The Letters of Symmachus, Book VIII

A manifold and varied gift indeed has been presented to me by you: but I perceived that it was done out of modesty, since you were unwilling to claim for yourself alone the whole outcome of your hunting party's catch. For while boasting that a hare was taken by your own tracking, you declare that a boar fell to the hands of servants. Or did the fierceness of the beast seem to you unworthy that you should claim it for your own glory? But you will laugh at these things said in jest. Now attend to the other matters you ask of me. For a few more days yet I have resolved to linger at Capua; thereafter, by changes among my neighbors, to draw out this whole month; and so, if the gods favor my intention, I shall be able to travel back along the Appian Way before the troublesome approach of winter's onset. Farewell.

Long since disturbed by your letter, I shall be troubled for as long as I do not hear good news of you. What then either the physicians' treatment or your own abstinence has contributed to your health, I wish to know. As for myself, being in possession of good health, I have resolved, fortune favoring, to revisit my homeland before the toil of travel is increased by the progress of advancing winter. Farewell.

You bestowed the first letter of your own accord; the second my own effort must draw out. Take then this greeting, which you may repay in kind; I promise likewise that I shall make my replies match yours. Farewell.

Your letters would be welcome to me even if they contained nothing about my merits and praises in Africa. For as they afforded me some measure of honor, so they afforded you joy in return for our mutual friendship. Hence it came about that you sent forth your letter rejoicing. For an exultant mind glories in itself, and cannot refrain from displaying itself. May the kindness of the gods reward you, therefore, for such great love toward me. For since I myself judge myself unable to repay it, in place of my own gratitude I wish for you the favor of heavenly protection. Farewell.

Your letters, always welcome, have now pierced the mind of their reader, since they showed that you are being worn down by the long duration of illness. I beg that the gods, guardians of good men, may apply healing hands to your health: lest the prolonged distress of an excellent senator give ground for believing that the heavenly powers care for nothing—an opinion from which I dissent—and I trust that you will straightway, by the aid of the saving powers, be restored to sound health, provided only that you yourself, full of hope, struggle through adversity with cheerful thoughts. Farewell.

When Euscius was arriving I hoped for a letter from you; but chance disappointed my confidence. Yet I could not bring myself to imitate your silence; wherefore I discharge an unowed greeting, so that you, who ought to have been the leader in this office, may by the necessity of my example be provoked to diligence. Farewell.

Let it be attributed to your modesty that you have hitherto brought me no word: now take up the confidence which I offer as an invitation to friendship, and attest by the constancy of your correspondence that my letters were welcome. Farewell.

By the beginning of correspondence I provoke your confidence. Wherefore enter without fear upon the approach of our friendship. The reciprocation of your service will bring it about that the friendship begun by me may grow strong. Farewell.

I think you were waiting for my letter, so that, provoked, you might break forth into mutual courtesies. Take then this address, whose example you may follow. I shall hereafter be more diligent in writing, if reciprocity answer to my undertakings. Farewell.

The affection of my mind toward you is not to be measured by letters. For devotion is contained in the fidelity of the heart: in the offices of words there often lurks rivalry. Wherefore, if I seem to you rather rare in writing, think nothing thereby deceived in my love. And it often happens that your people neither give me notice of their own departure, nor demand letters in return. But of this it is not fitting to speak at greater length: since for one who loves, a brief and concise excuse suffices. I pass on to those matters which are desired by both of us. I was gladdened by the news of your health, and I repay you with news that will gladden you in turn. For the vigor of my own body too, after a period of weak health, has begun to rise again. Farewell.

I think I do not seem remiss either in sending letters to you or in repaying them. Wherefore, though I recall that my duties flowed to you in recent days, I have nevertheless taken care to discharge myself even with the added interest of correspondence. But if ever this practice should cease for a brief interval, I would wish to be compelled, not that the regard of our friendship should grow cold. For devotion is to be measured more by fidelity of mind than by display of words. Farewell.

