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A SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 205

INTRODUCTION

It is hardly necessary to dwell upon Petrarch's extensive correspondence. He was the leader of the learned men of his age; and it is common knowledge that all his prominent contemporaries--whether in the political world, or in the religious world, or in the scholarly world--were numbered among his friends.

Corresponding so incessantly with all men and on all topics, Petrarch's letters soon grew into an unmanageable mass. One day in 1359 Petrarch, with a sigh, consigned to the flames a thousand or more papers, consisting of short poems and of letters, merely to avoid the irksome task of sifting and of correcting them. He then noticed a few papers lying in a corner, which he spared because they had already been recopied and arranged by his secretary . Petrarch divided these "few" letters into two groups, dedicating the twenty-four books of prose epistles to Socrates , and the three books of poetic epistles to Marco Barbato .

Farther on in his prefatory letter to Socrates, Petrarch points out the vigor and the courage to be seen in his earlier letters, and advances extenuating circumstances for the laments which begin to crop out in the later ones. He excuses these by arguing that they were occasioned by the misfortunes which befell his friends, and not by those which he had suffered in his own person. At this point Petrarch does not lose the opportunity for comparing himself with Cicero. The passage gives so completely the information needed by the reader that it is hereby translated in full :

In ordering these letters, I have been guided entirely by their chronology, and not by their contents. Nearly all of them have been arranged in the order in which they were written, with the exception, indeed, of these last letters addressed to the illustrious authors of antiquity. These I have purposely gathered together on account of their strange character and the similarity of their subject-matter. A second exception must be made in the case of the first letter, which, though written later, I have placed at the head of her companions to serve as a preface .

The material embraced in these pages has been partly treated in English and to a greater extent in French . In both cases, however, the letters chosen have been merely translated, with only the barest attempt at annotating. Even the notes of the Italian translation by Fracassetti are only such as pertain to the life of Petrarch and to those of his correspondents.

Thus much concerning the history of the text proper. The notes have been made as detailed as seemed necessary and consistent with the character of the work. Some of the quotations from the original sources, or from translations, may appear somewhat lengthy at first glance. In all instances, however, it has been deemed quite essential to reproduce in the mind of the reader the conditions and the attitude of Petrarch's mind. Only in this way do many brief expressions and pregnant allusions of Petrarch become perfectly clear.

The number of persons interested in the absorbing period of the Italian Renaissance is increasing daily. The present study deals with only one phase of that truly wonderful period--with the beginnings of the Classical Renaissance. But the personality of him who has justly been styled the "first modern man" is so complex, so comprehensive, that the study of any portion of his works would seem to interest not only the classical scholar, but also the student of the modern literatures, the student of Italian literature, the historian, and, finally, the large number of those who range themselves in the ranks of the Petrarchists. It is hoped that this study may make some appeal to one or to all of these classes.

The field of research on the Latin works of Petrarch is so fruitful that, during the preparation of the present volume, numerous notes have been taken with reference to Petrarch's place in politics and in religion. It is the earnest hope of the author, therefore, to pursue his researches along these lines, and to add other volumes to this preliminary study.

I have read thy letters through to the end most eagerly--letters for which I had diligently searched far and wide, and which I finally came upon where I least expected. I have heard thee speak on many subjects, give voice to many laments, and waver frequently in thy opinions, O Marcus Tullius. Hitherto I knew what true counsel thou gavest to others; now, at last, I have learned to what degree thou didst prove mentor to thyself.

Wherever thou mayest be, hearken in turn to this--I shall not call it advice--but lament, a lament springing from sincere love and uttered, not without tears, by one of thy descendants who most dearly cherishes thy name. O thou ever restless and distressed spirit, or, that thou mayest recognize thine own words, O thou rash and unfortunate old man! Why such countless enmities and rivalries bound to prove of absolutely no benefit to thee? Wherefore didst thou forsake that peaceful ease so befitting a man of thy years, and of thy vocation, and of thy station in life? What false luster of glory involved thee, although weighed down with years, in the wrangles and frays proper to youths and, driving thee hither and thither through all the vicissitudes of fortune, hurried thee to an end unworthy of a philosopher? Alas, forgetful of the admonitions of thy brother, forgetful of thy own numerous and wholesome precepts, like a traveler in the night didst thou bear the light in the darkness, and didst enlighten for those following thee the path on which thou thyself didst stumble most wretchedly.

