selves, and moderate their passions, but crouch under | prove, may serve to exalt the glory of my country, and the slavery of their lusts, should be delivered up to the to excite the imitation of posterity. If the conclusion sway of those whom they abhor, and made to submit do not answer to the beginning, that is their concern; to an involuntary servitude. It is also sanctioned by I have delivered my testimony, I would almost say, the dictates of justice and by the constitution of nature, have erected a monument, that will not readily be that he, who from the imbecility or derangement of his destroyed, to the reality of those singular and mighty intellect is incapable of governing himself, should, like atchievements, which were above all praise. As the a minor, be committed to the government of another; Epic Poet, who adheres at all to the rules of that speand least of all, should he be appointed to superintend cies of composition, does not profess to describe the the affairs of others or the interest of the state. You whole life of the hero whom he celebrates, but only therefore, who wish to remain free, either instantly be some particular action of his life, as the resentment of wise, or, as soon as possible, cease to be fools; if you Achilles at Troy, the return of Ulysses, or the coming think slavery an intolerable evil, learn obedience to of Eneas into Italy; so it will be sufficient, either for reason and the government of yourselves; and finally my justification or apology, that I have heroically celebid adieu to your dissensions, your jealousies, your brated at least one exploit of my countrymen; I pass superstitions, your outrages, your rapine, and your by the rest, for who could recite the atchievements of lusts. Unless you will spare no pains, to effect this, a whole people? If after such a display of courage and you must be judged unfit, both by God and mankind, of vigour, you basely relinquish the path of virtue, if to be entrusted with the possession of liberty and the you do any thing unworthy of yourselves, posterity administration of the government; but will rather, like will sit in judgment on your conduct. They will see a nation in a state of pupillage, want some active and that the foundations were well laid; that the beginning courageous guardian to undertake the management of (nay it was more than a beginning) was glorious; but, your affairs. With respect to myself, whatever turn with deep emotions of concern will they regret, that things may take, I thought that my exertions on the those were wanting who might have completed the present occasion would be serviceable to my country, structure. They will lament that perseverance was and, as they have been cheerfully bestowed, I hope not conjoined with such exertions and such virtues. that they have not been bestowed in vain. And I They will see that there was a rich harvest of glory, have not circumscribed my defence of liberty within and an opportunity afforded for the greatest atchieveany petty circle around me, but have made it so gene- ments, but that men only were wanting for the execural and comprehensive, that the justice and the reason- tion; while they were not wanting who could rightly ableness of such uncommon occurrences explained and counsel, exhort, inspire, and bind an unfading wreath defended, both among my countrymen and among of praise round the brows of the illustrious actors in so foreigners, and which all good men cannot but ap- glorious a scene.

FAMILIAR EPISTLES,

TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN,

BY ROBERT FELLOWES, A. M. OXON.

III.

To the same.

more pleasure than to hear from you, how can I or ought I to expect that you should always have leisure enough from more serious and more sacred engagements to write to me; particularly when it is kindness, and not duty, which prompts you to write? Your many recent services must prevent me from entertaining any suspicion of your forgetfulness or neglect. Nor do I see how you could possibly forget one on whom you had conferred so many favours. Having an invitation into your part of the country in the spring, I shall readily accept it, that I may enjoy the deliciousness of the season as well as that of your conversation; and that I may withdraw myself for a short time from the tumult of the city to your rural mansion, as to the renowned portico of Zeno, or Tusculan of Tully, where you live on your little farm with a moderate fortune, but a princely mind; and where you practise the contempt, and triumph over the temptations of ambition, pomp, luxury, and all that follows the chariot of fortune, or attracts the gaze and admiration of the thoughtless multitude. I hope that you who deprecated the blame of delay, will pardon me for my precipitance; for, after deferring this letter to the last, I chose rather to write a few lines, however deficient in elegance, than to say nothing at all.

Cambridge, July 21, 1628.

Adieu, reverend sir.

