To Avitus

It would be a long story, and of no great importance, if I were to tell you by what accident I dined lately with a man who, in his own opinion, entertained us with great splendour and economy, but in my opinion with meanness combined with extravagance.  He and a few of his guests enjoyed some very excellent dishes indeed, but the fare placed before the rest of the company was of the most inferior kind.  There were three kinds of wine in small bottles, but it was not intended that the guests should take their choice at all.  The best was for himself and for us; another vintage was for his friends of a lower order—­for you must know he divides his friends into classes—­and the third kind was for his own and his guests freed-men.  My neighbor noticed this, and asked me if I approved of it.  “Not at all,” I said.

“What then,” said he, “is your custom in entertaining?”

“Mine,” said I, “is to offer the same fare to everybody.  I invite my friends to dinner without separating them into classes.  Everyone who comes to my table is equal, and even my freed-men are then my guests just as much as anyone else.”

He asked me if I did not find this very expensive.  I assured him that it was not so at all, and that the whole secret lay in drinking no better wine myself that I gave to others.  If a man is wise enough to moderate his own luxury, he will not find it very expensive to entertain all his visitors on equal terms.  Restrain your own tastes if you would really economise.  This is a better way of saving expense than making these insulting distinctions between guests.

It would be a pity if a man of your excellent disposition should be imposed upon by the immoderate ostentation which prevails at some tables under the guise of frugality.  I tell you of this as an example of what you ought to shun.  Nothing is to be more avoided than this preposterous association of extravagance and meanness—­defects which are unpleasant enough when found separately, but are particularly detestable when combined.

To Baebius Macer

I am glad to hear that you are so great an admirer of my Uncle Pliny’s works as to wish to have a complete collection of them.  You will wonder how a man so much occupied as he was could find time to write so many books, some of them upon very difficult subjects.  You will be still more surprised when you hear that for a considerable time he practised at the bar, that he died in his fifty-sixth year, and that from the time of his retirement from the bar to his death he was employed in some of the highest offices of state, and in the immediate service of the emperors.  But he had a very quick intelligence, an incredible power of application, and an unusual faculty of doing without sleep.  In summer he used to begin to work at midnight; in winter, generally at one in the morning, or two at the latest, and often at midnight.  But he would often, without leaving