I forbear to speak of Dionysius; I shall make no mention of thy brother, nor of thy nephew, and, if it pleases thee, I shall pass over Dolabella too--men whom thou dost praise to the skies at one moment, and the next dost rail at in sudden wrath. Such examples of thy inconstancy may, perhaps, be excused. I omit mention of Julius Caesar, even, whose oft-tested mercy proved a haven of refuge for those very persons who had assailed him. I shall say naught of the great Pompey, with whom it seemed that thou couldst accomplish anything thou didst set thy heart upon, such was the friendship between you. But what madness arrayed thee against Antony? Love for the Republic, I suppose thou wouldst answer. But the Republic had already been destroyed root and branch. If, however, it was pure loyalty, if it was love of liberty that impelled thee , what meant such intimacy with Augustus? Indeed, what possible answer canst thou give to thy Brutus? "If," says he, "thou dost embrace the cause of Octavius, the evident conclusion will be, not that thou hast rid thyself of a master, but rather that thou hast sought a kindlier lord."

There still remained this lamentable, finishing stroke, O Cicero, that thou shouldst speak ill of that very man, notwithstanding thy previous high praise. And on what grounds? Not because he was doing thee any wrong, but merely because he did not oppose those who were.

I grieve at thy lot, my friend; I am ashamed of thy many, great shortcomings, and take compassion on them. And so, even as did Brutus, I attach no importance to that knowledge with which I know that thou wert so thoroughly imbued. Forsooth, what boots it to instruct others, of what profit to discourse eternally on the virtues, and that too in most eloquent terms, if, at the same time, one turns a deaf ear to his own instructions? Ah, how much better had it been for a man of declining years, and especially for one devoted to studies, even as thou, to have lived his last days in the quiet of the country, meditating on that everlasting life, and not on this fleeting one. How much better had it been never to have held office, never to have longed for triumphs, never to have vaunted of crushing such men as Catiline. But 'tis vain indeed to talk thus. Farewell forever, my Cicero.

This letter portrays Petrarch's love for Cicero so clearly, and gives us so vivid a picture of the human side of our author, that we cannot resist the temptation to quote from another letter written about a year later, which completes the story of the offending volume. He writes to Boccaccio :

I greatly enjoyed the next portion of your letter, where you say that I was undeservedly injured by Cicero because of my too great familiarity with him. You are right: those with whom we live on the most intimate terms are the ones who most often molest us. It is a most rare and unusual thing indeed for a Hindoo to offend a Spaniard. And so it goes. Whence it happens that we are not surprised when we read of the wars of the Athenians against the Spartans, and when we witness our own wars against our neighbors. Much less do we marvel at civil wars and internal dissensions. Indeed, experience has made these so much a matter of course that it is peace and harmony rather that have become a source of wonder. If, on the other hand, we read of a Scythian king waging war with the monarchs of Egypt, or of Alexander the Macedon fighting his way into the heart of India, we are overcome by amazement, which ceases the moment we recollect the examples offered by our own history and recall the glorious and valorous expeditions of the Romans into the most distant lands. Your arguments proved to be of consolation to me, in so far as I was hurt by Cicero, with whom I most ardently desire to live on intimate terms. But I hope that I shall never be injured either by Hippocrates or by Albumazar.

But to be serious, you must know that that wound which was caused by Cicero and of which I had begun to jest, soon turned my sport to grief. Almost a year slipped by, and the condition of the wound was still going from bad to worse, while I was growing gray in the midst of pain and discomforts, doctors and poultices. Finally, when my restlessness had become intolerable and I had become tired of life, I resolved to dismiss the doctors and to await the outcome, no matter what it was, preferring to entrust myself to God and to nature rather than to those white-washers who were experimenting the tricks of their trade to my detriment. And I lived up to my resolution. I showed them the door, and placed full reliance in the aid of the Divine Preserver. The youth who waits upon me, thanks to my wound and at my expense, turned doctor. And I, remembering which of the many remedies had been of real benefit to me, made use of those only. To help nature I was careful of my diet; and so very, very gradually I am regaining the health which I lost in such short order. Now you have the story complete. Let me add one word more, that this life is an arena for toils and griefs in which I have often combated against strange mishaps, strange not in themselves, but in that they should have fallen to my lot. No one, I assure you, seeks peace more than I; no one shuns such encounters more readily than I; and never have I, hitherto, suffered such a strange calamity, whether you consider its peculiar cause, or the pain which resulted therefrom, or its long continuance. My Cicero wished to leave upon my memory an imperishable and lasting impression. I always should have remembered him, I vow; but lest I might possibly forget him, Cicero has now taken due precautions--both internal and external. And here again, what do you wish me to say? To repeat, I now perceive that life is in itself a serious work.

