YOU have frequently pressed me to make a select collection of my Letters (if there really be any deserving of a special preference) and give them to the public. I have selected them accordingly; not, indeed, in their proper order of time, for I was not compiling a history; but just as each came to hand. And now I have only to wish that you may have no reason to repent of your advice, nor I of my compliance: in that case, I may probably enquire after the rest, which at present be neglected, and preserve those I shall hereafter write.
You will laugh (and you are quite welcome) when I tell you that your old
acquaintance is turned sportsman, and has taken three noble boars. What!
you exclaim, Pliny!
—Even he. However, I indulged at the same time my
beloved inactivity; and, whilst I sat at my nets, you would have found me, not
with boar spear or javelin, but pencil and tablet, by my side. I mused and
wrote, being determined to return, if with all my hands empty, at least with my
memorandums full. Believe me, this way of studying is not to be despised: it is
wonderful how the mind is stirred and quickened into activity by brisk bodily
exercise. There is something, too, in the solemnity of the venerable woods with
which one is surrounded, together with that profound silence which is observed
on these occasions, that forcibly disposes the mind to meditation. So for the
future, let me advise you, whenever you hunt, to take your tablets along with
you, as well as your basket and bottle, for be assured you will find Minerva no
less fond of traversing the hills than Diana.
IT is a long time since I have had a letter from you, There is nothing to
write about,
you say: well then write and let me know just this, that
there is nothing to write about,
or tell me in the good old style, If
you are well that’s right, I am quite well. This will do for me, for it implies
everything. You think I am joking? Let me assure you I am in sober earnest. Do
let me know how you are; for I cannot remain ignorant any longer without growing
exceedingly anxious about you.
You tell me in your letter that you are extremely alarmed by a dream;
apprehending that it forebodes some ill success to you in the case you have
undertaken to defend; and, therefore, desire that I would get it adjourned for a
few days, or, at least, to the next. This will be no easy matter, but I will
try:
Meanwhile, it is very material for you to recollect whether your dreams generally
represent things as they afterwards fall out, or quite the reverse. But if I may
judge of yours by one that happened to myself, this dream that alarms you seems
to portend that you will acquit yourself with great success. I had promised to
stand counsel for Junius Pastor; when I fancied in my sleep that my
mother-in-law came to me, and, throwing herself at my feet, earnestly entreated
me not to plead. I was at that time a very young man; the case was to be argued
in the four centumviral courts; my adversaries were some of the most important
personages in Rome, and particular favourites of Cæsar; any of which
circumstances were sufficient, after such an inauspicious dream, to have
discouraged me. Notwithstanding this, I engaged in the cause, reflecting that,
for I looked upon the promise I had given to be as sacred to me as my country,
or, if that were possible, more so. The event happened as I wished; and it was
that very case which first procured me the favourable attention of the public,
and threw open to me the gates of Fame. Consider then whether your dream, like
this one I have related, may not pre-signify success. But, after all, perhaps
you will think it safer to pursue this cautious maxim:
As I rely very much upon the soundness of your judgment, so I do upon the goodness of your eyes: not because I think your discernment very great (for I don’t want to make you conceited), but because I think it as good as mine: which, it must be confessed, is saying a great deal. Joking apart, I like the look of the slaves which were purchased for me on your recommendation very well; all I further care about is, that they be honest: and for this I must depend upon their characters more than their countenances.