certainly brother Volusianus, who chancing to set out for the Bayeux estates, and about to roam over the whole province of Lyonnaise Secunda, cheated our expectation by the pretext of a shorter journey. And now you yourself, thus idle for many days contrary to your promise, say that, if I have since sported any trifles in verse, they ought to be sent. I grant your injunctions, because you are worthy to read such things. For the very poem which now slips from my hands is so rustic and so unpolished, that you would think I send it not to a country house, but rather from a country house. Perpetuus, the bishop, a most worthy successor to so great a predecessor, has renewed the basilica of the holy pontiff and confessor Martin, far more capacious than the former one, which existed hitherto.
It is a great work, as they say, and one worthy to be named; which, made in honour of such a man, such a man ought to have made. The aforesaid priest urges me to inscribe on its walls this epigram, which you shall review; as he is most imperious in these things, whatever he demands, by the privilege of charity. And would that the offering of this compliance may in no way disgrace the pomp of that pile, or its votive gifts: which I very greatly fear will be otherwise. Unless perhaps among all things so beautiful the foulness of this epigram may please, like a black mole on a fair body: which indeed is wont to provoke laughter thus, as to receive suffrage. But what more of this? Lay aside your own shepherd's pipes, and to our elegy, because it limps on one foot, lend a hand.
'Here the body of Martin, venerable to all lands, in which after the times of life honour lives on, this structure had at first covered with a plebeian adornment, which was not equal to its confessor: nor did the great glory of the man cease to burden the citizens with shame — great glory of the man, small grace of the place. But the prelate who is reckoned sixth from him, Perpetuus, took away the long-standing reproach: removing the inner recess of the modest little chapel, and raising ample roofs with an outer building. And they grew together, the potent patron granting it — the shrine in dimensions, the builder in merits: which is able to contend with Solomon's temple, that seventh wondrous work of the world. For if that shone with gems, gold, and silver, this surpasses all metals by faith.'
Away, biting Envy; let those who went before be acquitted, and let no chattering posterity alter or add anything. And while Christ comes, who shall raise up all peoples, may the heights of the Everlasting endure forever. I have offered, as you see, whatever came to hand of a recent song; yet no less than this, if you keep me to the custom, we shall strike the stars, being ready to use satirical verses too, should the matter demand it—verses which you would be wrong to think must be made equal to this poem in gentleness. For the nature of mortals blames certain things more effectively, more swiftly, more hotly than it praises. Farewell. LETTER XIX. Sidonius to his friend Florentinus, greeting. You accuse both my delays and my silence: both are excusable, for I have come and I write. Farewell. LETTER XX.
Sidonius to his friend Domitius, greeting. You, to whom it is often a delight to inspect arms, the armed man, and armed troops—what pleasure do you suppose you would have conceived in mind, had you seen Sigismer, a royal youth, adorned after the fashion and dress of his people, as a bridegroom or suitor, seeking the praetorium of his father-in-law? Before him went a horse indeed decked with trappings—nay, horses laden with radiant gems went before him, or even followed after; yet what was seen there as more becoming was this, that amid his own outriders and footmen he himself, on foot, walked in the midst, flame-colored in scarlet, ruddy with gold, milk-white in silk, his hair, complexion, and skin matching so great a splendor. As for the petty kings and allies attending him, their appearance was terrible even in peace:
their feet, down to the ankles, were bound with bristly leather boots; their knees, shins, and calves were bare of covering. Besides this their garment was high, tight, of many colors, scarcely reaching to their bared knees; the sleeves veiled only the tops of the arms; their cloaks were green, edged with crimson borders. Swords hung from the shoulder on baldrics running across them, and belts studded with bosses girded their sides, which were enclosed in furs of reindeer. In the very ornament with which they were adorned, they were also armed: their right hands were filled with barbed lances and throwing-axes, their left sides shaded by shields whose gleam was snow-white on the rims and tawny on the bosses, so that it betrayed at once their wealth and their taste. The whole array was altogether of such a kind that, in the affair of the marriage-chamber, the pomp of Mars appeared no less than that of Venus.