The situation demanded that I draw forth from my traveling-case the volume containing my correspondence. But this only heaped coals upon the fire. For, among the numerous letters to my contemporaries, there are a few which, for the sake of variety, I have addressed to the more distinguished characters of antiquity--a pleasant diversion, so to speak, from my wonted labors. The reader, if not forewarned, would be greatly astonished at finding such illustrious and ancient names mingled with those of today. Two of these letters are to Cicero himself; one of them censures his life, the second praises his genius. After you had read them to the attentive gathering, the friendly discussion was renewed with spirit. My writings found favor with some, who acknowledged that Cicero had been criticized justly. That venerable gentleman alone fought on and on with ever-increasing obstinacy. Being held captive by the splendor of the name and his love for the author, he preferred to laud even the shortcomings of Cicero, and to accept the vices of his friend together with his virtues. He did not wish to make any discrimination, lest he might seem to cast even the slightest aspersions on so praiseworthy an author. He could make no other answer to me and the rest, except to oppose to all our arguments the mere splendor of Cicero's name. Authority had driven out reason. Stretching out his hand, he exclaimed time and again: "Have mercy on my Cicero, I beg of you; be more merciful." And when asked whether Cicero could be said to have erred at all, he closed his eyes as if struck by the word, and turning away his face groaned: "Woe is me! And is it my Cicero who is thus reproved?" as if he were speaking, not of a mortal but of some deity. Hence we asked of him whether he judged Tullius a man or a god. Instantly came the reply: "A god." ... After long discussion, and at a late hour, we arose and departed, leaving the issue still undecided. But the last thing before separating for the evening, you exacted from me the promise to send to you a copy of those two letters the moment I should arrive at a more fixed abode--for there was no time that day.... I hereby send them to you.

But I am done with leaders in war. I shall now speak of M. Tullius Cicero. After countless hardships suffered in the course of his career, after such numerous dangers incurred during that most stormy consulship and in his immortal fight against unprincipled men, when the liberty of his fellow-citizens had at last been destroyed, Cicero escaped as if from a sinking ship, and, stripped of all his honors, retired into a life of seclusion. And now, in roving about from one country home to another, as he himself says , he found himself alone quite frequently. But what activity in public life, I ask, was comparable to his leisure? What crowded assemblies to his isolation? Although Cicero may be pardoned for weeping bitterly over the fate of his fatherland, still from out of that solitude there spread abroad to all nations monumental products of his divine genius. Indeed, as Cicero himself says , more works were struck off in that brief period than in the many years while the Republic was still standing. But his powers did not avail him in warding off his destiny. He was safe in the midst of dangers; but when at last in the haven he suffered shipwreck.

The following proves clearly how much easier it is for a man to give good advice to others than to himself. Quintus Cicero once offered advice to Marcus Cicero, his brother, and if Marcus had accepted it, he would perhaps have died in his own bed, and his body might have been laid to rest unmutilated. The advice was that Marcus should consider carefully the wretched end of his illustrious contemporaries, and should examine closely the dangers by which he himself was beset; after which he should beware of becoming involved in strifes and conflicts which could bring no relief to the State, but which would, in the end, bring destruction upon him. Most prudent counsel indeed! For what is more fatuous than to become entangled in unending quarrels, especially when one already despairs of attaining the desired goal? Tullius himself somewhere admits that this brotherly advice was both sensible and wise. But we all know how wisely he followed it! Perchance it was the force of destiny which urged him on--a compelling force which I know not whether it was possible to resist. At any rate, such resistance must have proved very difficult. And this fact is impressed upon my mind by the subject of the following sketch.

And he to him: "Thou first directedst me Towards Parnassus, in its grots to drink, And first concerning God didst me enlighten. Thou didst as he who walketh in the night, Who bears his light behind, which helps him not, But wary makes the persons after him, When thou didst say,"....

