To Claudianus [Claudianus Mamertus, a philosopher-priest in Vienne, brother of Bishop Mamertus; author of "On the State of the Soul"].
You say, my honored elder, that I am violating the laws of friendship by keeping my pen and tablets silent so long and burdening no traveler's pouch with a letter inquiring after your health. You are quite wrong to think that any mortal who still cares about writing proper Latin would not tremble when his words are submitted to the judgment of your ears — ears before whose expertise, even leaving aside the advantage of all the ages that have preceded ours, I would not dare to set myself alongside the gravity of Fronto or the weight of Apuleius, beside whom the two Varros, the two Plinys [uncle and nephew — the encyclopedist and the letter-writer], would seem positively crude by comparison.
My judgment is confirmed by that volume of yours on the state of the soul [Claudianus's "De Statu Animae," a philosophical treatise arguing for the immateriality of the soul], so rich in learning and eloquence. When you addressed its preface to my name, the chief gift I received was that the reputation of a person not worth making famous through his own writings would be preserved through yours. But great God, what a work it is — dense in subject matter, brilliant in style, tightly argued in its propositions yet opened up by its disputations, and although bristling with the barbed points of its syllogisms, softened by the bloom of a flourishing eloquence!
The vocabulary is fresh because it is ancient, and compared to it even the style of classical literature would seem old-fashioned. What is more precious still, the whole diction is so crisply punctuated yet so flowing that you feel it teaches more than it says. Indeed, this was once rightly considered the supreme eloquence: the kind that, confining much in few words, aimed to fill the case rather than the page.
And then there is the way your sustained seriousness still admits tenderness, and your critical rigor inserts a timely sweetness, so that when the reader's attention flags from traversing the branches of philosophy, it is refreshed by delightful digressions — like harbors in your philosophical sea. What a book, powerful in so many ways! What a style — not thin but subtle, neither swelling with hyperbolic excess nor flattened by false modesty!
Beyond this, your learning is singular and unique, demonstrable across every branch of knowledge. You have the habit of philosophizing about each art with its own masters, and when occasion demands, you are willing to take up the lyre with Orpheus, the staff with Aesculapius, the compass with Archimedes, the horoscope with Euphrates, the ruler with Perdix, the plumb-line with Vitruvius — and you have never ceased investigating time with Thales, the stars with Atlas, weights with Zethus, numbers with Chrysippus, and measures with Euclid.
In short, no one in my lifetime has been able to affirm what he wishes with such power. When he marshals himself against his opponent, he rightly claims a share in the genius and learning of both languages. He thinks like Pythagoras, divides like Socrates, explains like Plato, entangles like Aristotle; he flatters like Aeschines, rages like Demosthenes; he blooms like Hortensius, burns like Cethegus; he spurs like Curio, delays like Fabius; he feigns like Crassus, dissembles like Caesar; he persuades like Cato, dissuades like Appius, and convinces like Cicero.
And if we turn to the sacred fathers for comparison: he instructs like Jerome, demolishes like Lactantius, builds up like Augustine; he rises like Hilary, humbles himself like John [Chrysostom]; he rebukes like Basil, consoles like Gregory; he flows like Orosius, condenses like Rufinus; he narrates like Eusebius, stirs like Eucherius; he challenges like Paulinus, perseveres like Ambrose.
As for your hymn — if you ask what I think — it is rich in phrases, abundant, sweet, elevated, and surpasses any lyric dithyramb in both poetic grace and historical truth. What is uniquely yours is this: while preserving the proper feet and syllables and their quantities, you pack rich words into the tight compass of short verses, and the brevity of your constrained meter never eliminates the amplitude of your ornate language.
The grandeur of your expression overflows its metrical bounds, like a fine jewel barely held in a small gold setting — like the spirit of a powerful horse that, bridled in rough terrain, clearly lacks not the speed but the open field. In short, by my judgment, in both kinds of writing, neither Athens itself could be called more Attic nor the Muses more musical — if only my long idleness has not robbed me of the power to judge. For while I adopt the excuse of my new profession and gradually learn a new way of writing while leaping away from the old, all I have left of a good orator is that I have become more of a bad poet.
So please forgive me this offense — that, remembering you now and then, I too rarely mingle my thin little stream with your great river. Your trumpet the whole world rightly venerates, since it has sounded with a double felicity: it has found neither a rival nor an equal. As for me, it is a bold thing if I even chatter before our provincial and cathedral orators or courtroom brawlers — who, even when they are declaiming, if I may say so respectfully, are a very numerous crowd of supremely illiterate writers. But you, who are equally able to thunder in prose or verse, will be imitated by "the few whom kindly Jupiter has loved" [a quotation from Virgil]. Farewell.
EPISTULA III
Sidonius Claudiano suo salutem.
