Letters of Pliny
herself, and every valuable endowment, seem involved in the danger of
his single person. How consummate his knowledge, both in the political
and civil laws of his country! How thoroughly conversant is he in every
branch of history or antiquity? In a word, there is nothing you might
wish to know which he could not teach you. As for me, whenever I would
acquaint myself with any abstruse point, I go to him as my store-house.
What an engaging sincerity, what dignity in his conversation! how
chastened and becoming is his caution! Though he conceives, at once,
every point in debate, yet he is as slow to decide as he is quick to
apprehend; calmly and deliberately sifting and weighing every opposite
reason that is offered, and tracing it, with a most judicious
penetration, from its source through all its remotest consequences. His
diet is frugal, his dress plain; and whenever I enter his chamber, and
view him reclined upon his couch, I consider the scene before me as a
true image of ancient simplicity, to which his illustrious mind reflects
the noblest ornament. He places no part of his happiness in ostentation,
but in the secret approbation of his conscience, seeking the reward of
his virtue, not in the clamorous applauses of the world, but in the
silent satisfaction which results from having acted well. In short, you
will not easily find his equal, even among our philosophers by outward
profession. No, he does not frequent the gymnasia or porticoes[29] nor
does he amuse his own and others' leisure with endless controversies,
but busies himself in the scenes of civil and active life. Many has he
assisted with his interest, still more with his advice, and withal in
the practice of temperance, piety, justice, and fortitude, he has no
superior. You would be astonished, were you there to see, at the
patience with which he bears his illness, how he holds out against pain,
endures thirst, and quietly submits to this raging fever and to the
pressure of those clothes which are laid upon him to promote
perspiration. He lately called me and a few more of his particular
friends to his bedside, requesting us to ask his physicians what turn
they apprehended his distemper would take; that, if they pronounced it
incurable, he might voluntarily put an end to his life; but if there
were hopes of a recovery, how tedious and difficult soever it might
prove, he would calmly wait the event; for so much, he thought, was due
to the tears and entreaties of his wife and daughter, and to the
affectionate intercession of his friends, as not voluntarily to abandon
our hopes, if they were not entirely desperate. A true hero's resolution
this, in my estimation, and worthy the highest applause. Instances are
frequent in the world, of rushing into the arms of death without
reflection and by a sort of blind impulse but deliberately to weigh the
reasons for life or death, and to be determined in our choice as either
side of the scale prevails, shows a great mind. We have had the
satisfaction to receive the opinion of his physicians in his favour: may
heaven favour their promises and relieve me at length from this painful
anxiety. Once easy in my mind, I shall go back to my favourite
Laurentum, or, in other words, to my books, my papers and studious
leisure. Just now, so much of my time and thoughts are taken up in
attendance upon my friend, and anxiety for him, that I have neither
leisure nor inclination for any reading or writing whatever. Thus you
have my fears, my wishes, and my after-plans. Write me in return, but in
a gayer strain, an account not only of what you are and have been doing,
but of what you intend doing too. It will be a very sensible consolation
to me in this disturbance of mind, to be assured that yours is easy.
Farewell.
XVII -- To VOCONIUS ROMANUS
ROME has not for many years beheld a more magnificent and memorable
spectacle than was lately exhibited in the public funeral of that great,
illustrious, and no less fortunate man, Verginius Rufus. He lived thirty
years after he had reached the zenith of his fame. He read poems
composed in his honour, he read histories of his achievements, and was
himself witness of his fame among posterity. He was thrice raised to the
dignity of consul, that he might at least be the highest of subjects,
who[30] had refused to be the first of princes. As he escaped the
resentment of those emperors to whom his virtues had given umbrage and
even rendered him odious, and ended his days when this best of princes,
this friend of mankind[31] was in quiet possession of the empire, it
seems as if Providence had purposely preserved him to these times, that
he might receive the honour of a public funeral. He reached his eighty-
fourth year, in full tranquillity and universally revered, having
enjoyed strong health during his lifetime, with the exception of a
trembling in his hands, which, however, gave him no pain. His last
illness, indeed, was severe and tedious, but even that circumstance
added to his reputation. As he was practising his voice with a view of
returning his public acknowledgements to the emperor, who had promoted
him to the consulship, a large volume he had taken into his hand, and
which happened to be too heavy for so old a man to hold standing up,
slid from his grasp. In hastily endeavouring to recover it, his foot
slipped on the smooth pavement, and he fell down and broke his thigh-
bone, which being clumsily set, his age as well being against him, did
not properly unite again. The funeral obsequies paid to the memory of
this great man have done honour to the emperor, to the age, and to the
bar. The consul Cornelius Tacitus[32] pronounced his funeral oration and
thus his good fortune was crowned by the public applause of so eloquent
an orator. He has departed from our midst, full of years, indeed, and of
glory; as illustrious by the honours he refused as by those he accepted.