In my former letter I did not so much answer yours as deprecate the obligation of then answering it; and therefore at the time I tacitly promised that you should soon receive another, in which I would reply at length to your friendly challenge. But, though I had not promised this, it would most justly be your due, since one of your letters is full worth two of mine, or rather, on an accurate computation, worth a hundred. When your letter arrived, I was strenuously engaged in that work concerning which I had given you some obscure hints, and the execution of which could not be delayed. One of the fellows of our college, who was to be the respondent in a philosophical disputation for his degree, engaged me to furnish him with some verses, which are annually required on this occasion; since he himself had long neglected such frivolous pursuits, and was then intent on more serious studies. Of these verses I sent you a printed copy, since I knew both your discriminating taste in poetry, and your candid allowances for poetry like mine. If you will in your turn deign to communicate to me any of your productions, you will, I can assure you, find no one to whom they will give more delight, or who will more impartially endeavour to estimate their worth. For as often as I recollect the topics of your conversation, (the loss of which I regret even in this seminary of erudition,) I cannot help painfully reflecting on what advantages I am deprived by your absence, since I never left your company without an increase of knowledge, and always had recourse to your mind as to an emporium of literature. Among us, as far as I know, there are only two or three, who without any acquaintance with criticism or philosophy, do not instantly engage with raw and untutored judgments in the study of theology; and of this they acquire only a slender smattering, not more than sufficient to enable them to patch together a sermon with scraps pilfered, with little discrimination, from this author and from that. Hence I fear, lest our clergy should relapse into the sacerdotal ignorance of a former age. Since I find so few associates in study here, I should instantly direct my steps to London, if I had not determined to spend the summer vacation induction of a truly inspired bard, from whom I last the depths of literary solitude, and, as it were, hide myself in the chamber of the muses. As you do this every day, it would be injustice in me any longer to divert your attention or engross your time. Adieu. Cambridge, July 2, 1628.

IV.

To THOMAS JURE.

ON reading your letter, my excellent tutor, I find only one superfluous passage, an apology for not writing to me sooner; for though nothing gives me

V.

To ALEXANDER Gill.

If you had made me a present of a piece of plate, or any other valuable which excites the admiration of mankind, I should not be ashamed in my turn to remunerate you, as far as my circumstances would permit. But since you, the day before yesterday, presented me with an elegant and beautiful poem in Hendecasyllabic verse, which far exceeds the worth of gold, you have increased my solicitude to discover in what manner I may requite the favour of so acceptable a gift. I had by me at the time no compositions in a like style which I thought at all fit to come in competition with the excellence of your performance. I send you therefore a composition which is not entirely my own, but the pro

week rendered this ode into Greek Heroic verse, as I
was lying in bed before the day dawned, without any
previous deliberation, but with a certain impelling
faculty, for which I know not how to account. By his
help who does not less surpass you in his subject than
you do me in the execution, I have sent something
which may serve to restore the equilibrium between us.
If you see reason to find fault with any particular pas-
sage,
I must inform you that, from the time I left your
school, this is the first and the last piece I have ever com-
posed in Greek; since, as you know, I have attended
more to Latin and to English composition. He who
at this time employs his labour and his time in writing
Greek, is in danger of writing what will never be read

Adieu, and expect to see me, God willing, at London | visit one another; for I hope that you would not be a on Monday among the booksellers. In the mean time, different neighbour to us in the country than you are if you have interest enough with that Doctor who is in town. But this is as it pleases God. I have much the master of the college to promote my business, I to say to you concerning myself and my studies, but I beseech you to see him as soon as possible, and to act would rather do it when we meet, and as to-morrow [ as your friendship for me may prompt. am about to return into the country, and am busy in making preparations for my journey, I have but just time to scribble this. Adieu.

From my villa, Decemb. 4, 1634.

To the same.