I believe the report has reached you which spread the news that you have been released not only from the burden of office but also from that of cares. If so, I shall now confirm to you the good long desired. My health, together with my son's, is by the aid of divinity secure. That both a firm state of health and a happy return may attend you, both our prayers and your own merits will bring about. Farewell.

I overflow with joy, in that I have learned you are well, and that amid the hardships of your business you remember our friendship. But when will it come to pass that the losses of your abstinence may be made good by the consolations of correspondence? I, for my part, would have wished you to be present among the foremost at my praetorian fasces, and to lend distinction to our common festivities. But I must bear it of necessity, that the business of the senate be preferred to my wish. Wherefore in the words above there is rather the protestation of longing than the complaint of estrangement. The favor of the heavenly powers will grant that, once released from your country's commissions, you may return by a happy journey to the solemn celebration of our games. Farewell.

The word that is returned comes from obligation; that which is offered spontaneously comes from kindness. The second part has been left to me, since your pen anticipated my writing. Now, having repaid you the greeting in return, I ask for your effort and care in those matters which Castor has suggested ought to be advanced for our use and advantage. Farewell.

I am pleased that there was no doubt as to my testimony, and I count it to my own credit that Auxentius, our most excellent young man, has been received into your household as our son. On this account our friendship has come into closer bonds of trust. And longer experience will bring it about that, once you have come to know in him even more good qualities, you will confess that my attestation of his merits fell short of the truth. Farewell.

The provincial action having been carried through, which came by necessary appeal to the cognizance of the sacred court, I was delighted by your fidelity and diligence: and I attributed the fortune of the case not to the ignorance of the advocate but to the wish of the judge. I exhort you, therefore, to keep the confidence of my friendship, and meanwhile, content with the confirmation of my testimony, to protect by the office of your forensic industry our household, which is beset by many attacks. As we spontaneously profess our gratitude by plain and simple address, so, if fortune shall favor, we shall strive to be equal in returning the like. Farewell.

You marvel that I am in the country. But I marvel with more justice that you, having spurned the leisure of the countryside, have returned to our common homeland—unless perhaps a renewed lawsuit brought you the occasion for your return. Otherwise, since your mind is desirous of quiet, you would prefer to linger over rustic affairs. To me, suffering from an affliction of the feet, the suburban air is more a comfort than a pleasure. No enjoyment is admitted by the sense of a sad illness. But I hope, if the divine powers have regard to innocence, that it will be healed also by attention in the forum. Whichever it be, it will be welcome and easy—either my return to Rome, or your excursion to the estate where I now sojourn. Farewell.

I prefer you yourself to the blandishments of words. You, on the other hand, redeem the delays of absence with letters. What if the excellence of the harvest had smiled upon you, or the abundance of the vintage had pleased you? You would spend all the seasons in the leisure of the countryside, you who, by delaying on your estates, give no thought to the hunger of your homeland. Or are you charmed by fowling alone, a share of which you bestowed on me? But even in this pursuit you would indulge liberally in the enticements of the palate. For you would have at once both what is bought from the Cupedinarian market and what is brought from your suburban estate. What of the fact that you also pretend your wife is troubled by illness? Whose health, if you speak truly, is not suited by solitude. For Rome has more instruments of salubrity, and a greater number of physicians.

See to it, then, that you do not incur another kind of suspicion, if you waste away, by empty retirement and unsafe banishment, a wife beset by illness. Farewell.

Beyond the other turns of the seasons I delight in summer: not because the longer course of the sun draws out the daily hours, nor because our estate and accounts grow richer with the new harvest, but because peaceful navigation, with frequent passage, brings me your letters, which I long for. For what can be granted more delightful to the pleasure of the mind, or more suited to the office of friendship, than that I should experience, through the use of frequent correspondence, that you love me? Therefore, while the season of the year invites, while the sea is passable, let certain provisions and nourishments of mutual affection be gathered up, as it were, against the winter. When I was writing this, my health was according to my wish, aided, no doubt, by your prayers. For I think that for no other reason do things turn out as I desire than by the judgment and the love of Carthage. Farewell.

