Letter 365
To Julian. (358 AD)
You have won a double victory — one in arms, the other in letters — and you have raised a trophy from the barbarians and another from me, your friend.
This second trophy is a sweet one for the vanquished. Every father prays to be surpassed by his children, and you, having received from me the paths to writing, have with what you received outstripped the giver.
As for the length of my letters, I suppose the rhetorician must defend himself to the general — or rather, to one who has learned to speak no less than to fight. When the emperor called you to share in his rule [as Caesar], I thought I should restrain my frankness and not behave toward so great a man as I had before. It would be absurd if in our practice declamations we knew how to address a Pericles, a Cimon, a Miltiades, yet in real life we ignored the rule.
For your own argument — that generals write brief letters because they are busy — persuaded me too to keep my correspondence short, knowing that a man who has no time for long letters would also be troubled by long ones from others.
Now, then, since you invite me to write at length, I shall comply. First, I congratulate you because, with weapons in hand, you have not abandoned your devotion to letters but fight as though you do nothing else, and live among books as though you stand apart from battle. Second, because you have given the one who shared his rule with you no cause to regret the sharing. Regarding him as at once your cousin, your co-ruler, your master, and your teacher, you credit him with your achievements and say to the fallen enemy: "What would you have suffered had the emperor himself appeared?"
I praise all this, and I praise too that you did not change your character along with your robes, nor let power drive out the memory of your friends. May every blessing be yours, because you have not proved me a liar when I praised your nature — or rather, you have proved me a liar in that nothing I said was as great as what you have shown.
One thing, at any rate, is truly yours alone, sprung from no precedent. While others, the moment they attain imperial power, take on a love of money — some beginning to crave what they never desired before, others intensifying a passion already dwelling in them — you alone, upon entering into power, gave away your patrimony to your companions: a house to one, slaves to another, land to a third, gold to a fourth, and showed yourself more a private citizen than a wealthy emperor.
Do not think I am expelling myself from your friends because I am not among those who received gifts. I can explain why I alone have nothing. You wish cities to have everything that makes them flourish, and you know that the power of letters matters — that if someone extinguishes them, we become no different from barbarians.
So you feared that if I gained wealth I would abandon my craft, and you thought it necessary to keep me in poverty so that I would keep to my post. This is how I prefer to read the oracle. For you would never say that barley goes to Capaneus and Amphiaraus, while so-and-so counts for nothing.
No — the withholding was the act of one who cares for the whole. And so, in poverty of money, we are rich in words — that is your doing — and the rule we exercise we do not, perhaps, disgrace, just as you do not disgrace the greater one.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.
Related Letters
This letter, written in 374 A.D., is chiefly interesting for its mention of Jerome's sister. It would seem that she had fallen into sin and had been restored to a life of virtue by the deacon, Julian. Jerome speaks of her again in the next letter (§4).
Leo, bishop of Rome, to Julian, bishop of Cos. I acknowledge in your letter, beloved, the feelings of brotherly love, in that you sympathize with us in true grief at the many grievous evils we have borne. But we pray that these things which the Lord has either allowed or wished us to suffer, may avail to the correction of those who live through ...