1. Committi, domine maior, in necessitudinis iura pronuntias, cur quod ad salve tibi debitum spectat a stilo et pugillaribus diu temperem quodque deinceps nullas viantum volas mea papyrus oneraverit, quae vos cultu sedulae sospitatis impertiat. praeter aequum ista coniectas, si reare mortalium quempiam, cui tamen sermocinari Latialiter cordi est, non pavere, cum in examen aurium tuarum quippe scriptus adducitur; tuarum, inquam, aurium, quarum peritiae, si me decursorum ad hoc aevi temporum praerogativa non obruat, nec Frontonianae gravitatis aut ponderis Apuleiani fulmen aequiperem, cui Varrones, vel Atacinus vel Terentius, Plinii, vel avunculus vel Secundus, compositi in praesentiarum rusticabuntur.
2. adstipulatur iudicio meo volumen illud, quod tute super statu animae rerum verborumque scientia divitissimus propalavisti. in quo dum ad meum nomen prooemiaris, hoc munus potissimum cepi, ut meae fama personae, quam operae pretium non erat librorum suorum titulis inclarescere, tuorum beneficio perpetuaretur. at quod, deus magne, quantumque opus illud est, materia clausum declamatione conspicuum, propositione obstructum disputatione reseratum, et quamquam propter hamata syllogismorum puncta tribulosum, vernantis tamen eloquii flore mollitum!
3. nova ibi verba, quia vetusta, quibusque conlatus merito etiam antiquarum litterarum stilus antiquaretur; quodque pretiosius, tota illa dictio sic caesuratim succincta, quod profluens; quam rebus amplam strictamque sententiis sentias plus docere quam dicere. denique et quondam, nec iniuria, haec principalis facundia computabatur, cui paucis multa cohibenti curae fuit causam potius implere quam paginam.
4. at vero in libris tuis iam illud quale est, quod et teneritudinem quamquam continuata maturitas admittit interseritque tempestivam censura dulcedinem, ut lectoris intentionem per eventilata disciplinarum philosophiae membra lassatam repente voluptuosis excessibus quasi quibusdam pelagi sui portibus foveat? o liber multifariam pollens, o eloquium non exilis sed subtilis ingenii, quod nec per scaturrigines hyperbolicas intumescit nec per tapinomata depressa tenuatur!
5. ad hoc unica singularisque doctrina et in diversarum rerum assertione monstrabilis, cui moris est de singulis artibus cum singulis artificibus philosophari, quaeque, si fors exigit, tenere non abnuit cum Orpheo plectrum cum Aesculapio baculum, cum Archimede radium cum Euphrate horoscopium, cum Perdice circinum cum Vitruvio perpendiculum quaeque numquam investigare destiterit cum Thalete tempora, cum Atlante sidera, cum +Zeto pondera, cum Chrysippo numeros, cum Euclide mensuras.
6. ad extremum nemo saeculo meo quae voluit affirmare sic valuit. siquidem dum sese adversus eum, quem contra loquitur, exertat, morum ac studiorum linguae utriusque symbolam iure sibi vindicat. sentit ut Pythagoras dividit ut Socrates, explicat ut Platon implicat ut Aristoteles, ut Aeschines blanditur ut Demosthenes irascitur, vernat ut Hortensius aestuat ut Cethegus, incitat ut Curio moratur ut Fabius, simulat ut Crassus dissimulat ut Caesar, suadet ut Cato dissuadet ut Appius persuadet ut Tullius.
7. iam si ad sacrosanctos patres pro comparatione veniatur, instruit ut Hieronymus destruit ut Lactantius adstruit ut Augustinus, attollitur ut Hilarius summittitur ut Iohannes, ut Basilius corripit ut Gregorius consolatur, ut Orosius affluit ut Rufinus stringitur, ut Eusebius narrat ut Eucherius sollicitat, ut Paulinus provocat ut Ambrosius perseverat.
8. iam vero de hymno tuo si percontere quid sentiam, commaticus est copiosus, dulcis elatus, et quoslibet lyricos dithyrambos amoenitate poetica et historica veritate supereminet. idque tuum in illo peculiare, quod servatis metrorum pedibus pedum syllabis syllabarumque naturis intra spatii sui terminum verba ditia versus pauper includit nec artati carminis brevitas longitudinem phalerati sermonis eliminat; ita tibi facile factu est minutis trochaeis minutioribusque pyrrhichiis non solum molossicas anapaesticasque ternarias sed epitritorum etiam paeonumque quaternatas supervenire iuncturas.
9. excrescit amplitudo proloquii angustias regulares et tamquam parvo auro grandis gemma vix capitur emicatque ut equi potentis animositas, cui frementi, si inter tesqua vel confraga frenorum lege teneatur, intellegis non tam cursum deesse quam campum. quid multis? arbitro me in utroque genere dicendi nec Athenae sic Atticae nec Musae sic musicae iudicabuntur, si modo mihi vel censendi copiam desidia longior non ademit. nam dum inpactae professionis obtentu novum scribendi morem gradatim appeto et veterem saltuatim dedisco, de bono oratore nil amplius habeo quam quod malus poeta esse plus coepi.