I supposed, deceived by opinion, that you were indulging in leisure: but you exercise your mind with reading, your body with labor. This is shown by your writings, and by gifts carved out by your pen, and won by hunting. I must traverse the Flaminian Way, summoned to the new fasces of the noble consul. O, if only your return might anticipate the undertakings of my journey! I would believe myself aided by the most ample provision for the road. But since we are parted by a long journey, and neither delay is advantageous to me, nor haste to you, this page shall serve for words. With the leave of the gods first invoked, my Symmachus, soon to hold the urban tribunal as praetor, will be received by it. I wish his festivities to be attended by his closest friends, among whom you are counted. Grant that favor though far away in those same days. What is bestowed upon the absent is the more welcome. Farewell.

On your lips the Cecropian muse flourishes: my tongue is Latin. Do not look for equal gifts of my pen. In letters we are outdone, in love we vie. But I would have replied merely, had you sent only a letter. But you, as one attentive to your friends, have brought into our library the riches of your poems. What worthy return can I make for this, being myself of slender eloquence and poor talent? I shall hand over to public admiration what you sent me to read. And though an unequal praiser, I shall proclaim the glory of the age. Nothing shall be taken from the glory of your work by this. For we know that even Homer was praised by his inferiors. Indeed the fame of great men would lack celebrity, if it were not content even with lesser witnesses. But why do I draw this out further, when your modesty demands brevity? Take care to keep well. And if you add anything further to your pen, share it with a mediocre judge, but not an ungrateful reader.

Farewell.

I pray the gods that whatever health is now mine may likewise be granted to you and yours. I think I have fully embraced, in this opening, what needed to be written: concerning your health, my wish; concerning mine, my joy. But you do not allow letters to be brief. What then shall be the ὑπόθεσις (subject matter) of a longer page? Where I am, what I have been doing (for friendship is especially curious about such things), I will relate, if it please you. The beginning of my pleasures arises from the Formian bay, a city once said to have been inhabited by the people of the Laestrygonians. We read that they indulged their belly and gullet even to a hateful degree of savagery. I spent rather many days on that shore, but sparing of luxuries; such was the delay urged upon me by the healthfulness of the climate and the coolness of the waters. My pledges (children) were present with me, in eagerness for whom I had set out from our city.

Nor was there occasion to press on further at once, since the desired ones were at hand. Thereafter, at their pleasure, I traveled along the coast lying between Formiae and the Cuman shore. Now, by mutual invitations, we move either to Bauli or to Nicomachus' estate at Gaurus. There is a great abundance of friends flocking to me from time to time. I do not fear that you will think I indulge in wantonness amid such pleasantness of places and abundance of resources. Everywhere we lead a consular life, and even on the Lucrine lake we are serious. There is no singing on the ships, no gluttonous feasting at banquets, no frequenting of the baths, no wanton swimming among the young men. Know that there is no fault of the places in luxury. Farewell.

Nothing stands divided between you and your excellent father, either in substance or in affection. Therefore the letter which I sent in reverence to him, you might, as a sharer in all his affairs, count as received by yourself. But now I must cultivate you also under your own name. Moreover I took care lest, with only one responding, the service of two should be charged to my account in return. Yet brevity suits this page, since I have gathered together what was worth relating. Wherefore you will hold this discourse as a witness, as it were, of my love toward you. But it is fitting that you be copious in replying. For the condition is not equal between what is repeated by me and what is, for each of us, a singular labor. It is difficult to fill two channels from one spring: into a single channel doubled sources flow abundantly. Farewell.

I believe you suppose that, hemmed in by the pleasures of Campania, I have until now been negligent in writing to you. Such is not the fortune of these places, that pleasures should bury serious concern. All things resound with unaccustomed necessities, and delights have yielded to burdens. Wherefore I have found business in place of leisure. Nor can I easily turn my mind back to these duties of friendship. Yet I pledge to your reverence that you should prefer this to my letters: I most eagerly desire to retrace my journey to you. For the same cause which forbade me to write compels me to return. Farewell.