But why say more of these things? Only your presence was lacking to such a spectacle. For while I was gazing at what is beautiful to you, and not seeing you, at that very moment I felt the impatience of my longing for you. Farewell. LETTER XXI. Sidonius to his friend Aper, greeting. There is indeed a foremost prerogative of the father's side in tracing one's lineage; yet nonetheless we owe much to our mothers also. For it is not right that we be honored by anything meaner from ourselves, seeing that we are the burdens of the one and the seed of the other. But let the matter or reasoning of defining our origin rest with the natural philosophers; let us pursue the point for which we have set these things forth. Your father was an Aeduan, your mother is Arvernian. To the Aedui you owe your first debt:
therefore not only for that reason, but also on account of that example of our Maro, by whose testimony Pallas, being of Arcadian habit—which is likewise Samnite—could have marched against Mezentius, as a foreigner, with the arms of the Etruscans, had he not, being mingled with a Sabellian mother, drawn thence also a portion of his fatherland. Behold, you have a great proof on the greatest authority, that the region of the mother too is to be reckoned part of one's fatherland—unless you shall think that the poets lie even when they do not depart from history. Therefore if the Arverni in turn rightly claim for themselves at least a portion of you, patiently admit the complaint of those who long for you—who through the service of my single mouth, and not of a single heart, have poured forth their secret. Suppose them saying openly and to your face:
'What great evil have we committed against you, ungrateful one, that for so many years you flee, as though it were hostile ground, the earth that once nourished you? Here we cherished your cradle; here we shaped the milk-fed limbs of your wailing infancy; here you were borne about, the burden of citizens' arms. Hence your grandfather Fronio, gentle to you but severe to himself, who could have been an example to those whom we ourselves hold up as examples; hence your grandmother Auspicia, who, when you were orphaned after your mother's untimely death, bestowed upon two the care of one. But your maternal aunt too was from here, and from here was Frontina, holier than the holy among virgins, whom your mother revered and your father venerated—a maiden of the highest abstinence, of the greatest rigor and immense faith, so fearing God that she was feared by men.'
Here the grammarians' and rhetoricians' flourishing studies, with rivaling counsel, fostered you to be steeped in the liberal disciplines: whence you come forth so not-mediocrely trained that it is not permitted you to fail to love the Arverni even on account of their letters. I say nothing of the peculiar pleasantness of the territory; I say nothing of that expanse of fields, in which without danger the profitable waves ripple amid the crops—which the more diligently anyone frequents, the less he suffers shipwreck: soft to travelers, fruitful to plowmen, delightful to hunters; which the ridges of the mountains gird with pastures, their flanks with vineyards, the level ground with villas, the rocky parts with fortresses, the shady with wild lairs, the open with cultivated fields, the hollows with springs, the steep places with rivers;
which, in fine, is of such a kind that, once seen, it often persuades newcomers to forget their fatherland. I say nothing of the city itself, always so most loving of you that you ought to prefer it to the companionship of the nobles alone; the city into which, laying hands upon you, you were happily snatched and inserted; and thus you were the delight of everyone's presence—a delight of which no surfeit ever took hold. And now what shall I say here about your household estate, whose condition is such that it will bear your expenditure the more easily the more frequent it is? For if the master, being a farmer, cherishes his hearth here, he so makes his outlay that he also increases his income. These things I, one man for all, or at least by the wish, petition, and in the stead of good citizens, chatter to you:
since they demand you with so great honor and desire you with so great love, it is given to understand that you will obtain more of joy, in granting what you are asked, than they. Farewell. LETTER XXII. Sidonius to his friend Leo, greeting. The magnificent man Hesperius, gem of friends and of letters, when he lately returned to the city from Toulouse, said that you were charging me, now that the books of my letters are finished, to turn the care of them to the style of history. With the highest reverence and highest affection I embrace so great and weighty an opinion; for you pronounce him fit for greater works whom you judge ought to leave off the mediocre. But—what must be confessed—I more easily dare to accept such a judgment than to undertake such counsel. The matter is indeed worthy of your commanding it,
but no less worthy for you to do yourself. For in antiquity too, when Gaius Cornelius had urged the like upon Gaius Secundus, he himself afterward seized upon what he enjoined; and by that example you now better undertake it: for I both rise up to Pliny as a disciple, and you by right surpass the old Cornelius in your ancient manner of narration—Cornelius who, if he came back to life in our age, and beheld what quality and greatness you are held to possess in letters, would in truth be a more genuine Tacitus. And so you rightly take up the weight of the theme sent to you, for whom, besides your singular eloquence, there is great opportunity of vast knowledge. For daily, through the counsels of a most powerful king, anxious for the whole world, you learn alike his affairs and rights, treaties and wars, places, distances, and merits.