10. proin, quaeso, delicti huius mihi gratiam facias, quod aliquantisper mei meminens arentem venulam rarius flumini tuo misceo. tuam tubam totus qua patet orbis iure venerabitur, quam constat geminata felicitate cecinisse, quando nec aemulum repperit nec aequalem, cum pridem aures et ora populorum me etiam circumferente pervagaretur. nobis autem grandis audacia, si vel apud municipales et cathedrarios oratores aut forenses rabulas garriamus, qui etiam cum perorant, salva pace potiorum, turba numerosior illitteratissimis litteris vacant. nam te, cui, seu liberum seu ligatum placeat alternare sermonem, intonare ambifariam suppetit, pauci, quos aequus amavit, imitabuntur. vale.
◆
To Claudianus [Claudianus Mamertus, a philosopher-priest in Vienne, brother of Bishop Mamertus; author of "On the State of the Soul"].
You say, my honored elder, that I am violating the laws of friendship by keeping my pen and tablets silent so long and burdening no traveler's pouch with a letter inquiring after your health. You are quite wrong to think that any mortal who still cares about writing proper Latin would not tremble when his words are submitted to the judgment of your ears — ears before whose expertise, even leaving aside the advantage of all the ages that have preceded ours, I would not dare to set myself alongside the gravity of Fronto or the weight of Apuleius, beside whom the two Varros, the two Plinys [uncle and nephew — the encyclopedist and the letter-writer], would seem positively crude by comparison.
My judgment is confirmed by that volume of yours on the state of the soul [Claudianus's "De Statu Animae," a philosophical treatise arguing for the immateriality of the soul], so rich in learning and eloquence. When you addressed its preface to my name, the chief gift I received was that the reputation of a person not worth making famous through his own writings would be preserved through yours. But great God, what a work it is — dense in subject matter, brilliant in style, tightly argued in its propositions yet opened up by its disputations, and although bristling with the barbed points of its syllogisms, softened by the bloom of a flourishing eloquence!
The vocabulary is fresh because it is ancient, and compared to it even the style of classical literature would seem old-fashioned. What is more precious still, the whole diction is so crisply punctuated yet so flowing that you feel it teaches more than it says. Indeed, this was once rightly considered the supreme eloquence: the kind that, confining much in few words, aimed to fill the case rather than the page.
And then there is the way your sustained seriousness still admits tenderness, and your critical rigor inserts a timely sweetness, so that when the reader's attention flags from traversing the branches of philosophy, it is refreshed by delightful digressions — like harbors in your philosophical sea. What a book, powerful in so many ways! What a style — not thin but subtle, neither swelling with hyperbolic excess nor flattened by false modesty!
Beyond this, your learning is singular and unique, demonstrable across every branch of knowledge. You have the habit of philosophizing about each art with its own masters, and when occasion demands, you are willing to take up the lyre with Orpheus, the staff with Aesculapius, the compass with Archimedes, the horoscope with Euphrates, the ruler with Perdix, the plumb-line with Vitruvius — and you have never ceased investigating time with Thales, the stars with Atlas, weights with Zethus, numbers with Chrysippus, and measures with Euclid.
In short, no one in my lifetime has been able to affirm what he wishes with such power. When he marshals himself against his opponent, he rightly claims a share in the genius and learning of both languages. He thinks like Pythagoras, divides like Socrates, explains like Plato, entangles like Aristotle; he flatters like Aeschines, rages like Demosthenes; he blooms like Hortensius, burns like Cethegus; he spurs like Curio, delays like Fabius; he feigns like Crassus, dissembles like Caesar; he persuades like Cato, dissuades like Appius, and convinces like Cicero.
And if we turn to the sacred fathers for comparison: he instructs like Jerome, demolishes like Lactantius, builds up like Augustine; he rises like Hilary, humbles himself like John [Chrysostom]; he rebukes like Basil, consoles like Gregory; he flows like Orosius, condenses like Rufinus; he narrates like Eusebius, stirs like Eucherius; he challenges like Paulinus, perseveres like Ambrose.
As for your hymn — if you ask what I think — it is rich in phrases, abundant, sweet, elevated, and surpasses any lyric dithyramb in both poetic grace and historical truth. What is uniquely yours is this: while preserving the proper feet and syllables and their quantities, you pack rich words into the tight compass of short verses, and the brevity of your constrained meter never eliminates the amplitude of your ornate language.
The grandeur of your expression overflows its metrical bounds, like a fine jewel barely held in a small gold setting — like the spirit of a powerful horse that, bridled in rough terrain, clearly lacks not the speed but the open field. In short, by my judgment, in both kinds of writing, neither Athens itself could be called more Attic nor the Muses more musical — if only my long idleness has not robbed me of the power to judge. For while I adopt the excuse of my new profession and gradually learn a new way of writing while leaping away from the old, all I have left of a good orator is that I have become more of a bad poet.
So please forgive me this offense — that, remembering you now and then, I too rarely mingle my thin little stream with your great river. Your trumpet the whole world rightly venerates, since it has sounded with a double felicity: it has found neither a rival nor an equal. As for me, it is a bold thing if I even chatter before our provincial and cathedral orators or courtroom brawlers — who, even when they are declaiming, if I may say so respectfully, are a very numerous crowd of supremely illiterate writers. But you, who are equally able to thunder in prose or verse, will be imitated by "the few whom kindly Jupiter has loved" [a quotation from Virgil]. Farewell.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.