I gave a letter to your father, with which you could have been content. For as there is one mind in each of you, so the same observance will satisfy you both. But I feared imitation, lest one of you should write back to me in the place and voice of both. Wherefore, as is customary in honoring the Divine Powers, I add to the offering a gift—brief, I confess, and such as you would have wished more ample. But in additions one does not seek measure. Do you yourself repay abundance for brevity; for it is fitting that familiar letters be lengthened by those for whom it is not necessary to duplicate them. Farewell.

With a ready and eager hand I seized your letter when it was offered to me, expecting to learn of prosperous things. But as I ran through in reading the enumeration of your losses, offense succeeded to pleasure. And indeed those adverse things which you endured along with very many others, according to the way of human nature, have some solace from shared company: but this blow of piratical plunder, which harsh chance added specifically to you, I think struck the deeper, because it has no sharer, and has doubled the grief. Against these chances of fortune the mind must be armed with virtue and reason, and hope of better things must also be taken up. Often things that were tottering have returned to solid ground. Nothing is eternal for men. Frequent changes turn mortal affairs, and the flight of all things is seen. I shall but briefly touch on these matters, since more occurs to you by reason of your learning.

Now I answer those things which you wished me to know: as soon as possible I am eager to visit Naples at the request of your fellow-citizens; there I shall devote an interval of two days to the honor of that reverend city. Thereafter, if the gods favor our good intentions, by the road through Capua we shall seek venerable Rome and our hearth. Meanwhile, if it should fall to me to enjoy the sight and conversation of you, I shall be filled with the fullness of joy. But if a greater necessity denies us the enjoyment of you, I would wish that, the cloud of cares wiped away, you wisely resume that cheerfulness of mind which our meeting could have diligently procured for you. Farewell.

I know that you remember that the same grief over our friend struck me too; but now the exchange of letters between us ought to be a solace. I write, therefore, so that you may be compelled to answer, and may return from mournful thoughts to the duties of the living. Let religious cause have excused you from writing first: you will not be so irreverent as to abstain when provoked. Farewell.

I saw in the letter recently delivered to me the reverent joy of your mind on our behalf, and I perceived most plainly what pleasure you take in the prosperity of friends. I love you the more readily, therefore, now that I have beheld this wish of a good mind. And although I myself have rendered to the most excellent lord of my heart the thanks of a letter for the honor of your brother Flavianus, nevertheless I beg that you also deign to add before the author of so great a benefit the greatness of my gratitude. Farewell.

It concerned the public advantage that greater responsibilities be entrusted to you. Wherefore my attestation of joy ought not to be prolix, lest suspicion of flattery mar the truth of my judgment. I wish, therefore, that the course of the office you have undertaken may smile upon you. Although I cannot doubt that probity is not changed, and that good arts are more happily spurred on by the goad of rewards. Farewell.

I exulted with joy for the honor of friendship, when I took up your letter. But when our friend Annius, though uncertain of health, made it known, my gladness turned into grave concern. For I see that to your journey, which is like an illness, a loss of health has been added. Yet my anxiety is consoled by this, that thrift is familiar to you, that wisdom is kindred to you, and your spirit is greater than adversities of fortune: these are the goods that are wont to bring back soundness of body and the serenity of vigor. I hope, therefore, for happier news of you, and I already prepare my ears for fortunate tidings. Justice, which watches over the pious, will bring it about that after the swift passing of this discomfort, the prosperity of your life may extend the longer. Farewell.

You ought, as is customary, to have made the first move in writing, since the return of your household courier reminded you of this diligence. But because either forgetfulness or the press of your reverence's affairs has begrudged the desired favor to us, I take up the beginning: intending to judge for the future, from the affection or abundance of your letters, whether you were lacking by will in beginning to write, or rather by necessity. Farewell.