You may remember that Cicero's name chanced to be mentioned among us, as so often happens among learned men. This put a stop to the desultory conversation in which we had been engaged up to that time. We all became engrossed with this one topic, and nothing else but Cicero was talked of thereafter. We gathered round and each in turn sang the praises of Cicero as seemed best to him. But nothing in this world is perfect , and there is no one in whom even a gentle critic cannot find just cause for censure. And so it happened that though nearly everything pleases me in Cicero--a man whom I cherish beyond all my other friends--and though I expressed admiration for his golden eloquence and divine intellect, I could not praise the fickleness of his character and his inconstancy, which I had detected in many instances.

And again, at the end of the same letter , Petrarch says:

As regards Cicero, I have known him as the best of consuls, vigilantly providing for the welfare of the State, and as a citizen who always evinced the highest love of country. But what more? I cannot bestow praise upon the instability of his friendships, nor upon the serious disagreements arising from slight causes and bringing destruction upon him and benefit to none, nor upon a judgment which, when brought to bear upon questions of private and public affairs, did not well accord with his remarkable acumen in other directions. Above all, I cannot praise, in a philosopher weighed down with years, an inclination for wrangling which is proper to youths and utterly of no avail. Of all this, however, remember that neither you nor anyone else can be in a fit position to judge, until you will have read, and carefully, all the letters of Cicero; for it is these which gave rise to the whole discussion.

. Petrarch has here paraphrased the words of Cicero, who employs such expressions as "maximo in discrimine res publica versatur" ; "ferre praesidium labenti et inclinatae paene rei publicae" ; "res existimabatur in extremum adducta discrimen" ; "desperatam et afflictam rem publicam" ; and "mortua re publica" .

I have read an extract of the letter which you wrote to Octavius.... I am most deeply afflicted by that portion of your letter to Octavius which concerns us. You give him thanks for the welfare of the State, and--what shall I say? The conditions imposed by my present lot bring shame upon me, but still the words must be written--you suppliantly and submissively commend our safety to his mercy.... For my part I do not believe that all the gods have abandoned their protection of the Roman people to such an extent that Octavius is to be implored for the safety of any citizen whatsoever, much less, then, for that of the liberators of the entire world.... And can you, Cicero, who confess that Octavius has this power, can you still remain his friend?... For if you are pleased with Octavius, of whom our safety is to be implored, you will seem, not to have rid yourself of a master, but rather to have sought a kindlier lord.

There is a marked similarity between the two passages, both in the thought and the wording. As to the latter we must remember that Petrarch was quoting from memory and not from an open book, an inference which may be justly drawn from his "ut ipse quodam loco ais." It is needless to add that the similarity of the two passages lies only in the letter, and that the spirit of Cicero's words was thoroughly pagan. With Petrarch, in this instance, the wish was father to the thought. Still he could not deceive himself on this point, as is evidenced by the dating of this letter. Elsewhere, too, he expresses his sincere regret, and regards Cicero as a potential Christian, if we may use the phrase. In a letter written to Neri Morando and dated October 15, 1358 or 1359, Petrarch is full and explicit. He says :

I am living in the country not far from the banks of the Adda. I know that I am not more solicitous of your welfare than you of mine. I suppose, therefore, you will be astonished at hearing how I am spending my time. You are well aware that from early boyhood of all the writers of all ages and of all races the one author whom I most admire and love is Cicero. You agree with me in this respect as well as in so many others. I am not afraid of being considered a poor Christian by declaring myself so much of a Ciceronian. To my knowledge, Cicero never wrote one word that would conflict with the principles proclaimed by Christ. If, perchance, his works contained anything contrary to Christ's doctrine, that one fact would be sufficient to destroy my belief in Cicero, and in Aristotle, too, and in Plato. For how could I place faith in man, I who should believe not even an angel, relying on the words of the Apostle who says, in the Epistle to the Galatians : "But though we, or an angel from heaven, preach any other gospel unto you than that which we have preached unto you, let him be accursed." But to return to Cicero. He frequently makes mention of the gods, following, of course, the custom of his times. He devotes an entire volume, it is true, to a discussion of the nature of the gods. If you read beneath the surface, however, you will be convinced that he does not so much pay honor to this throng of gods with their empty names, but rather exposes them to ridicule. Where he seriously expresses his own opinion Cicero asserts that there is but one God, and that He is the Prince and Ruler of the universe. I have often pointed out, both in speech and in writing, that in this respect Cicero was fully aware of the danger attending his statement of the truth. And yet, somewhere, he has clearly stated that it is not befitting a philosopher to say that there are many gods. Who, therefore, will declare Cicero hostile to the true faith, or who, because of his crass ignorance of the facts, will cast upon Cicero the opprobrium of stranger and enemy? Christ is my God; Cicero, on the other hand, is the prince of the language I use. I grant you that these ideas are widely separated, but I deny that they are at conflict one with the other. Christ is the Word, and the Virtue, and the Wisdom of God the Father. Cicero has written much on the speech of men, on the virtues of men, and on the wisdom of men--statements that are true and therefore surely acceptable to the God of truth. For since God is the living Truth, and since, as St. Augustine says, all truth proceeds from Him who is the Truth, then surely whatever truth is spoken proceeds from God. I should desire to emphasize the fact that Cicero could not have known Christ, having been called from this world shortly before Christ God became man. Oh, lamentable lot! For, considering his noble and almost divine intellect, if Cicero had seen Christ or had merely heard of His name, not only would he have embraced the faith, but, with his incomparable eloquence, would most ably have spread the teachings of Christ.