Whence who would gird himself to these things more justly than he who is known to have learned the movements of nations, the varieties of embassies, the deeds of commanders, the compacts of rulers—in short, all the secrets of public affairs? And who, being set upon a preeminent summit, has no need either to suppress the truth or to concoct a lie? But our condition is far unequal, to whom fresh travel is a grief, and old reading no longer of use; then religion belongs to our profession, humility to our aspiration, mediocrity to our obscurity; nor is so much placed in present things as reality, as in future things as hope. Finally, languor is a hindrance; and now, even late, on account of this very thing, sloth is dear to me, being of the same age as my grief. Certainly now no praise of studies is a care, nor even a posthumous one:
especially since it is settled that we should seek but small glory from history; because through men of the clerical office our own things are said rashly, others' boastfully, past things unfruitfully, present things by halves, false things basely, true things dangerously. For such is this theme, or work, in which, if you make mention of good men, but modest favor is procured; if of notable men, the greatest offense. Thus at once a satirical color and odor mingles itself with the diction. And historical writing seems to differ much from our order, whose beginning is envy, whose continuation is toil, whose end is hatred. But these things come about when anything is dictated by clerics as authors, who, transfixed by the snaky molars of railers, if we publish anything simply, are called mad;
if anything precisely, we are called presumptuous. But if you yourself—to whom it is given by leaps to be able to trample down the necks of detractors, or to overrun them—should willingly draw as your province the field of that subject, no one will write more loftily than you, no one more in the ancient manner, even if it please you to speak of recent matters; since, having been filled before with abundance of words, now with abundance of facts, you have left no reason for anyone to cut at you with a venomous bite. And therefore to consult you will be a benefit for posterity, to hear you a pleasure, to read you an authority. Farewell. LETTER XXIII. Sidonius to his friend Proculus, greeting. Your son—nay, our common son—has run to me; who, having left you, grieves that he has done wrong, overwhelmed with the shame of repenting his flight.
Therefore, having heard the tenor of his fault, I rebuked the skulking fellow with bitter words and threatening countenance—with my voice indeed, but in your stead—crying out that he was worthy of disowning, the cross, the sack, and the other punishments for parricides. At this he, confounded, blushed, deprecating his error with no impudent excuse; but when I refuted him, convicted of everything, he added to his modesty the companion tears, flowing so profusely and abundantly that they gave assurance of the correction that would follow. I ask, therefore, that you be merciful toward one severe against himself; and, following the Lord, do not hold as damnable, with you as judge, one who confesses himself guilty—one whom, if you inexorably order him to undergo unheard-of kinds of punishments, cannot be tormented more by you through grief than by himself through shame.