Yet still we shall miss him and lament him, as the shining model of a
past age; I, especially, shall feel his loss, for I not only admired him
as a patriot, but loved him as a friend. We were of the same province,
and of neighbouring towns, and our estates were also contiguous. Besides
these accidental connections, he was left my guardian, and always
treated me with a parent's affection. Whenever I offered myself as a
candidate for any office in the state, he constantly supported me with
his interest; and although he had long since given up all such services
to friends, he would kindly leave his retirement and come to give me his
vote in person. On the day on which the priests nominate those they
consider most worthy of the sacred office[33] he constantly proposed me.
Even in his last illness, apprehending the possibility of the senate's
appointing him one of the five commissioners for reducing the public
expenses, he fixed upon me, young as I am, to bear his excuses, in
preference to so many other friends, elderly men too, and of consular
rank and said to me, "Had I a son of my own, I would entrust you with
this matter." And so I cannot but lament his death, as though it were
premature, and pour out my grief into your bosom; if indeed one has any
right to grieve, or to call it death at all, which to such a man
terminates his mortality, rather than ends his life. He lives, and will
live on for ever; and his fame will extend and be more celebrated by
posterity, now that he is gone from our sight. I had much else to write
to you but my mind is full of this. I keep thinking of Verginius: I see
him before me: I am for ever fondly yet vividly imagining that I hear
him, am speaking to him, embrace him. There are men amongst us, his
fellow-citizens, perhaps, who may rival him in virtue; but not one that
will ever approach him in glory. Farewell.
XVIII -- To NEPOS
THE great fame of Isaeus had already preceded him here; but we find him
even more wonderful than we had heard. He possesses the utmost
readiness, copiousness, and abundance of language: he always speaks
extempore, and his lectures are as finished as though he had spent a
long time over their written composition. His style is Greek, or rather
the genuine Attic. His exordiums are terse, elegant, attractive, and
occasionally impressive and majestic. He suggests several subjects for
discussion, allows his audience their choice, sometimes to even name
which side he shall take, rises, arranges himself, and begins. At once
he has everything almost equally at command. Recondite meanings of
things are suggested to you, and words--what words they are! exquisitely
chosen and polished. These extempore speeches of his show the wideness
of his reading, and how much practice he has had in composition. His
preface is to the point, his narrative lucid, his summing up forcible,
his rhetorical ornament imposing. In a word, he teaches, entertains, and
affects you; and you are at a loss to decide which of the three he does
best. His reflections are frequent, his syllogisms also are frequent,
condensed, and carefully finished, a result not easily attainable even
with the pen. As for his memory, you would hardly believe what it is
capable of. He repeats from a long way back what he has previously
delivered extempore, without missing a single word. This marvellous
faculty he has acquired by dint of great application and practice, for
night and day he does nothing, hears nothing, says nothing else. He has
passed his sixtieth year and is still only a rhetorician, and I know no
class of men more single-hearted, more genuine, more excellent than this
class. We who have to go through the rough work of the bar and of real
disputes unavoidably contract a certain unprincipled adroitness. The
school, the lecture-room, the imaginary case, all this, on the other
hand, is perfectly innocent and harmless, and equally enjoyable,
especially to old people, for what can be happier at that time of life
than to enjoy what we found pleasantest in our young days? I consider
Isaeus then, not only the most eloquent, but the happiest, of men, and
if you are not longing to make his acquaintance, you must be made of
stone and iron. So, if not upon my account, or for any other reason,
come, for the sake of hearing this man, at least. Have you never read of
a certain inhabitant of Cadiz who was so impressed with the name and
fame of Livy that he came from the remotest corner of the earth on
purpose to see him, and, his curiosity gratified, went straight home
again. It is utter want of taste, shows simple ignorance, is almost an
actual disgrace to a man, not to set any high value upon a proficiency
in so pleasing, noble, refining a science. "I have authors," you will
reply, "here in my own study, just as eloquent." True: but then those
authors you can read at any time, while you cannot always get the
opportunity of hearing eloquence. Besides, as the proverb says, "The
living voice is that which sways the soul;" yes, far more. For
notwithstanding what one reads is more clearly understood than what one
hears, yet the utterance, countenance, garb, aye and the very gestures
of the speaker, alike concur in fixing an impression upon the mind; that
is, unless we disbelieve the truth of Aeschines' statement, who, after
he had read to the Rhodians that celebrated speech of Demosthenes, upon
their expressing their admiration of it, is said to have added, "Ah!
what would you have said, could you have heard the wild beast himself?"
And Aeschines, if we may take Demosthenes' word for it, was no mean
elocutionist; yet, he could not but confess that the speech would have
sounded far finer from the lips of its author. I am saying all this with
a view to persuading you to hear Isaeus, if even for the mere sake of
being able to say you have heard him. Farewell.
XIX -- To AVITUS