Most of my other friends think it enough to give me one farewell in their letters, but I see why you do it so often; for you give me to understand that your medical authority is now added to the potency, and subservient to the completion, of those general expre sions of good-will which are nothing but words and air. You wish me my health six hundred times, in as great a quantity as I can wish, as I am able to bear, or even more than this. Truly, you should be appointed butler to the house of Health, whose stores you so lavishly bestow; or at least Health should become your parasite, since you so lord it over her, and command her at your pleasure. I send you therefore my congratulations and my thanks, both on account of your friendship and your skill. I was long kept waiting m expectation of a letter from you, which you had enold regaged to write; but when no letter came my gard for you suffered not, I can assure you, the smallest diminution, for I had supposed that the same apology for remissness, which you had employed in the begin

I CLEARLY see that you are determined not to be overcome in silence; if this be so, you shall have the palm of victory, for I will write first. Though, if the reasons which make each of us so long in writing to the other should ever be judicially examined, it will appear that I have many more excuses for not writing than you. For it is well known, and you well know, that I am naturally slow in writing, and averse to write; while you, either from disposition or from habit, seem to have little reluctance in engaging in these literary (poopwvnous) allocutions. It is also in my favour, that your method of study is such as to admit of frequent interruptions, in which you visit your friends, write letters, or go abroad; but it is my way to suffer no impediment, no love of ease, no avocation whatever, to chill the ardour, to break the continuity, or divert the completion of my literary pursuits. From this and no other reasons it often happens that I do not readily employ my pen in any gratuitous exertions; but I am not, nevertheless, my dear Deodati, a very sluggish correspondent; nor has it at any time happened that I ever left any letter of yours un-ning of our correspondence, you would again employ. answered till another came. So I hear that you write to the bookseller, and often to your brother, either of whom, from their nearness, would readily have forwarded any communication from you to me. But what I blame you for is, for not keeping your promise of paying me a visit when you left the city; a promise which, if it had once occurred to your thoughts, would certainly have forcibly suggested the necessity of writing. These are my reasons for expostulation and censure. You will look to your own defence. But what can occasion your silence? Is it ill health? Are there in those parts any literati with whom you may play and prattle as we used to do? When do you return? How long do you mean to stay among the Hyperboreans? I wish you would give me an answer to each of these questions; and that you may not suppose that I am quite unconcerned about what relates to you, I must inform you that in the beginning of the autumn I went out of my way to see your brother, in order to learn how you did. And lately when I was accidentally informed in London that you were in town, I instantly hastened to your lodgings; but it was only the shadow of a dream, for you were no where to be found. Wherefore, as soon as you can do it without any inconvenience to yourself, I beseech you to take up your quarters where we may at least be able occasionally to

This was a supposition agreeable to truth and to the intimacy between us. For I do not think that true friendship consists in the frequency of letters or in professions of regard, which may be counterfeited; but it is so deeply rooted in the heart and affections, as to support itself against the rudest blast; and when it originates in sincerity and virtue, it may remain through life without suspicion and without blame, even when there is no longer any reciprocal interchange of kindnesses. For the cherishing aliment of a friendship such as this, there is not so much need of letters as of a lively recollection of each other's virtues. And though you have not written, you have something that may supply the omission: your probity writes to me in your stead; it is a letter ready written on the invermost membrane of the heart; the simplicity of your manners, and the rectitude of your principles, serve as correspondents in your place; your genius, whieb s above the common level, writes, and serves in a stili greater degree to endear you to me. But now yo have got possession of this despotic citadel of medie, do not alarm me with the menace of being obliged repay those six hundred healths which you have be stowed, if I should, which God forbid, ever forfest year friendship. Remove that formidable battery which yo seem to have placed upon my breast to keep of il

VIII.

TO BENEDITTO BONOMATTAI, a Florentine.