Free his despair from fear, free my confidence, and, if I interpret rightly, by the necessity of fatherly love, absolve yourself too, who are being consumed by a hidden grief while your son is consumed by a public one—to whom it is plain that I have done very great injury, if only you should do even a little; which certainly, as I hope, you will not do, unless you are harder than the crags and persist more rigid than uncleavable adamant. Therefore if concerning your character and friendships I justly presume better things, propitiously pardon the excused one; whom, reconciling him, I steadfastly pledge will be faithful in future; and, he being swiftly loosed from fault, I am bound by the benefit:
earnestly begging not only that you forgive, but that you receive him at once, and on his return admit him not only into your home but into your heart. Great God! how joyful will the day dawn for you, the news for me, the spirit for him, when, fallen at his father's feet, from that wounded mouth, that terrible mouth, expecting reproach, he shall receive a kiss. Farewell. LETTER XXIV. Sidonius to his friend Turnus, greeting. Well does the Mantuan's line suit your name, well your business: 'Turnus, what none of the gods would dare promise to your prayer, lo, the rolling day has brought unbidden.' Your father Turpio, a man of tribunician rank, long ago, if you recall, asked of Maximus the Palatine a loan of money, and obtained it;
pledging indeed nothing by way of security or pawn, neither depositing silver nor mortgaging estates; but, as is shown by the note drawn up, one per cent interest was secured for the creditor—which, extended over a ten-year period, brought the sum to double the principal. But when your father, sinking beneath an approaching death as the disease pressed upon him, was on that very account being more violently constrained by public authority to repay the debt while he lay ill, and the harshness of the exactors could not be borne, as I was setting out for Toulouse he, now despaired of, commanded me by letter that at my request your creditor should grant at least a modest reprieve. To his prayers I quickly assented, since with Maximus I had ancient bonds not only of acquaintance but of hospitality.
Therefore I gladly went out of my way to my friend, although his villa lay a good many miles off the public road along the embankment. When I came, he himself met me, whom I had earlier known to be erect in body, nimble of step, free of voice, gracious of face, but now much unlike his former gait. The man's bearing, step, modesty, complexion, and speech were now religious; his hair was short, his beard long, three-legged were his chairs, hangings of haircloth were draped upon the doors, his bed had nothing of down, his table nothing of purple; his very kindliness was so gracious as to be frugal, not so much abounding in meats as in vegetables. Certainly if there was anything richer among the foods, he indulged himself in nothing, but his guests. When we rose, I secretly inquired of the bystanders which mode of life he had taken up of the three orders;
whether he was living as a monk, or a cleric, or a penitent. They said that he was now discharging a priesthood recently thrust upon him, which the citizens' love had by faction fastened upon him as he refused it. When the day dawned again, while the servants and clients were occupied in capturing the animals, I sought opportunity for a private conversation. He grants it: I embrace him, all unsuspecting, and first assure him of my congratulation on the height of his rank, then mingle in the ensuing entreaties. I bring forth the requests of our Turpio, plead his necessities, bewail his extremity, which seemed the harder for his grieving friends in this, that though bound by usury he was being loosed in body; that he should therefore be mindful of his new profession, of his old fellowship, and moderate the barbarous insistence of the encircling, barking exactors by granting a reprieve for the time being;
and if he had departed—being sick—that he grant the heirs a year's mourning free of demand; or if, as I would wish, Turpio had recovered his former health, that he indulge the exhausted man a respite of leisure for convalescing. I was still pleading, when suddenly the man, of all charity, began to weep greatly—not for the delay of the debt, but for the danger of the debtor; and, checking his sob, 'Far be it from me,' he said, 'that I, a cleric, should demand back from a sick man what I would scarcely have sought as a soldier from a man in health. But his children too I so love that, even if anything turn out adversely for my friend, I shall demand nothing more from them than the reckoning of my duty permits. Wherefore write to the anxious;
and, that they may believe your letter the more, add mine—whatever the outcome of the illness shall be (which nevertheless we wish prosperous for our brother)—namely, that I will both prolong the term of payment for a year, and remit the additional half that has accrued under the name of interest, content with the mere repayment of the principal.' I gave thanks for this—greatest to God, great to my host, who so loved both his own fame and his conscience, affirming that a friend sends ahead of himself to heaven what he remits to you here, and thereby purchases the kingdoms above, in that he does not sell earthly benefits. Therefore, as for what remains, strive that, with you as author, at least the lent sum be forthwith paid;
so that you nonetheless render enormous thanks even in the name of those who, joined to you by kinship, perhaps by reason of their age cannot understand what a gift they obtain. There is no reason for you to begin saying, 'I have co-heirs; the division has not yet been celebrated; it is agreed that I have been treated more greedily than my co-heirs; my brother and sister are still under the years of wardship; a husband has not yet been found for my sister, nor a curator for my brother, nor yet a surety for the curator'—all of which indeed is said well to creditors, but ill. But when such a person has a contract, one who would relax the half though he could exact the whole—if he suffers delay, whatever out of mercy he had piously conceded, he justly demands back on account of the injury. Farewell. LETTER XXV.
