Tag: Letters — Division III — Miscellaneous Letters

(An answer to a request made by Nicobulus for a treatise on the art of writing letters. Benoît thinks this and the following ones were written to the Younger Nicobulus.)

(An answer to a request made by Nicobulus for a treatise on the art of writing letters. Benoît thinks this and the following ones were written to the Younger Nicobulus.)

Of those who write letters, since this is what you ask, some write at too great a length, and others make the opposite error by being too brief. Both miss the right balance, like archers shooting at a target and sending some arrows short of it and others beyond it. The failure is the same, though in opposite directions. Now the proper measure for letters is their usefulness. We must not write at very great length when there is little to say, nor very briefly when there is much to say. What are we supposed to do? Measure our wisdom by the Persian schœne, or by a child's cubits, and write so inadequately that we are not really writing at all but copying midday shadows, or lines that converge right in front of you, whose lengths are shortened and which show themselves only partially rather than clearly, being recognized only by certain of their ends? In both directions we must avoid excess and find the middle ground. This is my opinion about brevity. As for clarity, it is obvious that one should avoid the rhetorical style as much as possible and lean instead toward the conversational. To put it briefly, the best and most beautiful letter is one that can convince both an uneducated and an educated reader—the first, because it is accessible to ordinary people; the second, because it rises above the ordinary. It should be understandable on its own. It is equally disagreeable to have to solve a riddle and to have to interpret a letter. The third quality of a letter is charm. We shall preserve this if we do not write in any way that is dry and unpleasant or plain and badly arranged and rough, as they say—for instance, a style lacking maxims and proverbs and pithy sayings, or even jokes and riddles, by which language is made pleasant. Yet we must not appear to misuse these things by employing them excessively. Leaving them out entirely shows crudeness, but overusing them shows lack of restraint. We should use them about as much as purple is used in woven fabrics. Figures of speech we shall allow, but few and restrained. Antitheses and balanced clauses and neatly divided sentences we shall leave to the sophists, or if we do sometimes use them, we shall do so more in play than in seriousness. My final point shall be one I heard a clever man make about the eagle: when the birds were electing a king and came with various decorations, the most beautiful thing about him was that he did not think himself beautiful. This point is especially important in letter-writing—to be without artificial ornament and as natural as possible. I am sending you this much about letters by means of a letter, but perhaps you had better not apply it to me, since I am occupied with more important matters. The rest you will work out for yourself, since you are quick to learn, and those who are skilled in these matters will teach you.

Of those who write letters, since this is what you ask, some write at too great a length, and others err on the side of deficiency; and both miss the mean, like archers shooting at a mark and sending some shafts short of it and others beyond it; for the missing is the same though on opposite sides. Now the measure of letters is their usefulness: and we must neither write at very great length when there is little to say, nor very briefly when there is a great deal. What? Are we to measure our wisdom by the Persian Schœne, or by the cubits of a child, and to write so imperfectly as not to write at all but to copy the midday shadows, or lines which meet right in front of you, whose lengths are foreshortened and which show themselves in glimpses rather than plainly, being recognized only by certain of their extremities? We must in both respects avoid the want of moderation and hit off the moderate. This is my opinion as to brevity; as to perspicuity it is clear that one should avoid the oratorical form as much as possible and lean rather to the chatty: and, to speak concisely, that is the best and most beautiful letter which can convince either an unlearned or an educated reader; the one, as being within the reach of the many; the other, as above the many; and it should be intelligible in itself. It is equally disagreeable to think out a riddle and to have to interpret a letter. The third point about a letter is grace: and this we shall safeguard if we do not write in any way that is dry and unpleasing or unadorned and badly arranged and untrimmed, as they call it; as for instance a style destitute of maxims and proverbs and pithy sayings, or even jokes and enigmas, by which language is sweetened. Yet we must not seem to abuse these things by an excessive employment of them. Their entire omission shows rusticity, but the abuse of them shows insatiability. We may use them about as much as purple is used in woven stuffs. Figures of speech we shall admit, but few and modest. Antitheses and balanced clauses and nicely divided sentences, we shall leave to the sophists, or if we do sometimes admit them, we shall do so rather in play than in earnest. My final remark shall be one which I heard a clever man make about the eagle, that when the birds were electing a king, and came with various adornment, the most beautiful point about him was that he did not think himself beautiful. This point is to be especially attended to in letter-writing, to be without adventitious ornament and as natural as possible. So much about letters I send you by a letter; but perhaps you had better not apply it to myself, who am busied about more important matters. The rest you will work out for yourself, as you are quick at learning, and those who are clever in these matters will teach you.

