I want to ask your advice, as I have often done, on a matter of private business. Some land adjoining my own, and even running into mine, is for sale, and while there are many considerations tempting me to buy it, there are equally weighty reasons to dissuade me. I feel tempted to purchase, first, because the estate will look well if rounded off, and, secondly, because the conveniences resulting therefrom would be as great as the pleasures it would give me. The same work could be carried on at both places, they could be visited at the same cost of travelling, they could be put under one steward and practically one set of managers, and, while one villa was kept up in style, the other house might be just kept in repair. Moreover, one must take into account the cost of furniture and head-servants, besides gardeners, smiths, and even the gamekeepers, and it makes a great difference whether you have all these in one place or have them distributed in several. Yet, on the other hand, I am afraid it may be rash to risk so much of one's property to the same storms and the same accidents, and it seems safer to meet the caprices of Fortune by not putting all one's eggs into the same basket. Again, there is something exceedingly pleasant in changing one's air and place, and in the travelling from one estate to another.
However, the chief reason why I hesitate is as follows:—The land in question is fertile, rich and well-watered; it consists of meadows, vineyards and woods, which are productive and guarantee an income, not large, it is true, but yet sure. But the fertility of the land is overtaxed by the lack of capital of the tenants. For the last proprietor constantly sold the whole stock, and, though he reduced the arrears of the tenants for the time, he weakened their efficiency for the future, and as their capital failed them their arrears once more began to mount up. I must therefore set them up again, and it will cost me the more because I must provide them with honest slaves, for I have no slaves working in chains in my possession, nor has any landowner in that part of the country. Now, let me tell you the price at which I think I can purchase the property. It is three million sesterces, though at one time the price was five, but owing to the lack of capital of the tenants and the general badness of the times the rents have fallen off and the price has therefore dropped also. Perhaps you will ask whether I can raise these three millions without difficulty. Well, nearly all my capital is invested in land, but I have some money out at interest and I can borrow without any trouble. I can get money from my mother-in-law, whose purse I use as freely as if it were my own. So don't let this consideration trouble you, if the other objections can be got over, and I hope you will give these your most careful attention. For, as in everything else, so too in the matter of investments, your experience and shrewdness are unexceptionable. Farewell.
3.XX.—TO MESSIUS MAXIMUS.
Do you remember that you often read of the fierce controversies excited by the Ballot Act, and the praises and denunciations that it brought upon the head of the man who introduced it? Yet, nowadays in the Senate its merits are universally acknowledged, and on the last election day all the candidates demanded the ballot. For when the voting was open and members publicly recorded their votes, the confusion was worse than that which prevails at public meetings. No one paid any heed to the time allotted to speeches; there was no respectful silence, and members did not even remember their dignity and keep their seats. On all sides there was tumult and uproar; all were running to and fro with their candidates; they clustered in knots and rings on the floor of the house, and there was the most unseemly disorder. To such an extent had we degenerated from the customs of our forefathers, who observed in all things order, moderation, and quiet, and never forgot the dignity of the place and the attitude proper to it.
There are still old men living who tell me that elections in their time were conducted as follows:—When a candidate's name was read out the deepest silence was observed. Then he addressed the House in his own interest, gave an account of his life, and produced witnesses to speak in his favour. He would call upon the general under whom he had served, or the governor to whom he had been quaestor, or both if possible, and then he mentioned certain of his supporters, who would speak for him in a few weighty sentences. These had far more effect than entreaties. Sometimes a candidate would lay objections to the pedigree, age, or character of a rival, and the Senate would listen with gravity befitting a censor. Consequently, merit told as a rule more than influence. But when this laudable practice was spoilt by excessive partisanship the House had recourse to the silence of the ballot-box in order to cure the evil, and for a time it did act as a remedy, owing to the novelty of the sudden change. But I am afraid that as time goes on abuses will arise even out of this remedy, for there is a danger that the ballot may be invaded by shameless partiality. How few there are who are as careful of acting honourably in secret as in public! While many people are afraid of what others will say, few are afraid of their own conscience. But it is too early yet to speak of the future, and in the meantime, thanks to the ballot, we shall have as magistrates men who pre-eminently deserve the honour. For in this election we have proved honest judges, like those who are hastily empanelled to serve in the Court of the Recuperators—where the decision is so speedy that those who try the case have no time to be bribed.
I have written this letter, firstly to tell you the news, and secondly to say a word on the general political outlook, and, as opportunities for discussing the latter are much less frequent than they were in the old days, we should seize those which present themselves all the more eagerly. Besides, how long shall we go on using the hackneyed phrases, "How do you spend your time?" and "Are you quite well?" Let us in our correspondence rise above the ordinary poor level and petty details confined to our private affairs. It is true that all political power lies in the hands of one person, who for the common good has taken upon himself the cares and labours of the whole State, yet, thanks to his beneficent moderation, some rills from that bounteous source flow down even to us, and these we may draw for ourselves and serve up, as it were, to our absent friends in letters. Farewell.
3.XXI.—TO CORNELIUS PRISCUS.
I hear that Valerius Martial is dead, and I am much troubled at the news. He was a man of genius, witty and caustic, yet one who in his writings showed as much candour as he did biting wit and ability to sting. When he left Rome I made him a present to help to defray his travelling expenses, as a tribute to the friendship I bore him and to the verses he had composed about me. It was the custom in the old days to reward with offices of distinction or money grants those who had composed eulogies of private individuals or cities, but in our day this custom, like many other honourable and excellent practices, was one of the first to fall into disuse. For when we cease to do deeds worthy of praise, we think it is folly to be praised. Do you ask what the verses are which excited my gratitude? I would refer you to the volume itself, but that I have some by heart, and if you like these, you may look out the others for yourself in the book. He addresses the Muse and bids her seek my house on the Esquiline and approach it with great respect:—"But take care that you do not knock at his learned door at a time when you should not. He devotes whole days together to crabbed Minerva, while he prepares for the ears of the Court of the Hundred speeches which posterity and the ages to come may compare even with the pages of Arpinum's Cicero. "Twill be better if you go late in the day, when the evening lamps are lit; that is YOUR hour, when the Wine God is at his revels, when the rose is Queen of the feast, when men's locks drip perfume. At such an hour even unbending Catos may read my poems." Was I not right to take a most friendly farewell of a man who wrote a poem like that about me, and do I do wrong if I now bewail his death as that of a bosom-friend? For he gave me the best he could, and would have given me more if he had had it in his power. And yet what more can be given to a man than glory and praise and immortality? But you may say that Martial's poems will not live for ever. Well, perhaps not, yet at least he wrote them in the hope that they would. Farewell.