Sidonius to his friend Domnulus, greeting. I cannot defer sharing with you in haste a great joy of communion: for I know you desire to learn what our father in Christ, and likewise bishop Patiens, did when he set out for Chalon, after the manner of religion and of his own constancy. When he had come into the aforesaid town, with the college of provincial bishops partly going before, partly accompanying him—namely, that a supreme prelate might be ordained for the municipality, whose church's discipline was tottering after the younger bishop Paulus had departed and died—the pontifical council was met by the varied wishes of the townsfolk, and also by those things which always overturn the public good, private partialities;
which a certain triumvirate of competitors had kindled: of whom one, on this side, belched forth an ancient prerogative of birth, being destitute of the remaining endowment of character; another was thrust forward through parasitic uproars, procured by the suffrage of kitchens, with Apician applause; another, if he should obtain the wished-for eminence, had promised by a secret pact that the churches' estates would be booty for his applauders. When holy Patiens and holy Euphronius saw this—who, apart from hatred and favor, were the first to hold the rigor and firmness of the sounder judgment—
having first secretly communicated their plan with their fellow bishops before proposing it openly, and despising the din of the raging crowd, suddenly with hands cast forth they seized—wanting and suspecting nothing less at that moment than what was being done—holy John, a man conspicuous for honesty and gentleness (here first a lector, then a minister of the altar, and that from infancy; afterward, with the progress of his labors and years, an archdeacon; in which rank or ministry he was long detained on account of his diligence, and could not for a long time be advanced in dignity, lest by power he might be able to be released), yet this man, already a priest of the second order, amid the discordant voices of the parties, which hesitated to praise him who did not solicit it, but neither dared to blame a praiseworthy man;
while the factious stood stunned, the wicked blushed, the good acclaimed, and none cried against it, they consecrated as their colleague. Now therefore, if the Jura monasteries—into which you were wont gladly to ascend, and where you already play a prelude to the celestial and supernal dwellings—now release you, it is fitting that you rejoice over the common fathers, or patrons, whether their concord thus feeling alike, or their opinion thus agreeing. In his name too exult, whom Euphronius created by his testimony, Patiens by his hand, both by their judgment. In this Euphronius did what would befit not only his old age, but also the long duration of his dignity: Patiens also did—a man though equal to great praises—what suffices of.
do justice to a person who is the head, through his priesthood, in our city, and through that city, indeed, in your province. Farewell. LETTER I (Book III). Sidonius to his friend Petronius, greeting. I hear what pleasurable patience you expend on reading through my letters. This is a great thing, and most fitting for a man of letters, that while you yourself are strong in the greatest studies, you should also embrace even the least things in others. But from this very fact the most consummate glory is weighed back to you, for he stands out sufficiently by the merits of his own talent who has been a favorer of another's. I commend my kinsman Vindicius, a religious man, and most suited to the levitical dignity of which he has lately been made worthy.
