Letter 9013: Your opinion of my verse has always been so flattering that you rank me alongside the finest poets — and ahead of most.

Sidonius ApollinarisTonantius|c. 467 AD|Sidonius Apollinaris
education booksfriendshipimperial politics

To Tonantius.

Your opinion of my verse has always been so flattering that you rank me alongside the finest poets — and ahead of most. I would believe you, if your affection for me did not run as deep as your judgment. That is precisely why your praise of me can be wrong without being dishonest.

Beyond that, you are now asking me to send you some Asclepiadean verses hammered out on the Horatian anvil — something to recite over wine. I obey, though I must warn you: I have never been more absorbed in prose than I am right now. You will find that my passion for meter has largely cooled. It is not easy to do something well when you do it rarely.

[Here Sidonius includes a short poem declining to compete with Horace in lyric meters, noting that even Leo — "the king of the Castalian chorus" — and Lampridius, who lectures to students at Bordeaux, would struggle with the task.]

But whenever you sit down to a fine dinner, fill the time — and I say this with real conviction — with edifying conversation rather than drinking songs. If you are still too young for that, at least borrow from Apuleius [the 2nd-century author from Madaura, famous for philosophical dinner-party debates] some questions fit for the table: pose them, solve them, and sharpen your mind even while you relax.

Since we have stumbled onto the subject of banquets, here is something I composed years ago at a dinner hosted during the reign of Emperor Majorian [reigned 457-461]. A friend had asked me to come, and someone produced a book by Petrus, the imperial secretary. I dashed off a poem on the spot — as did my table companions Domnulus, Severianus, and Lampridius, each of us drawing a different meter by lot so that no one would suffer the embarrassment of direct comparison.

[The poem itself is a lively piece in short lines celebrating the banquet: calling for silk hangings and Persian tapestries, garlands of flowers, incense, lamps burning balsam oil, fine Falernian wine, musicians from Corinth, flute-players, actors in comedy and tragedy — all in honor of Petrus, whose book has delighted emperor, senate, soldiers, and common people alike. It closes by dismissing the pagan Muses: "Away with Hippocrene, away with Apollo and Minerva — one God alone grants gifts like these."]

There — you asked me for something to sing, and I have ended up singing myself. I dug these trifles out of the bottom of a chest where the mice had been at them for twenty years, like the state of things Odysseus found when he finally came home. Forgive the foolishness of the performance. But I will say this, without false modesty or false boldness: I hope you will judge my little piece with the same generosity I showed when praising our friend's entire book. Farewell.

Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.

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