I know that I have been slow in writing. I deliberately put off the pen, while I restored my vigor, wearied by travel, so that a letter like your hopeful wish might be delivered to you concerning me with joyful news. Let there be, then, a compensation for the delay in the excellent news. Certainly I lay down this law for the letters of friends, that by their constancy they should prove their affection, and by its goodness mine should delight. Farewell.

I would have wished to write to you sooner; but out of the many who travel, the choice of the writer ought to select a trustworthy occasion. You have received the reason for my rather tardy service: if it satisfies your mind, deign to see to it that your replies too reach me, entrusted to suitable messengers. Farewell.

That I write late to you is a sign of tenacious friendship, whose memory is proven by duties repeated after an interval. I myself interpret your silence in no other way. For although I seek the honor of a letter, being certain of your fidelity, I do not doubt even your silent love. But I fear lest this opinion persuade you to negligence in writing, and lest, secure in my judgment, you omit these duties of friendship. I urge, therefore, and beg, that you consider rather that part which produces gratitude by constancy, not that which promises pardon for rarity. Farewell.

I write these things as a sign of my love toward you, and so that you yourself may be provoked to reply by example. Since, then, I have fulfilled the duties of devotion, I expect that you yourself also discharge the payment of the exchange. Farewell.

Having lately returned to my household, even now I regard you in mind and thought. And so I compensate, with that cheerfulness of spirit, for the pleasure which I had hitherto taken from your conversation in person. If mutual care should answer to this, since the letter conveying your friendship grants me so much gratitude, how much more will its repetition afford? Farewell.

The health of our common pledge is safe, whose interests, entrusted to my care, will prosper. Be assured also of my own health, and in exchange for such news, discharge my concern for you with similar replies. Farewell.

You cannot complain of my silence, you who have granted me no writing until now. But if you wait for a similar beginning of the pen, take as example a reverent duty, which you ought to emulate. I shall henceforth be more ready to exercise the pen, if you encourage me with the fruit of a mutual exchange. Farewell.

I approved your withdrawal even in silence. For since, with discord intervening, you could not be present at the last rites of your kinsman, by that sorrowful departure you seemed to have satisfied piety. I myself, so far as was owed to an excellent citizen, fulfilled by remaining at home three days, not seeking reputation, but reflecting on the vicissitudes of human fortune. For what is so reasonable as to grant to a colleague what you yourself might one day wish good men to show to you? Farewell.

Now for the first time having crossed the threshold of office, you long too prematurely for the arrival of your successor. I recognize an impatience befitting Greek delicacy, which I would wish you to conceal for the whole circle of the year, and remember that you have migrated into a Roman tribe. For what have you suffered worthy of complaint? Not yet have military insults struck you down, not yet have you mourned throngs of women with torn garment, not yet have you experienced as a suppliant the wakeful night before the doors of eminent powers; and already, in delicate disdain, do you weary of a slight magistracy? Change your mind, if you can, and steel yourself for a year, or two years.

A plausible cause [lacuna]. For who, heading straight for Sicily, can render my conversation to one settled amid distant studies? But I stop. Do you hold that my care for you ought not to be weighed by the number of letters. For diligence toward friends abides continually, but the rarity of occasions distinguishes the writing. But of this I think enough has been said. Now the elegance of your talent, and the subtlety of your inventions, must be praised. For indeed you have discovered a new kind of mosaic, untried by earlier craftsmen, which even our rudeness will attempt to affix in adorning ceilings, if we take from you an example of the work premeditated, whether on panels or on tiles. Farewell.

Among the other goods of departed parents, the succession of friendship also ought to be sought after. And perhaps the inheritance of intimacy should be pursued with even stronger zeal: because fortune grants resources, but affection is bound by judgment. I wish, therefore, that the connection extended from your family may more readily grow strong between us. For it accords with nature that the duties begun by you should be confirmed by my approval. Therefore be generous in conversation for the future: care will not be lacking in me to reward you with an exchange of letters. Farewell.

