The Epistle of Servius Sulpicius to Marcus Tullius Cicero
Translated by HIS MAJESTY.
AS soon as I heard your daughter Tullia was dead, I confess I was extremely
concerned, as it became me to be, at a loss which I regarded as common to us both;
and if I had been with you, I should not have been wanting to you, but should have
openly testified the bitterness of my grief. 'Tis true this is but a poor and
miserable consolation, because those who ought to administer it, I mean our nearest
friends and relations, are almost equally affected with ourselves, nor can they
attempt it without shedding many a tear: so that they appear to be more in want of
comfort themselves than to perform that duty to others. I resolved, however, to set
down in a short letter to you such considerations as occurred to my mind, not because
they can have escaped you, but because I think that your grief has hindered your
attending to them. What reason is there why you should be transported by so
immoderate a grief: consider how fortune has hitherto
dealt with us; consider that we have lost what ought to be dearer to us than our own
offspring, our country, our credit, dignity, and all our honours. This one misfortune
more, how can it increase our misery? Or what mind is there that has been subject to
such distress, but must have now grown callous, and regard every thing else as of
little consequence? Is it for her sake that you grieve? But how often must you have
fallen into that train of thinking into which I often fall, which suggests to me that
those persons are not the most unfortunate at this time who are permitted to exchange
life for death? What is there now which could make her so much regret the loss of
life? What affairs? what [sic] hopes? what [sic] prospects of comfort? Was it that
she might pass her life with some Nobleman of high rank and qualification? And can
you really think that it was in your power, deservedly honored as you are, to choose
out of our present youth, a son-in-law, to whom you might safely commit a child so
dear to you? Or, was it that she might bear children from whose flourishing condition
she might have drawn much pleasure? Who might have enjoyed a large fortune,
transmitted to them from their parents? Who might have been candidates in turn for
the honors of the state; and who might have employed their liberty in the service of
your friends! Alas! which of these blessings was not taken away before she was in a condition to bestow them on others?
But it is a most shocking thing to lose one's children. True, if it were not much
more so to suffer and undergo what we now do. Give me leave to relate to you, what on
a certain occasion afforded me some little comfort, and allow me to hope that it may
have the same effect upon you. Upon my return from Asia, as I sailed from Ægina to
Megara, on my right hand Piræus, on my left Corinth. These cities were at one time
flourishing beyond imagination, but are now desolate and in ruins. Thus I began to
ruminate with myself; alas! do we poor mortals resent it so much, if one of us dies,
or is killed, whose life is of so short a date, when we see in one spot the many
carcases [sic] of so great cities lying before us? Will you not, Servius, check your
grief by recollecting that you are born a man? Believe me I was not a little
comforted by that thought. If you please, therefore, try the power of it on yourself.
It was but lately we saw many famous men perish, a great empire declining and all the
provinces in the utmost distress. And shall the death of one little woman so
grievously afflict you! Who if she had not died now, must in a few years have done
so; for she was born a mortal. Let me beg of you therefore, as much as is in your
power, to call off your mind from brooding over these
subjects, and to turn it rather on such as are worthy of your character; consider,
that she lived as long as it was desirable for her to live; that her fate was joined
to that of her country, that she lived to see her father, Prætor, Consul, and Augur;
had been married to youths of the greatest distinction; had enjoyed all manner of
happiness: and fell at last with the republic. Upon what account can you or she
complain of fortune? Above all, do not forget that you are Cicero, one who is
accustomed to advise and direct others; and do not imitate bad physicians, who in the
disorders of others profess that they are conversant in the art of physic, and are
not able to cure themselves; but rather follow what you recommend to others and keep
it constantly before your eyes. There is no grief which length of time will not
diminish and soften, it is beneath you to wait for that moment, and not to master
your grief, beforehand by your wisdom. But if there be any feeling in the dead, I am
certain that she is very desirous that you should not wear yourself out with grief
for her sake, on account of her filial piety and affection for you. Grant this favor
to her, who is now dead and to the rest of your friends and relations, who sympathise
with you in your grief, grant it also to your country, that, if she be in want of
your assistance, she may be able to make use of your counsel and advice. And last of
all, since we are fallen into such a situation, that we must submit to the present state of things, do not put it in the power of any one
to say, that you grieve less for your daughter, than you do for the misfortunes of
the country and for the victories of her enemies. It does not become me to write to
you any more concerning this affair lest I should appear to distrust your prudence.
Wherefore, when I have mentioned this one piece of advice, I will conclude my letter.
We have seen you bear prosperity in a manner that became you, and acquire great glory
from it; now let us perceive that you can bear adversity with equal fortitude, and
that you are no more oppressed by it than you ought to be: lest this should appear to
be the only virtue you want among so many. But as to what belongs to me, when I
understand that you are a little more composed, I will inform you concerning what
passes here and in what state this province is. Adieu.
[insert scanned image of signature: George P. 1779.]