which this privilege may draw upon you, be it as you think proper: though for my own part, it is a maxim which I have generally pursued with respect to myself, to treat envy with the utmost disregard. I think you might come to Rome on the first of next month, in order to see the gladiatorial combats, and return the following day but let this be entirely as is most agreeable to your own inclinations. In the mean time, if you have any affection for me, take care of your health. Farewel I rejoice that you found so much benefit by your sudorific: and should the air of Tusculum be attended with the same happy effect, how infinitely will it increase my fondness for that favourite scene! If you love me then (and if you do not, you are undoubtedly the most successful of all-dissemblers), consecrate your whole time to the care of your health; which hitherto indeed your assiduous attendance upon myself has but too much prevented. You well know the rules which it is necessary you should observe for this purpose; and I need not tell you that your diet should be light, and your exercises moderate: that you should keep your body open, and your mind amused. Be it your care, in short, to return to me perfectly recovered: and I shall ever, afterwards not only love you, but Tusculum so much the more ardently. I wish you could prevail with your neighbour to take my garden; as it will be the most effectual means of vexing that rascal Helico. This fellow, although he paid a thousand sesterces for the rent of a piece of cold barren ground, that had not so much as a wall or a shed upon it, or was supplied with a single drop of water, has yet the assurance to laugh at the price I require for mine; notwithstanding all the money I have laid out upon the improvements. But let it be your business to spirit the man into our terms; as it shall be mine to make the same artful attack upon Otho. Let me know what you have done with respect to the fountain: though possibly this wet season may now have oversupplied it with water. If the wea • About 81. of our money. ther should prove fair, I will send the dial, together with the books you desire. But how happened it that you took none with you? Was it that you were employed in some poetical composition upon the model of your admired Sophocles? If so, I hope you will soon oblige the world with your perform ance. Ligurius, Cæsar's great favourite, is dead. He was a very worthy man, and much my friend. Let me know when I may expect you: in the mean time be careful of your health. Farewel 40 BOOK THE FIRST. ANCIENT AND CLASSICAL. SECTION II. FROM THE LETTERS OF PLINY THE CONSUL*, TO SEVERAL OF HIS FRIENDS, AS TRANSLATED BY WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQ. LETTER I. To Caninius Rufus. How stands Comumt, that favourite scene of yours and mine? What becomes of the pleasant villa, the vernal portico, the shady planetree-walk, the crystal canal so agreeably winding along its flowery banks, together with the charm • Pliny was born in the reign of Nero, about the eight hundred and fifteenth year of Rome, and the sixty-second of the Christian æra. As to the time of his death, antiquity has given us no information: but it is conjectured that he died either a little before, or soon after, that excellent prince, his admired Trajan: that is, about the year of Christ one hundred and six teen. The elegance of this author's manner adds force to the most interesting, at the same time that it enlivens the most common subjects. But the polite and spirited turn of these letters, is by no means their principal recommendation: they receive a much higher value, as they exhibit one of the most amiable and animating characters in all antiquity. Pliny's whole life seems to have been employed in the exercise of every generous and social affection. To forward modest merit, to encourage ingenious talents, to vindicate oppressed innocence, are some of the glorious purposes to which he devoted his power, his fortune, and his abilities. But how does be rise in our esteem and admiration, when we see him exercising (with a grace that discovers his humanity as well as his politeness) the noblest acts both of public and private munificence, not so much from the abundance of his wealth, as the wisdom of his œconomy. The city where Pliny was born: it still subsists, and is now called Como, situated upon the lake Larius, or Lago di Como, in the duchy of Milan. ing lake below, that serves at once the purposes of use and beauty? What have you to tell me of the firm yet soft gestatio §, the sunny bath, the public saloon, the private dining-room, and all the elegant apartments for repose both at noon and night ||? Do these enjoy my friend, and divide his time with pleasing vicissitude? Or do the affairs of the world, as usual, call you frequently out from this agreeable retreat? If the scene of your enjoyment lies wholly there, you are happy; if not, you are under the my friend (for certainly it is high time), common error of mankind. But leave, the sordid pursuits of life to others, and devote yourself, in this calm and undisturbed recess, entirely to pleasures of the studious kind. Let these employ your idle as well as serious hours; let them be at once your business and your amusement, the subjects of your waking and even sleeping thoughts: produce something that shall be really and for ever your own. All your other possessions will pass on from one master to another: this alone, when once it is The lake Larius, upon the banks of which this villa was situated. A piece of ground set apart for the purpose of exercise, either on horseback, or in their vehicles; it was generally contiguous to their gardens, and laid out in the form of a circus. sleep in the middle of the day, and they had It was customary among the Romans to apartments for that purpose distinct from their bed-chambers. |