(Around the year 361 AD.)
(Circa a.d. 361.)
Since you receive my jokes in good spirits, I am sending you the rest. My introduction comes from Homer.
Since you do take my jokes kindly, I send you the rest. My prelude is from Homer.
Come now, change your theme and sing of the inner adornment.
Come now and change your theme, And sing of the inner adornment. — Od. viii. 492.
Your roofless and doorless hut, your fireless and smokeless hearth, your walls dried by fire so that we wouldn't be hit by drops of mud—condemned like Tantalus thirsting in the midst of water—and that pitiful feast with nothing to eat, to which we were invited from Cappadocia, not to a Lotus-eater's poverty but supposedly to a table of Alcinous—we young and miserable survivors of a shipwreck. For I remember those loaves and the broth (so it was called), yes, and I will remember them too, along with my poor teeth that slipped on your chunks of bread, then braced themselves and pulled themselves as if out of mud. You yourself will elevate these things to a higher level of tragedy, having learned to speak grandly through your own sufferings. For if we had not been quickly rescued by that great supporter of the poor—I mean your mother—who appeared at the right moment like a harbor to men tossed by a storm, we would long ago have died, more pitied than admired for our faith in Pontus. How can I pass over that garden which was no garden and had no vegetables, and the Augean dunghill which we cleared out of the house and with which we filled it up (the garden), when we pulled that mountainous wagon, I the vintager and you the valiant one, with our necks and hands, which still bear the marks of our labors. O earth and sun, O air and virtue (for I will indulge a little in tragic language), not so that we might bridge the Hellespont, but so that we might level a cliff. If you are not embarrassed by the mention of these circumstances, neither am I; but if you are, how much more was I by the reality. I'll pass over the rest, out of respect for the others from whom I received much enjoyment.
Your roofless and doorless hut, your fireless and smokeless hearth, your walls dried by fire, that we may not be hit by the drops of the mud, condemned like Tantalus thirsting in the midst of waters, and that pitiable feast with nothing to eat, to which we were invited from Cappadocia, not as to a Lotus-eater's poverty, but to a table of Alcinous — we young and miserable survivors of a wreck. For I remember those loaves and the broth (so it was called), yes, and I shall remember them too, and my poor teeth that slipped on your hunks of bread, and then braced themselves up, and pulled themselves as it were out of mud. You yourself will raise these things to a higher strain of tragedy, having learned to talk big through your own sufferings…for if we had not been quickly delivered by that great supporter of the poor — I mean your mother — who appeared opportunely like a harbour to men tossed by a storm, we should long ago have been dead, rather pitied than admired for our faith in Pontus. How shall I pass over that garden which was no garden and had no vegetables, and the Augean dunghill which we cleared out of the house, and with which we filled it up (sc. the garden), when we drew that mountainous wagon, I the vintager, and you the valiant, with our necks and hands, which still bear the traces of our labours. O earth and sun, O air and virtue (for I will indulge a little in tragic tones), not that we might bridge the Hellespont, but that we might level a precipice. If you are not put out by the mention of the circumstances, no more am I; but if you are, how much more was I by the reality. I pass by the rest, through respect for the others from whom I received much enjoyment.