Epistle XXIX. — When Pontius Paulinus the younger did not reply to the four letters already sent, the following was written to him

This is the fourth letter in which I have laid bare to thee, Paulinus, my familiar complaint, and with caressing words sought to stir thee from thy lethargy. But never a page comes to repay my loving attentions, no propitious words writ at the head of sheets which bring me greeting. How has my luckless letter, for which your long neglect shows such disdain, deserved this rebuff? Yet foe from foe receives greeting in savage speech and "hail" comes between opposed arms. Even rocks make answer to mankind and speech beating back from caves returns, returns too the vocal mimicry of the woods; cliffs by the sea-shore cry out, streams utter their murmurs, the hedges, whereon bees of Hybla feed, are ever whispering. Reed-grown banks also have their tuneful harmonies, and the pine's foliage in trembling accents talks with its beloved winds. So oft as the light eastern breeze leans on the shrill-voiced leaves, strains of Dindymus respond to the grove of Gargara. Nature made nothing dumb. Birds of the air and four-footed beasts are not mute, even the serpent has its own hissing note, and the herds of the deep sigh with faint semblance of a voice. Cymbals give sound at a clash, stages at beat of bounding feet, the taut skins of hollow drums give back a booming; Mareotic sistra raise rattling din in Isis' honour nor does Dodona's brazen tinkling cease as oft as the lavers at the clappers' measured stroke obediently reply with rhythmic beat. Thou, as though thou wert a mute citizen of Oebalian Amyclae, or Egyptian Sigalion were sealing thy lips, stubbornly keepest silence, Paulinus. I recognise shame in thee, for continued negligence cherishes her own defect, and in shame for long silence thou dost resolve not to maintain interchange of courtesies; and lengthened idleness loves its own fault. Who forbids you to write hail and farewell with studied brevity, and to commit to paper these words of greeting? I do not demand that thy page should weave a long drawn out web of verse and burden thy letter with a multitude of words. Twas but one letter wherewith the Spartans made reply and, though refusing, pleased the angry king. For indeed terseness is courteous; so, report says, taught reborn Pythagoras. While babblers would be stringing indecisive words, in all cases he would answer only "Yes" or "No."

O stable rule of speech! For nothing is shorter and more adequate than these, which approve the valid or reject the invalid. None pleased by silence; many by brief reply.

But I, whither with foolish amplitude of speech have I been long careering? How distant from itself and yet how near is error! I with long speech, thou with utter silence, we both displease. Yet can I not keep silence, for free affection never bears yoke, nor loves to screen truth with glozing words. Hast thou, dearest Paulinus, changed thy nature? Do Biscayan glades and sojourns in the snowy Pyrenees and doth forgetfulness of our clime work thus? What curse shall I not righteously call down on thee, O land of Spain? May Carthaginians ravage thee, may faithless Hannibal waste thee with fire, may banished Sertorius again seek in thee the seat of war! Shall then Birbilis or Calagorris clinging to its crags, or parched Ilerda whose ruins, littered over rugged hills, look down on brawling Sicoris, possess him who is mine and his country's pride, the mainstay of the Senate? Here dost thou, Paulinus, establish thy robe consular and Roman curule chair, and wilt thou bury there thy native honours?

But who is that unhallowed wretch who has urged you to so long silence? May he turn no sound to any advantage, may no joys enliven him, no sweet poets' lays, no melting harmonies of seductive elegy, may no cry of beast nor low of cattle nor song of bird cheer him, nor yet Echo, who hidden in shepherds' bosky groves consoles us while repeating our complaints. Sad, needy let him dwell in waste places and in silence roam the borders of Alpine hills, even as, 'tis said, in days of old Bellerophon, distraught, avoided the company of men and wandered straying through untrodden places.

This is my prayer, this cry, Boeotian Muses divine, receive ye and with Latin strains call back your bard!