I would rightly compare your letters to the fruits of the fields. For as their yield does not fail its debt of season, so the yearly speech of your worthiness does not disappoint the trust of our expectation: this letter's delivery to me now, through our men, has satisfied it. Having read your pages, then, I rejoice that you are well, and I delight in the honor of your address. Nor do I think myself judged unequal in replying. The divine favor will grant that a long span of years multiply these exchanges of duty between us. Farewell.

The yearly debt, so to speak, of your speech has been rendered to me. To you too these replies will afford the customary joy concerning us, which because of so great a distance we cannot make frequent, but which in good faith we present at set times. Let this custom, then, remain, and let mutual assurance be stored between us as a token of well-being. Farewell.

You press me with a lover's longing to return: my mind, long desirous of you, has for a good while been demanding this. But my troubled health resists my will. For a noxious humor, having settled in my joints, still holds me to my couch, even now, and is scarcely being lessened by the dryness of the seashore. Grant time, then, to recovery, which I had claimed for pleasure. You assert, moreover, that amid such an abundance of good things, nothing since my departure has been as pleasant as before. But I think you are deceived by pious affection, since judgment is rare in one who loves. And indeed I do not first learn from this letter what you feel about me. It is nearly the case that I owe thanks to my own absence, since it has furnished me a kind of written testimony of your regard. But I shall set these things aside. I will not delay your expectation once my strength is restored.

But since this is long for one who is eager, once I have seen what we possess nearby, I will hasten my return. For I hope that as much will accrue to my health from the sight of you as could be hoped from rest. Farewell.

I would wish to report my son's illness abated, but fictions avail nothing for those who are anxious. Yet I dare to hope for better things. For the abatement of the fevers, God being the author, has begun to draw near to confidence of health. I give thanks for your concern on our behalf, and I pray the heavenly power that an exchange of all prosperous things may answer to your disposition toward friends. Farewell.

You are accustomed to be prolix in writing, according to the strength of your talent. Since court honor has called you into service, you too gird up your words, and, like a soldier of light armor, emulate the skirmishers. What am I to do, an old chatterer, for whom the measure of speech is prescribed by a young man? The vice of old age, verbosity, draws me on: but your example presents itself, and I gather the weariness of your ears from the brevity of your pen. For meanwhile I must not violate the pattern of your letter. Yet I shall wait to see whether you demand fullness of me, if I write back at greater length. Farewell.

For a long time, conscious of my mediocre eloquence, I hesitated to reply to the soundness and beauty alike of your letters: but devotion broke through my fear. For I preferred to displease by my pen rather than by pride. Whatever, then, this is that my page contains, I beg you take it in good part, and lower yourself to the mediocrity of my writings, lest my devotion be blunted, while imitation is despaired of. Farewell.

Having long since sent letters to you, I have not earned a reply in kind; and yet, keeping to my intention, I renew the honor of writing. For I believe that repetition may now obtain, even at this point, the exchange first denied to my duty. Farewell.

The rarity of your letters all but asserts that my own constant writing is a weariness to you. For you are, beyond your custom, sparing of address. But I keep to the constancy of my diligence, nor am I led away from my purpose by argument. It will be in your power either to increase this habit of my mind by silence, or to remove it by letters. Farewell.

You understand how much your absence saddens me. For you write that a necessity has been laid upon you by my son, so that you might be excused by the pretext of public business. One of two things, then, must be done by your devotion: either you must send an abundance of stags and boars, or return more quickly into the sight of your friend. For no justice suffices for satisfaction, if you deny him the hunt and me the comfort. Farewell.

I repay you the debt of a letter; for already some time ago our common friend showed me an honor equal to that of your writings: whose modesty and integrity, having been carefully examined, I have approved as worthy of your affection. Farewell.