sickness but what comes by your permission. But that you may not indulge any excess of menace I must inform you, that I cannot help loving you such as you are; for whatever the Deity may have bestowed upon me in other respects, he has certainly inspired me, if any ever were inspired, with a passion for the good I AM glad to hear, my dear Bonomattai, that you and fair. Nor did Ceres, according to the fable, ever are preparing new institutes of your native language, seek her daughter Proserpine with such unceasing so- and have just brought the work to a conclusion. The licitude as I have sought this rou kaλo≈ idéav, this per- way to fame which you have chosen is the same as fect model of the beautiful in all the forms and appear- that which some persons of the first genius have emances of things (о\λαι yaр μoppai тwv saquovior, many braced; and your fellow-citizens seem ardently to exare the forms of the divinities.) I am wont day and pect that you will either illustrate or amplify, or at night to continue my search; and I follow in the way least polish and methodize, the labours of your predein which you go before. Hence, I feel an irresistible cessors. By such a work you will lay your countryimpulse to cultivate the friendship of him, who, des- men under no common obligation, which they will be pising the prejudiced and false conceptions of the vul- ungrateful if they do not acknowledge. For I hold gar, dares to think, to speak, and to be that which the him to deserve the highest praise who fixes the prinhighest wisdom has in every age taught to be the best. ciples and forms the manners of a state, and makes But if my disposition or my destiny were such that I the wisdom of his administration conspicuous both at could without any conflict or any toil emerge to the home and abroad. But I assign the second place to highest pitch of distinction and of praise; there would him, who endeavours by precepts and by rules to pernevertheless be no prohibition, either human or divine, petuate that style and idiom of speech and composition against my constantly cherishing and revering those, which have flourished in the purest periods of the lanwho have either obtained the same degree of glory, or guage, and who, as it were, throws up such a trench are successfully labouring to obtain it. But now I am around it, that people may be prevented from going sure that you wish me to gratify your curiosity, and to beyond the boundary almost by the terrors of a Romulet you know what I have been doing or am meditat- lean prohibition. If we compare the benefits which ing to do. Hear me, my Deodati, and suffer me for a each of these coufer, we shall find that the former alone moment to speak without blushing in a more lofty can render the intercourse of the citizens just and constrain. Do you ask what I am meditating? by the scientious, but that the last gives that gentility, that help of heaven, an immortality of fame. But what elegance, that refinement, which are next to be desired. am I doing? πτεροφυώ, I am letting my wings grow The one inspires lofty courage and intrepid ardour and preparing to fly; but my Pegasus has not yet against the invasion of an enemy; the other exerts feathers enough to soar aloft in the fields of air. I himself to annihilate that barbarism which commits will now tell you seriously what I design; to take more extensive ravages on the minds of men, which is chambers in one of the inns of court, where I may have the intestine enemy of genius and literature, by the the benefit of a pleasant and shady walk; and where taste which he inspires, and the good authors which with a few associates I may enjoy more comfort when he causes to be read. Nor do I think it a matter of I choose to stay at home, and have a more elegant little moment whether the language of a people be society when I choose to go abroad. In my present vitiated or refined, whether the popular idiom be errosituation, you know in what obscurity I am buried, neous or correct. This consideration was more than and to what inconveniencies I am exposed. You shall once found salutary at Athens. It is the opinion of likewise have some information respecting my studies. Plato, that changes in the dress and habits of the citiI went through the perusal of the Greek authors to zens portend great commotions and changes in the the time when they ceased to be Greeks; I was long state; and I am inclined to believe, that when the employed in unravelling the obscure history of the language in common use in any country becomes irreItalians under the Lombards, the Franks, and Ger-gular and depraved, it is followed by their ruin or their mans, to the time when they received their liberty from Rodolphus king of Germany. From that time it will be better to read separately the particular transactions of each state. But how are you employed? How long will you attend to your domestic ties and forget your city connections? But unless this novercal hostility be more inveterate than that of the Dacian or Sarmatian, you will feel it a duty to visit me in my winter quarters. In the mean time, if you can do it without inconvenience, I will thank you to send me Justinian the historian of Venice. I will either keep it carefully till your arrival, or, if you had rather, will soon send it back again. Adieu. London, Sept. 23, 1637.

degradation. For what do terms used without skill or meaning, which are at once corrupt and misapplied, denote, but a people listless, supine, and ripe for servitude? On the contrary, we have never heard of any people or state which has not flourished in some degree of prosperity as long as their language has retained its elegance and its purity. Hence, my Beneditto, you may be induced to proceed in executing a work so useful to your country, and may clearly see what an honourable and permanent claim you wil have to the approbation and the gratitude of your fellow-citizens. Thus much I have said, not to make you acquainted with that of which you were ignorant, but because I was persuaded that you are more