Letter 46

I have received the book you promised me, and, intending to read it at my leisure, I opened it and wished only to taste it. Then it itself coaxed me to go further. How eloquent it was you may understand from this: it seemed light to me, though it was of a bulk that belonged neither to my body nor to yours, but such as at first sight might seem either Titus Livius's or Epicurus's. But it held and drew me with so great a sweetness that I read it through without any delay. The sun invited me out, hunger reminded me, the clouds threatened; yet I drank it all in.

I was not only delighted, but rejoiced. What genius it had, what spirit! I would say what force too, had it paused at intervals, had it risen up after a rest; as it was, there was no mere outburst, but a steady tenor, a composition manly and pure; none the less there came in now and then that sweetness, and gentleness in its place. You are noble, you are upright; this I would have you keep, thus to go on. The subject too did something; therefore a fertile one must be chosen, which will hold the genius, which will spur it on.

About the book I shall write more when I have gone over it again; at present my judgement is not well settled, as though I had heard those things, not read them. Allow me to inquire further as well. There is no reason for you to fear; you will hear the truth. Oh, you happy man, that you have nothing for the sake of which anyone should lie to you from so far off! Save that even now, when the occasion for it has been taken away, we lie out of habit. Farewell.