Who, not being at leisure to transfer from my tablets what you had bidden, brought to you here, through whatever province, some little trifle of verses by way of a small gift: although, such is your holiness, you always deem our letters great rewards. Meanwhile I make known the necessity of the bearer set before you, which the twofold condition of a business that has arisen drew hither. For with this determination he set out: that he either enter upon a lawsuit or approach an inheritance. For his paternal cousin having died celibate and intestate, he prepares to succeed through the prerogative of agnation—unless, however, some factious force oppose his undertakings. Yet against all these difficulties, you alone, after the help of Christ, suffice for your suppliant:
in whom I am confident that, if the person shall have deserved favor, the cause shall obtain victory. Farewell. LETTER II. Sidonius to his friend Nymphidius, greeting. The book On the State of the Soul, illustrious in three volumes, Mamertus Claudianus—the most skilled of Christian philosophers and the first of any learned men in all the members, arts, and parts of the philosophy he pursued—took care to adorn and refine, revealing that the nine which they call the Muses are disciplines, not she-goats. For in his pages the watchful reader will find truer names of the Camenae, which beget for themselves their proper appellation concerning themselves.
For there both grammar divides, and oratory declaims, and arithmetic numbers, and geometry measures, and music weighs, and dialectic disputes, and astrology foreknows, and architecture builds, and metric modulates. Delighted by the novelty of this reading, and roused by its maturity, you asked, as you saw, that it be swiftly perused and copied; as you had asked, so you obtained, under promise of a speedy return. It befits neither that I be deceived, nor that you deceive. It is time that what was lent be restored; because the book itself, if it pleased, ought to have shown satiety, if it displeased, ought to have stirred disgust. But you, whatever it is, discharge your pledge quickly: lest, if you prepare to return the requested booklet too late, you seem to love the parchments rather than the letters. Farewell.
LETTER III. Sidonius to his friend Apollinaris, greeting. It were fitting indeed that my garrulity be curbed by the retaliation of your silence. But since perfect love ought not so much to reckon what it pays of its duties as to remember what it owes, even now, with the reins of modesty loosened, I repeat the compliance of an impudent address. Its shamelessness is recognized especially from this—that you keep silent. Therefore, brother, did I not deserve to know what you were doing in the time of hostility? Did you conceal from a friend, anxious on your behalf, either to betray your security or your fear?
What else is it, if you suppress your actions from one who inquires, than to suspect that he who is anxious for you would either not rejoice at learning of prosperity, or would not be sorrowful if adverse things had befallen? Let this opinion of impiety depart from good morals, and let true charity remove from its own brightness the blemish of so wretched a suspicion. For, as your Crispus affirms, to will the same thing and to be unwilling of the same thing—this at last is firm friendship. Meanwhile if at least you are well, it is well. But I, weighed down by the mass of an unhappy conscience, lately approached the last extremity of well-being as though drunk with force; inasmuch as upon me, most unworthy, the burden of so great a profession has been thrust:
who, wretched, being compelled to teach before I learned, and presuming to preach the good before I did it, like a barren tree, since I have no works for fruits, I scatter words for leaves. As for what remains, pray that it be worth the labor that I have returned almost from the infernal seat: lest, if we remain in past crimes, that we live should begin to pertain rather to the death of the soul. Behold, I have shown what we are doing; behold, further I inquire what you are doing. On our part is done what is pious: do you henceforth do what seems good. This indeed believe engraved in bronze as though the Attic laws, that we, under the help of Christ, shall never admit an end of love, of which we have striven to lay the beginning. Farewell. LETTER IV.
Sidonius to his friend Simplicius, greeting. That I did not receive the writings which I had sent, I impute to friendship, but I attribute more to modesty. For, unless I judge contrary to what is fair, that a greeting due to me was passed over—that was not contumacy, but bashfulness. But if further you close the bar against a chattering page, if you set the bolt, I not unwillingly indulge your repose indeed, but I declare that not far from you I shall find those guilty of my complaint. For it is not unjust to turn all the odium of your silence to the pride of your sons, who, feeling themselves loved, suffer a certain disdain of our assiduity: whom you ought to admonish, by the authority of a father, that they cease not to sweeten with polished addresses the bitterness of an offense contracted with us. Farewell.