"there has been nothing to write about." But at least you might write
and say just that, or you might send me the line with which our
grandfathers used to begin their letters: "All is well if you are well,
for I am well." I should be quite satisfied with so much; for, after
all, it is the heart of a letter. Do you think I am joking? I am
perfectly serious. Pray, let me know of your doings. It makes me feel
downright uneasy to be kept in ignorance. Farewell.


1.XII.--TO CALESTRIUS TIRO.

I have suffered a most grievous loss, if loss is a word that can be
applied to my being bereft of so distinguished a man. Corellius Rufus
is dead, and what makes my grief the more poignant is that he died by
his own act. Such a death is always most lamentable, since neither
natural causes nor Fate can be held responsible for it. When people die
of disease there is a great consolation in the thought that no one could
have prevented it; when they lay violent hands on themselves we feel a
pang which nothing can assuage in the thought that they might have lived
longer. Corellius, it is true, felt driven to take his own life by
Reason--and Reason is always tantamount to Necessity with philosophers--
and yet there were abundant inducements for him to live. His conscience
was stainless, his reputation beyond reproach; he stood high in men's
esteem. Moreover, he had a daughter, a wife, a grandson, and sisters,
and, besides all these relations, many genuine friends. But his battle
against ill-health had been so long and hopeless that all these splendid
rewards of living were outweighed by the reasons that urged him to die.

I have heard him say that he was first attacked by gout in the feet when
he was thirty-three years of age. He had inherited the complaint, for