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You must get round the Tiberian librarian; you will have to spend

something on the matter; and when I return to town, I shall

expect to go shares with him. Well, after reading these speeches

I wrote a wretched trifle, destined for drowning or burning. No,

indeed my attempt at writing did not come off at all to-day; the

composition of a hunter or a vintager, whose shouts are echoing

through my chamber, hateful and wearisome as the law-courts. What

have I said? Yes, it was rightly said, for my master is an

orator. I think I have caught cold, whether from walking in

slippers or from writing badly, I do not know. I am always

annoyed with phlegm, but to-day I seem to snivel more than usual.

Well, I will pour oil on my head and go off to sleep. I don't

mean to put one drop in my lamp to-day, so weary am I from riding

and sneezing. Farewell, dearest and most beloved master, whom I

miss, I may say, more than Rome itself.'