(Eusebius had responded to the appeal mentioned above and traveled to Caesarea. The elder Gregory, though in very poor health, decided to attend the Synod in person so that Basil's election could be secured through their combined efforts. Gregory the younger sent the following letter with his father to explain to his friend why he had not come as well. The date is approximately September of the year 379.)

(Eusebius, having in response to the appeal referred to above, betaken himself to Cæsarea, the Elder Gregory, though in very feeble health, resolved to attend the Synod in person, that Basil's Election might be secured by their joint exertions, Gregory the Younger sent the following letter by his father to explain to his friend the reason why he had not come too. The date is about September of the year 379.)

Where should I begin to praise you, and what title should I use to give you the recognition you deserve? Should I call you the pillar and ground of the church, or a light in the world, using the apostle's own words, or a crown of glory to what remains of Christendom, or a gift of God, or the defender of your country, or the standard of faith, or the ambassador of truth, or all of these at once, and even more? I will prove these abundant praises by what we have seen. What rain ever came so timely to a parched land, or what water flowing from the rock to those in the wilderness? What such Bread of Angels did anyone ever eat? When did Jesus the common Lord ever appear so timely to His drowning disciples, calming the sea and saving those about to perish, as you have appeared to us in our exhaustion and distress, when we were in immediate danger of shipwreck? I need not mention other matters—with what courage and joy you filled the souls of the orthodox, and how many you rescued from despair.

Whence shall I begin your praises, and by what name shall I give you your right appellation? The pillar and ground of the church, or a light in the world, using the very words of the apostle, or a crown of glory to the remaining portion of christendom; or a gift of God, or the bulwark of your country, or the standard of faith, or the ambassador of truth, or all these at once, and more than all? And these excessive praises I will prove by what we shall see. What rain ever came so seasonably to a thirsty land, what water flowing out of the rock to those in the wilderness? What such Bread of Angels did ever man eat? When did Jesus the common Lord ever so seasonably present Himself to His drowning disciples, and tame the sea, and save the perishing, as you have shown yourself to us in our weariness and distress, and in our immediate danger as it were of shipwreck? I need not speak of other points, with what courage and joy you filled the souls of the orthodox, and how many you delivered from despair.

But our mother church—I mean Caesarea—is now truly removing her widow's garments at the sight of you and putting on once more her joyful clothing. She will be even more radiant when she receives a pastor worthy of herself, of her former bishops, and of your hands. You yourself can see the state of our circumstances, what a miracle your zeal has accomplished, along with your labor and your godly frankness of speech. Old age is renewed, sickness is overcome, those who were bedridden are leaping up, and the weak are clothed with strength. From all this I conclude that our situation too will turn out as we hope. You also have my father with you, representing both himself and me, so that he may bring his entire life and his venerable old age to a glorious conclusion through this present struggle on behalf of the church. And I am fully confident that I will receive him back, strengthened by your prayers and with his youth renewed, for one must trustingly commit everything in faith to them. But if he should end his life in this struggle, it would be no tragedy to reach such an end in such a cause. Forgive me, I ask you, if I yield a little to the tongues of wicked people and delay briefly before coming to embrace you and completing in person what I now omit of the praises owed to you.

But our mother church, Cæsarea I mean, is now really putting off the garments of her widowhood at the sight of you, and putting on again her robe of cheerfulness, and will be yet more resplendent when she receives a pastor worthy of herself and of her former Bishops and of your hands. For you yourself see what is the state of our affairs, and what a miracle your zeal has wrought, and your toil, and your godly plainness of speech. Age is renewed, disease is conquered, they leap who were in their beds, and the weak are girded with power. By all this I guess that our matters too will turn out as we desire. You have my father, moreover, representing both himself and me, to put a glorious close to his whole life and to his venerable age by this present struggle on behalf of the Church. And I shall receive him back, I am well assured, strengthened by your prayers, and with youth renewed, for one must confidently commit all in faith to them. But if he should end his life in this anxiety, it would be no calamity to attain to such an end in such a cause. Pardon me, I beg of you, if I give way a little to the tongues of evil men, and delay a little to come and embrace you, and to complete in person what I now pass over of the praises due to you.

(Around the same time. This is a recommendation of one Amazonius, whose learning was greatly respected by Gregory.)

(About the same date. A recommendation of one Amazonius, whose learning was much respected by Gregory.)

