will at once compare them with some one of the old masters whose rival
indeed he is. You will find even greater charm in the style of his
historical compositions, in its terseness, its lucidity, smoothness,
brilliancy and stateliness, for there is the same vigour in the
historical harangues as there is in his own orations, only rather more
compressed, restricted, and epigrammatic.

Moreover, he writes verses that Catullus or Calvus might have composed.
They are positively brimming over with grace, sweetness, irony and love.
He occasionally, and of set design, interpolates among these smooth and
easy-flowing verses others cast in a more rugged mould, and here again
he is like Catullus and Calvus. A little while ago he read me some
letters which he declared had been written by his wife. I thought, on
hearing them, that they were either Plautus or Terence in prose, and
whether they were composed, as he said, by his wife or by himself, as he
denies, his credit is the same. It belongs to him either as the actual
author of the letters or as the teacher who has made such a polished and
learned lady of his wife--whom he married when she was a girl. So I
pass the whole day in the company of Saturninus. I read him before I
set pen to paper; I read him again after finishing my writing, and again
when I am at leisure. He is always the same but never seems the same.
Let me urge and beg of you to do likewise, for the fact that the author
is still alive ought not to be of any detriment to his works. If he had
been a contemporary of those on whom we have never set eyes, we should
not only be seeking to procure copies of his books but also asking for
busts of him. Why then, as he is still amongst us, should his credit
and popularity dwindle, as though we were tired of him? Surely it is
discreditable and scandalous that we should not give a man the due he
richly deserves, simply because we can see him with our own eyes, speak
to him, hear him, embrace him, and not only praise but love him.