Indeed, I never cherished the slightest desire for a triumph till I saw that Bibulus' most shameless letters succeeded in winning for him the decree of a thanksgiving. If he had really performed the deeds he wrote of in his letters, I should rejoice and be favorably disposed to the honor decreed him. But that honors should be showered upon him, who never advanced one step beyond the gate so long as the enemy remained on this side of the Euphrates, and that I, in whose forces lay all the hope of his army, should be denied the same honors, is an insult to both of us, to both, I say, including you too in my disgrace. Therefore I shall leave no stone unturned, and, I hope, success will crown my efforts.

I fear that my last letter has offended thee; for thou thyself art wont to designate as just the adage of thy friend in his Andria, "Homage begets friends; truth, enemies." If my fear prove true, then accept what may in some degree soothe thy injured feelings. Let not the truth be a source of ill humor in every and all instances, I beg of thee. Men, I know, are wont to be angered at justifiable censure, and to rejoice in merited praise. Thou, indeed, O Cicero , didst live as a man, didst speak as an orator, didst write as a philosopher. It was thy life that I found fault with, not thy intellectual powers, nor yet thy command of language. Indeed, I admire the former, and am amazed at the latter. And, moreover, in thy life I feel the lack of nothing except the element of constancy, and a desire for peace that was to have been expected of a philosopher. I look in vain for a deep-rooted antipathy to civil dissensions, to strifes utterly of no avail, considering that liberty had been crushed and that the Republic had already been mourned as dead.

For the realms of poetry, however, there was at hand a second guide. The nature of the case demanded that there should be two leaders--one whom I might follow in the unencumbered ways of prose, and the other in the more restricted paths of poetry. It was necessary that there should be two men whom I should admire, respectively, for their eloquence and their song. This had needs be so. For--and I beg the kind indulgence of you both for speaking thus boldly--neither of you could serve both purposes; he could not rival thee in thy chosen field, whereas thou couldst not adapt thyself to his measured flow. I would not, indeed, have ventured to be the first to pass such criticism, even though I clearly perceived it to be true. It has already been passed before me--or, peradventure, it may have been quoted from another writer--by that great Annaeus Seneca of Cordova, who, as he himself complains, was prevented from becoming acquainted with thee, not by any lapse of years, but by the fury of civil warfare. He might have seen thee, but did not; withal, he was a constant admirer and worshiper both of thy works and of those of that other. Seneca, therefore, marks out the boundaries of your respective spheres, and enjoins upon each to yield to his coworker in the other field.

Yield then, ye bards of Greece, ye Romans yield, A mightier yet than Homer takes the field.

There remains still another topic. Art thou desirous of learning the present condition of Rome and of the Roman state? of knowing the actual appearance of thy fatherland, the state of harmony among its citizens, to whom the shaping of its policies has fallen, and by whose wisdom and by whose hands the reins of government are held? Art thou wondering whether or not the Danube, and the Ganges, and the Ebro, and the Nile, and the Don are still the boundaries of our empire? and whether that man has arisen among us

The limits of whose victories Are ocean, of his fame the skies,

and who

O'er Ind and Garamant extreme Shall stretch his reign,

as thy Mantuan friend once sang? I feel sure that thou art most eager to hear such and similar tidings, owing to thy loyalty and the love thou didst bear the fatherland, a love remaining constant even unto death. But it is better to pass over such subjects in silence. Believe me, Cicero, if thou wert to learn of the fallen state of our country, thou wouldst weep bitter tears, be it a region of Heaven that thou inhabitest, or of Hades. Forever farewell.