I wish well to all my friends. When I speak of friends, I mean honorable and good people who are united with me in virtue—if indeed I have any claim to virtue myself. So right now, as I was looking for a way to do a kindness for my excellent brother Amazonius (I was very impressed with him during some recent interactions we've had), I thought I could repay all his kindness with one favor—your friendship and protection. In a short time he demonstrated proof of a broad education, both the kind I used to be very enthusiastic about when I was shortsighted, and the kind I now pursue instead since I've been able to see the summit of virtue. Whether I in turn seemed to him to be worth anything regarding virtue is his business. At any rate, I showed him the best things I have, namely my friends, presenting them to him as my friend. Among these I consider you the first and truest, and I want you to show yourself that way to him—as your shared homeland requires, and as my desire and promise request. For I promised him your patronage in return for all his kindness.

I wish well to all my friends. And when I speak of friends, I mean honourable and good men, linked with me in virtue, if indeed I myself have any claim to it. Therefore at the present time when seeking how I might do a kindness to my excellent brother Amazonius (for I was very much pleased with the man in some intercourse which has lately taken place between us), I thought I might return him one favour for all — in your friendship and protection. For in a short time he showed proof of an extensive education, both of the kind which I used once to be very zealous for, when I was shortsighted, and of that for which I am zealous in its place since I have been able to contemplate the summit of virtue. Whether I in my turn have appeared to him to be worth anything in respect of virtue is his affair. At any rate I showed him the best things I have, namely, my friends to him as my friend. Of these I reckon you as the first and truest, and want you to show yourself so to him — as your common Country demands, and my desire and promise begs; for I promised him your patronage in return for all his kindness.

(A letter of recommendation for Eudoxius a Rhetorician for whom Gregory had a warm regard.)

(A letter of recommendation for Eudoxius a Rhetorician for whom Gregory had a warm regard.)

To honor a mother is a religious duty. Now, different people have different mothers, but the common mother of everyone is our country. You have honored this mother through the splendor of your entire life, and you will honor her again now by granting what I ask. And what am I requesting? You certainly know Eudoxius the Rhetorician, the most learned of her sons. His son—to put it briefly—is another Eudoxius in both life and learning, and now comes to you through me. Therefore, to gain an even better reputation for yourself, help him with the matters for which he seeks your assistance. For it would be shameful if you, who are the universal patron of our country and who have done good to so many—and I will add, who will continue to do so—should fail to honor above all the one who is most excellent in learning and eloquence, which you ought to honor if for no other reason than because he uses it to praise your goodness.

To honour a mother is a religious duty. Now, different individuals have different mothers; but the common mother of all is our country. This mother you have honoured by the splendour of your whole life; and you will honour her again now by obtaining for me that which I entreat. And what is my request? You certainly know Eudoxius the Rhetorician, the most learned of her sons. His son, to speak concisely, another Eudoxius both in life and learning, now approaches you through me. In order then to get yourself a yet better name, be helpful to him in the matters for which he asks your assistance. For it were a shame were you, who are the universal Patron of our Country, and who have done good to so many, and I will add, who will yet continue to do so, should not honour above all him who is most excellent in learning and in his eloquence, which you ought to honour, if for no other reason, because he uses it to praise your goodness.

(Of the same year. Here Caesarius had left all his property to the poor, but his servants had looted his house, and his friends could only recover a relatively small amount. In addition to this, a number of people soon presented themselves as creditors of his estate, and their claims were paid even though they could not be proven. Then others kept coming forward, until finally the family refused to accept any more claims. Then a lawsuit was threatened. Gregory intensely disliked all this and also dreaded the scandal that might be caused by legal proceedings, so he writes as follows to the Prefect.)

(Of the same year. Here Cæsarius had bequeathed all his property to the poor; but his house had been looted by his servants, and his friends could only find a comparatively small sum. Besides this a number of persons, shortly afterwards, presented themselves as creditors of his estate, and their claims, though incapable of proof, were paid. Then others kept coming forward, until at last the family refused to admit any more. Then a lawsuit was threatened. Gregory intensely disliking all this, and dreading moreover the scandal which might be caused by legal proceedings, writes as follows to the Prefect.)

You see how things stand with me, and how the circle of human affairs goes round—now some people flourishing, now others, and then the reverse. Neither prosperity nor adversity stays constant with us, as the saying goes, but they are always changing and shifting, so that one might more easily trust the breezes or letters written in water than human prosperity. Why is this? I think it is so that by contemplating the uncertainty and irregularity of all these things, we may learn instead to turn to God and to the future, giving little thought to shadows and dreams. But what has brought on this talk? I am not philosophizing without reason, and I am not just making idle boasts.