I suppose my letter seems late to you. But if you reckon the days of the journey, the reckoning will dissolve the delay. Moreover a bodily ailment intervened, arising from my usual humor, a sequesterer of familiar duties. Now, since rest has been restored to labor and to health, I do not delay words of greeting, hoping to receive the reward of my service in the recompense of a reply. Farewell.

If you know my mind toward you well, you cannot doubt that the adverse state of my bodily health has hindered my letters from being sent up to now. Excused on this score, I now return to you a greeting-page, which will testify that I am well.

After my health removed the excuse for silence, I had learned, on my son's assertion, that you were about to come to Campania. Hence it came about that I abstained from letters. But while either urban cares or pleasures delayed you, my expectation had almost incurred the fault of silence itself. I discharge, therefore, toward you the greeting owed, and leave it to your choice whether you prefer to grant me your arrival, or to render a reply. Farewell.

I preserve the observance which ancient custom established, that those departing from home should begin with a letter, and I announce that I am well. It follows as a debt that you should pay friendly replies to the duty I have discharged. Farewell.

I summon my son Romulus; you retain him. I claim for myself toward him the role of a parent; you exercise the right of a kinsman. By his own voluntary pledge he owes me his presence; by you both he is detained by the hope of joining a journey together. But since your own arrival too is announced beforehand, the delay is a profitable reckoning, which promises me both for the price of one. I yield, therefore, to your wish, and do not refuse the patience of a few days. I congratulate your brother Romulus too exceedingly, whose comfort we both claim for ourselves in a pious and friendly rivalry. Farewell.

My son, by God's good grace, is out of danger, but suffers a failure of strength nearly to the point of sickness. The plan is to return, dividing the stages gradually into smaller distances. I too, as a companion, have caught the contagion of my household. I believe the harm broke out afterward from the night vigils, of which at the time there was little sense. Yet I strive to check the encroaching evil by diligence and moderation. Therefore, having called upon the powers of heaven, we prepare to set out on our journey. I would render thanks for your kindness toward us, if the love I hope for, and owed in mutual return, allowed itself to be flattered with praise. Farewell.

I had wished to be frequent in writing, and had promised that this was to be hoped for: but the health of my son, long in doubt, commanded a cessation from duties of this kind. As soon as he began, by the favor of the powers of health, to emerge from danger, the practice of writing at once followed upon my sense of security. Receive, then, willingly the greeting here spoken, which, if fortune favors our hopes, we shall soon follow in person. Farewell.

You wait, as I understand, for my letter: as if you yourself ought not to be the president of our familiar duty. Perhaps you rely on the plea of custom, since it has become fixed in the minds of many that the first greeting must be taken up by those who have set out on a journey. I release you from the observance of that custom, or from the law of laziness. It will be enough for me, to full satisfaction, if, though averse to seizing the first step in writing, you at least follow the example. Farewell.

We are advancing our journey to Capua; perhaps you suspect that the length of the road will bring on a forgetfulness of the customary duty toward you. For it is a common proverb that, once Malea has been sailed round, the memory of those left at home grows dim. But even should I turn my step away, the care of friends accompanies me. Hope, then, that the honor of this office will remain toward you, if fortune consents to our wishes. Farewell.

I am not of doubtful opinion that my letters are awaited. For I suffer an equal impatience of longing for yours. There is, then, one cause of my writing: that I may earn yours; whose thirst, as with the drinking of springs, is the greater for this reason, that the taste is sweeter. Farewell.

You had admonished me, when I last departed from the City, that if I wished to open to you the entrance to correspondence, I should begin the letters first. I satisfy your wish, which embraces the observance of ancient custom. Released, then, from this obligation, break forth into the offices of familiar style, and share with me whatever you have done for the public good in administering the guardianship of the City. And let no shame of the writer detract anything from the truth, lest the modesty of the letter be a loss to my pleasure. Farewell.