That philosophy which you defend, and those tenets which you have learned, and approve of, destroy friendship to the very roots, even though Epicurus does extol friendship to the skies--as we must confess. "But Epicurus himself cultivated friendships," you will say. And who, pray, is denying that he was a good and kindly man, full of sympathy for his fellow-beings? We are here discussing his intellect, not his life. We shall leave such fickleness and perversity to the Greeks, who attack with animosity all who may differ from them in their beliefs concerning truth. I must say, however, that, although he was affable in maintaining his friendships , yet he did not possess a keen mind. To which you will rejoin, "But he convinced many people." ... To me, indeed, the fact that Epicurus himself was a good man, and that there have been and are today many Epicureans, loyal in their friendships, consistent in their actions throughout life, serious of disposition and shaping their plans without regard to pleasure but rather through a sense of duty--to me these facts prove that the power of integrity is superior, and that of pleasure inferior. In truth, some persons live in such a way that their life confutes their words. And therefore, just as others are considered to speak better than they act, so these Epicureans must be said to act better than they speak.

Cicero mentions the inconsistency of Epicurus in ii, 96: "Listen now ... to the dying words of Epicurus, and observe how widely his deeds and his words disagree;" and again in ii, 99: "But you will find nothing in this splendid letter of Epicurus in accord and consistent with his maxims. He refutes himself, while his theories are set at naught by his upright life."

This version does not mention Cicero's inquiry as to the author of the verses he admired , nor their meeting nor the fact that his exclamation was flattering both to himself and to Vergil . Servius' version, however, does include these three elements, and hence he is to be considered Petrarch's source. He writes :

It is said that Vergil's reading of this eclogue was received with great favor; so much so, indeed, that when later Cytheris the courtesan sang it in the theater, Cicero in amazement inquired who the author of it was . And when at last Cicero had seen him , he is said to have exclaimed, in praise of both himself and that other , "Rome's other hope and stay"--a phrase which Vergil afterward applied to Ascanius, as the commentators relate.

This version was one which would especially appeal to Petrarch; for, as P. de Nolhac justly observes , it represents Petrarch's two literary idols as having been personally acquainted with each other.

Modern scholarship has cast doubts upon the tale. P. de Nolhac discusses the question thoroughly in Vol. I, pp. 260-68. His explanation of the evolution of the idea which possessed Petrarch is the following.

According to my custom, I fled recently from the turmoil of the city that is so odious to me, and betook myself to my Helicon across the Alps. I brought with me your Cicero, who was greatly astonished at the beauty of these new regions and who confessed that never--not even when in his own retreat at Arpinum--had he been surrounded by cooler streams than when with me at the Fountain of the Sorgue. I suppose that when, long ago, he visited Narbonne, he did not observe this country. And yet, if we are to believe Pliny, this district formed part of the province of Narbonne; and, according to the present division, it is part of the province of Arles. Whatever be the truth concerning the geographical division of the provinces, one thing is certain, that the Fountain of the Sorgue is most renowned, second neither to the Campanian Nymph nor to the Sicilian Arethusa. This soothing, quiet, peaceful country, and this delightsome retreat are situated to one side of the public highway, to the right of one seeking it, to the left of him returning therefrom. I have thus minutely described its site lest you might wonder that Cicero, while traveling in these parts so long ago, failed to notice this sequestered spot, delightful as it is. No mere passer-by has ever discovered it. No one has ever reached it except purposing to do so through certain knowledge of its existence, drawn to the spot by the beauty of the Fountain, or by his desire for repose and study. And how unusual this is you will soon realize if you consider on the one hand the great scarcity of poets, and on the other the multitude of those who have not even a smattering of the liberal arts. Cicero therefore seems to rejoice and to be eager to remain in my company. We have now passed ten quiet and restful days together here. Here only, and in no other place outside of Italy, do I breathe freely. In truth, study has this great virtue, that it appeases our desires for a life of solitude, mitigates our aversion for the vulgar herd, tenders us sought-for repose even in the midst of the thickest crowds, instils in us many noble thoughts, and provides us with the fellowship of most illustrious men even in the most solitary forests.