You see how matters stand with me, and how the circle of human affairs goes round, now some now others flourishing or the reverse, and neither prosperity nor adversity remaining constant with us, as the saying is, but ever changing and altering, so that one might trust the breezes, or letters written in the waters, rather than human prosperity. For what reason is this? I think it is in order that by the contemplation of the uncertainty and anomaly of all these things we may learn the rather to have recourse to God and to the future, giving scanty thoughts to shadows and dreams. But what has produced this talk, for it is not without a cause that I thus philosophize, and I am not idly boasting?

Caesarius was once one of your more distinguished friends—indeed, unless my brotherly affection deceives me, he was among your most distinguished, for he was remarkably well-informed and above average in gentlemanly conduct, and was celebrated for the number of his friends. Among the very first of these, as he always thought and as he convinced me, Your Excellency held the first place. These are old stories, and you will add to them on your own in honoring his memory, for it is human nature to add something to the praises of the departed. But now (so that you do not pass over this story without a tear, or so that you may weep to some good and useful purpose), he lies dead, friendless, solitary, pitiable, deemed worthy of a little myrrh (if even of that much) and of the last small coverings, and it is remarkable that he has found even this much compassion. But his enemies, as I hear, have fallen upon his estate, and from all quarters are plundering it with great violence, or are about to do so. What cruelty! What savagery! And there is no one to stop them, but even the kindest of his friends only appeals to the laws as his greatest favor. To put it concisely, I have become a mere drama, I who was once accustomed to being happy. Do not let this seem tolerable to you, but help me through sympathy and by sharing my indignation, and do right by the dead Caesarius. Yes, in the name of friendship herself; yes, by all that you hold dearest; by your hope (which may you make secure by showing yourself faithful and true to the departed), I pray you do this kindness to the living and give them good hope. Do you think I am grieved about the money? It would have been a more intolerable disgrace to me if Caesarius alone, who thought he had so many friends, turned out to have none. Such is my request, and from such a cause does it arise, for perhaps my affairs are not altogether matters of indifference to you. In what you will assist me, and by what means, and how, the matter itself will suggest and your wisdom will consider.

Cæsarius was once one of your not least distinguished friends; indeed, unless my brotherly affection deceives me, he was one of your most distinguished, for he was remarkably well informed, and for gentlemanly conduct was above the average, and was celebrated for the number of his friends; among the very first of these, as he always thought and as he persuaded me, Your Excellency held the first place. These are old stories, and you will add to them of your own accord in rendering honours to his memory; for it is human nature to add something to the praises of the departed. But now (that you may not pass over this story without a tear, or that you may weep to some good and useful purpose), he lies dead, friendless, solitary, pitiable, deemed worthy of a little myrrh (if even of so much), and of the last small coverings, and it is much that he has found even thus much compassion. But his enemies, as I hear, have fallen upon his estate, and from all quarters with great violence are plundering it, or are about to do so. O cruelty! O savagery! And there is no one to hinder them; but even the kindest of his friends only calls upon the laws as his utmost favour. If I may put it concisely, I have become a mere drama, who once was wont to be happy. Do not let this seem to you to be tolerable, but help me by sympathy and by sharing my indignation, and do right by the dead Cæsarius. Yes, in the name of friendship herself; yes, by all that you hold dearest; by your hope (which may you make secure by showing yourself faithful and true to the departed), I pray you do this kindness to the living, and make them of good hope. Do you think that I am grieved about the money? It would have been a more intolerable disgrace to me if Cæsarius alone, who thought he had so many friends, turned out to have none. Such is my request, and from such a cause does it arise, for perhaps my affairs are not altogether matters of indifference to you. In what you will assist me, and by what means, and how, the matter itself will suggest and your wisdom will consider.

When I visited the mountain cities that border on Pamphylia, I caught a sea Glaucus in the mountains. I didn't pull this fish from the depths with a linen net, but I caught him with the love of a friend. Having once taught my Glaucus to travel on land, I sent him as the carrier of a letter to Your Goodness. Please receive him kindly and honor him with the hospitality commended in the Bible, including the vegetables.

In visiting the mountain cities which border on Pamphylia I fished up in the Mountains a sea Glaucus; I did not drag the fish out of the depths with a net of flax, but I snared my game with the love of a friend. And having once taught my Glaucus to travel by land, I sent him as the bearer of a letter to Your Goodness. Please receive him kindly, and honour him with the hospitality commended in the Bible, not forgetting the vegetables.

You treat it as a joke, but I know the danger of someone from Ozizala starving even when he has worked hardest at his farming. The only praise that can be given to them is this: even if they die of hunger, they smell sweet and have a magnificent funeral. How is this possible? Because they are covered with an abundance of all kinds of flowers.