It had offended good men that you departed too soon before. Fortune grieved at her own fault, who restored you to us with equal haste. But what good does a friend's return do one who is absent? Console this misfortune with frequent letters: write also what the charge entrusted to you at Rome has allowed you to do; so that, when a more generous day promises me hope of seeing your excellency, I too, after urban vexations, may at last enjoy a longer leisure once seized. Farewell.

By the sign of the City's quiet you have in some measure prolonged the time of enjoying leisure: for the peaceableness of the citizens allows me to be absent long, achieved by your counsels, by which the populace has been reduced to a modest repentance. Now, therefore, after the flight of all cares, I shall be allowed to prolong for myself holidays that are, so to speak, rich and full. Although I ought not to presume uncertain things in my mind, conscious as I am to myself of tender affection toward you, and of that longing by which, above all the pleasures of life, I love my native city. Farewell.

I would render you great thanks, since you have anticipated me with a greeting not long after my departure from you, were it not that hope of a greater kindness claims this congratulation of mine for itself. For you yourself are said to be about to come; on account of which matter I confess myself bound to you as by a pledge, in the manner of a greater favor. Yet I would wish that faith be added by your writings to the good I hope for, so that I, delighted by such an expectation, may rejoice much more in the certainty of confirmation. Farewell.

I desire your letters out of love, but our common son makes me seem infrequent, since he does not ask for replies. Yet let it suffice to have said this briefly, lest my excuse be a burden upon his modesty. Now I bestow on you the honor of a greeting, nor do I demand back what you will do of your own accord, that you address us in mutual exchange; since both the devotion of your mind and custom allow me this favor. Farewell.

I received your desired letter gladly indeed; but knowledge of your deeds, of which Fuscius was witness and narrator, brought me richer pleasure. And so I urge and admonish you not to abandon what you have well begun, and to pursue the reward of praise through integrity. I would add a word of concern for my own affairs, if there were another to be addressed; but since you do of your own accord what my word might ask for, I omit the part of commendation: because whatever is presumed upon from confidence in friendship has more grace, if it is offered spontaneously. Farewell.

You say you are living in the country, and cherishing your unripe old age by training vines or grafting trees. Your letters do not taste of this, unless perhaps your Gaul has returned from Helicon. You stir other furrows with the pen, you plant other rows. I, however, since you wish to know of our affairs, grow torpid in leisure and study, in the dwelling-place of Latin eloquence. May the gods grant increase of years to my little one. He himself, with fortune's pardon first invoked, has called me to partnership in his own studies. Meanwhile, spur my sluggishness with frequent letters. This alone, indeed, remains as a kind of writing, through which—bitter as the fortunes of my speeches are—I might still be enticed to the practice of writing. Farewell.

Now at last I am filled with pleasure, because you have announced yourself free of cares. For until now the bitterness of your affairs troubled me. And so I pray the gods, guardians of health, that no gloomy mood may ever darken your pages. Meanwhile such letters must be repaid with their price. Wherefore take in turn something to rejoice over concerning me. We are in good state of health, and we are planning to return to the neighborhood of the City. May fortune's kindness allow this exchange to remain between us, that replies may match prosperous letters. Farewell.

By divine favor invoked beforehand, my son Symmachus will draw by lot the fasces of the urban praetorship on the Kalends of January. We beg, joining our petition with others, that his office be adorned by your presence. Farewell.

With the honor of divinity invoked beforehand, my son Symmachus will receive the magistracy of the urban praetorship on the Kalends of January. I beg that your presence may grace our festivities. Farewell.

My silence ought not to be reckoned to me as a fault: for the practice of familiar duties is neglected amid adversities. But since hope is given that my Symmachus will gradually recover good health, my spirit returns to the offices of friendship: so that if my silence had caused you any fear, the assurance of my speech may release it. Farewell.

I hold it certain that you value nothing more highly than my letters. For I too hold the same judgment concerning the pleasantness of your discourse. Rightly have I seized upon the gift of friendship. But if you should return it in equal measure, my zeal will be sharpened by the incitement of devotion. Farewell.