On another occasion, O Seneca, I begged and obtained the pardon of a great man indeed. I should desire similar indulgence on thy part, if I express myself more sharply than is quite consistent with the reverence due to thy calling and to the peace of the grave. Whosoever has seen that I have not spared Marcus Cicero--whom I called the bright luminary and fountain-head of Latin eloquence--will surely have no just cause for indignation because in continuing to speak the truth, I shall not spare thee or anyone else. I derive great enjoyment from speaking with you, O illustrious characters of antiquity. Each succeeding age has suffered your works to remain in great neglect; but our own age is quite content, in its ignorance, with a dearth that has become extraordinary. For my part, I daily listen to your words with more attention than can be believed; and so, perchance, I shall not be considered impertinent in desiring you in your turn to listen to me once.

I am fully aware that thou art to be numbered among those whose names are illustrious. Were I unable to gather this from any other source, I should still learn it from a great foreign authority. Plutarch, a Greek and the tutor of Emperor Trajan, in comparing the renowned men of his country with those of ours, opposed Marcus Varro to Plato and Aristotle , Vergil to Homer, and Marcus Tullius to Demosthenes. He finally dared to discuss even the vexed question of military leaders, in the treatment of which he was not hampered by the respect due to his great pupil. In one department of learning, however, he did not blush to acknowledge that the genius of the Greeks was distinctly inferior, saying that he knew not whom to place on a par with thee in the field of moral philosophy. Great praise this, especially from the mouth of a man proud of his race, and a startling concession, seeing that he had opposed his Alexander the Macedon to our Julius Caesar.

I cannot explain why it is, but often the most perfect mold of either mind or body is marred by some serious blemish of nature, which speaks in such various language. It may be that our common mother denies perfection to mankind , or else that among so much that is beautiful even the slightest defect becomes noticeable. That which in a face of average beauty might be considered an engaging and attractive mark becomes a positively ugly scar on features of surpassing beauty. The juxtaposition of contradictory things always sheds light upon doubtful points.

And yet do thou, O venerable sir and incomparable teacher of moral philosophy, do thou review with me calmly the great error of thy life. Thou didst fall upon evil days, in the reign of the most savage ruler within the memory of man. Though thyself a peaceful mariner, thou didst guide thy bark, heavily laden as it was with the most precious goods, toward an unspeakably dangerous and tempestuous reef. But, I ask, why didst thou tarry there? Was it, perhaps, that thou mightest the better evince thy masterly skill in so stormy a sea? None but a madman would have thus chosen. To be sure, it is the part of a brave man to face danger resolutely, but not that of a wise man to seek it. Were the prudent man to be given a free choice, he would so live that there would never be need of bravery; for nothing would ever happen to him that would compel him to make any call upon it. The wise man will rather check all excessive demonstrations of joy, and confine his desires within proper bounds. But since the accidents of life are countless, and since our best-laid plans are many times undone thereby, we must oppose to mad fortune an unconquerable fortitude, not from choice , but in obedience to the hard, inexorable laws of necessity.

But shall I not seem to have lost my senses if I continue to preach on virtue to the great teacher of morality, and if I labor to prove that which can by no manner of means be confuted, namely, that it was folly to remain among the shoals? I leave it for thee to judge--nay, for anyone who has learned to sail the sea of life even tolerably well. If thy object was to reap glory from the very difficulty of thy situation, I answer that it would have been most glorious to extricate thyself therefrom and to bring thy ship in safety to some port. Thou didst see the sword hanging perpetually over thy head, yet didst fear not, nor didst thou take any step to escape from such a perilous existence. And thou shouldst have, especially since thou must have realized that thy death was to be that most wretched of all deaths--one entirely devoid of advantage to others and of glory to thyself. Thou hadst fallen, O pitiable man, into the hands of one who had the power to do what he willed, but who willed nothing except it were most vile. At the very beginning of thy intimate acquaintance with him thou wert warned by a startling dream, and thereafter, whenever thou wert closely observant, thou didst discover many traits that proved thy fears to be well grounded. What, therefore, could induce thee to remain so long a member of his household? What couldst thou have in common with such an inhuman and bloodstained pupil? or with courtiers so repugnant to thy very nature? Thou mayest answer: "I wished to flee, but could not;" and thou mayest adduce as a plea that verse of Cleanthes which thou art wont to quote in its Latin form:

Fate leads the willing and drags the unwilling.

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