You make a joke of it; but I know the danger of an Ozizalean starving when he has taken most pains with his husbandry. There is only this praise to be given them, that even if they die of hunger they smell sweet, and have a gorgeous funeral. How so? Because they are covered with plenty of all sorts of flowers.

What a very small quantity of vegetables you have sent me! They must surely be golden vegetables! And yet your whole wealth consists of orchards and rivers and groves and gardens, and your country produces vegetables as other lands produce gold, and

What a very small quantity of vegetables you have sent me! They must surely be golden vegetables! And yet your whole wealth consists of orchards and rivers and groves and gardens, and your country is productive of vegetables as other lands are of gold, and

You live among grassy, leafy fields.

You dwell among meadowy leafage.

But grain is a wonderful blessing for you, and your bread is like the bread of angels, as they say, because it's so precious to you and you can count on it so little. So either send me your vegetables more generously, or—I won't threaten you with anything else—I just won't send you any grain, and we'll find out whether there's any truth to the saying that grasshoppers live on dew!

But grain is for you a fabulous happiness, and your bread is the bread of angels, as the saying is, so welcome is it, and so little can you reckon upon it. Either, then, send me your vegetables less grudgingly, or — I won't threaten you with anything else, but I won't send you any grain, and will see whether there is any truth in the saying that grasshoppers live on dew!

(Amphilochius was acquitted of the charges made against him, which were mentioned in earlier letters. However, the accusation affected him so deeply that he resigned from his position and withdrew to a kind of hermitage at a place called Ozizala, not far from Nazianzus, where he spent his working hours growing vegetables. The four letters that follow have no particular importance and are included only as examples of the more casual style that Gregory could use with his close friends.)

(Amphilochius was acquitted of the charges made against him, referred to in former letters; but the result of the accusation on his own mind was such that he resigned his office, and retired to a sort of hermitage at a place called Ozizala, not far from Nazianzus, where he devoted his hours of labour to the cultivation of vegetables. The four letters which follow are of no special importance, and are only given as specimens of the lighter style which Gregory could use with his intimate friends.)

I didn't ask you for bread, just as I wouldn't ask for water from the people of Ostracine. But if I were to ask for vegetables from a man of Ozizala, that wouldn't be strange or put too much strain on our friendship, since you have plenty of them and we have very little. So I'm asking you to send me some vegetables—plenty of them and the best quality, or as many as you can manage (because even small things matter a lot to the poor). I'm about to host the great Basil, and you, who have experienced him when he was satisfied and philosophical, wouldn't want to know him when he's hungry and irritable.

I did not ask you for bread, just as I would not ask for water from the inhabitants of Ostracine. But if I were to ask for vegetables from a man of Ozizala it were no strange thing, nor too great a strain on friendship; for you have plenty of them, and we a great dearth. I beg you then to send me some vegetables, and plenty of them, and the best quality, or as many as you can (for even small things are great to the poor); for I am going to receive the great Basil, and you, who have had experience of him full and philosophical, would not like to know him hungry and irritated.

Do not be surprised if I ask a great favor of you, for I am asking it from a great man, and the request should be measured by the person being asked. It is equally absurd to ask great things from a small man and small things from a great man—the first being inappropriate and the second being petty. Therefore I present to you personally my most precious son Amphilochius, a man so distinguished (even beyond his years) for his gentlemanly conduct that I myself, though an old man, a priest, and your friend, would be quite content to be as highly regarded. What is surprising if he was deceived by a man's pretended friendship and did not suspect the fraud? Since he is not a rogue himself, he did not suspect roguery, but thought that correction of speech rather than of character was needed, and therefore entered into a business partnership with him. What blame can honest men attach to him for this? Do not then allow wickedness to triumph over virtue, and do not dishonor my gray hairs, but honor my testimony and add your kindness to my blessing, which perhaps carries some weight with God before whom we stand.

Do not be surprized if I ask of you a great favour; for it is from a great man that I am asking it, and the request must be measured by him of whom it is made; for it is equally absurd to ask great things from a small man, and small things from a great man, the one being unseasonable, and the other mean. I therefore present to you with my own hand my most precious son Amphilochius, a man so famous (even beyond his years) for his gentlemanly bearing, that I myself, though an old man, and a Priest, and your friend, would be quite content to be as much esteemed. What wonder is it if he was cheated by a man's pretended friendship, and did not suspect the swindle? For not being himself a rogue, he did not suspect roguery, but thought that correction of language rather than of character was what was wanted, and therefore entered into partnership with him in business. What blame can attach to him for this with honest men? Do not then allow wickedness to get the better of virtue; and do not dishonour my grey hairs, but do honour to my testimony, and add your kindness to my benedictions, which are perhaps of some account with God before Whom we stand.