“It gives me great pleasure to find you such a reader of my uncle’s works as to wish to have a complete collection of them, and to ask me for the names of them all. I will act as index then, and you shall know the very order in which they were written, for the studious reader likes to know this. The first work of his was a treatise in one volume, ‘On the Use of the Dart by Cavalry;’ this he wrote when in command of one of the cavalry corps of our allied troops. It is drawn up with great care and ingenuity. Next came ‘The Life of Pomponius Secundus,’ in two volumes. Pomponius had a great affection for him, and my uncle thought he owed this tribute to his memory. ‘The History of the Wars in Germany’ was in twenty books, in which he gave an account of all the battles we were engaged in against that nation. A dream he had while serving in the army in Germany first suggested the design of this work to him. He imagined that Drusus Nero, who extended his conquests very far into that country, and there lost his life, appeared to him in his sleep, and entreated him to rescue his memory from oblivion. Next comes a work entitled ‘The Student,’ in three parts, which from their length spread into six volumes: a work in which is discussed the earliest training and subsequent education of the orator. His ‘Questions of Latin Grammar and Style,’ in eight books, was written in the latter part of Nero’s reign, when the tyranny of the times made it dangerous to engage in literary pursuits requiring freedom and elevation of tone. He completed the history which Aufidius Bassus left unfinished, and added to it thirty books. And lastly he has left thirty-seven books on Natural History, a work of great compass and learning, and as full of variety as nature herself. You will wonder how a man as busy as he was could find time to compose so many books, and some of them, too, involving such care and labor. But you will be still more surprised when you hear that he pleaded at the bar for some time, that he died in his fifty-sixth year, and that the intervening time was employed partly in the execution of the highest official duties, and partly in attendance upon those emperors who honored him with their friendship. But he had a quick apprehension, marvellous power of application, and was of an exceedingly wakeful temperament. He always began to study at midnight at the time of the feast of Vulcan, not for the sake of good luck, but for learning’s sake; in winter generally at one in the morning, but never later than two, and often at twelve. He was a most ready sleeper, insomuch that he would sometimes, whilst in the midst of his studies, fall off and then wake up again. Before day-break he used to wait upon Vespasian, who also used his nights for transacting business in, and then proceed to execute the orders he had received. As soon as he returned home, he gave what time was left to study. After a short and light refreshment at noon, agreeably to the good old custom of our ancestors, he would frequently in the summer, if he was disengaged from business, lie down and bask in the sun; during which time some author was read to him, while he took notes and made extracts, for out of every book he read he made extracts; indeed it was a maxim of his, that ‘no book was so bad but some good might be got out of it.’ When this was over, he generally took a cold bath, then some slight refreshment and a little nap. After this, as if it had been a new day, he studied till supper-time, when a book was again read to him, from which he would take down running notes. I remember once when his reader had mis-pronounced a word, one of my uncle’s friends at the table made him go back to where the word was and repeat it; upon which my uncle said to his friend, ‘You understood it, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘Why then,’ said he, ‘did you make him go over it again? We have lost more than ten lines by this interruption.’ Such an economist he was of time! In the summer he used to rise from supper by daylight, and in winter as soon as it was dark: a rule he observed as strictly as if it had been a law of the state. Such was his manner of life amid the bustle and turmoil of the town: but in the country his whole time was devoted to study, except only when in the bath. When I say in the bath I mean while he was in the water, for all the while he was being rubbed and wiped, he was employed either in hearing some book read to him or in dictating himself. In going about anywhere, as though he were disengaged from all other business, he applied his mind wholly to that single pursuit. Always by his side was a short-hand[1] writer, with book and tablets, who, in the winter, wore a particular sort of warm gloves, that the sharpness of the weather might not occasion any interruption to my uncle’s studies: and for the same reason, when in Rome, he was always carried in a chair. I recollect his once taking me to task for walking. ‘You need not,’ he said, ‘lose these hours.’ For he looked upon every hour as lost that was not given to study. Through this extraordinary application he found time to compose the several treatises I have mentioned, besides one hundred and sixty volumes of extracts which he left me in his will, consisting of a kind of common-place, written on both sides, in a very small hand, which renders the collection doubly voluminous. He used himself to tell us that when he was comptroller of the revenue in Spain, he could have sold these manuscripts to Largius Licinus for four hundred thousand sesterces ($16,000), and then the collection was not so extensive as now. When you consider the books he has read, and the volumes he has written, are you not inclined to suspect that he never was engaged in public duties or was ever in the confidence of his prince? On the other hand, when you are told how indefatigable he was in his studies, are you not inclined to wonder that he read and wrote no more than he did? For, on one side, what obstacles would not the business of a court throw in his way? and on the other, what might not such intense application effect? It amuses me when I hear myself called a studious man, who in comparison with him am the merest idler. But why do I mention myself, who am diverted from these pursuits by numberless affairs both public and private? Who among those whose whole lives are devoted to literary pursuits would not blush and feel himself the most confirmed of sluggards by the side of him? I see I have run out my letter farther than I had originally intended, which was only to let you know, as you asked me, what works he had left behind him. But I trust this will be no less acceptable to you than the books themselves, as it may, possibly, not only excite your curiosity to read his works, but also your emulation to copy his example, by some attempts of a similar nature. Farewell.”

In his great work of thirty-seven books upon Natural History—the only one which has come down to us—Pliny has compiled a vast encyclopÆdia of all human knowledge of his time, comprising more than twenty thousand subjects, and necessitating, as he himself states, the perusal of two thousand volumes—almost all of which have perished—the works of five hundred authors, to which he has added countless matters derived from his personal enquiry, experience and observation. Among his enthusiastic admirers in modern times are the eminent naturalists, Cuvier and Buffon. The former in less extravagant but equally appreciative terms accords to Pliny a high place among the writers of classical antiquity. “The work of Pliny,” he says, “is one of the most precious monuments that have come down to us from ancient times, and affords proof of an astonishing amount of erudition in one who was a warrior and a statesman. To appreciate with justice this vast and celebrated composition, it is necessary to regard it in several points of view—with reference to the plan proposed, the facts stated, and the style employed. The plan proposed by the writer is of immense extent—it is his object to write not simply a Natural History in our restricted sense of the term, not an account merely, more or less detailed, of animals, plants, and minerals, but a work which embraces astronomy, physics, geography, agriculture, commerce, medicine, and the fine arts—and all these in addition to natural history properly so called; while at the same time he continually interweaves with his narrative information upon the arts which bear relation to man considered metaphysically, and the history of nations,—so much so indeed, that in many respects this work was the EncyclopÆdia of its age. It was impossible in running over, however cursorily, such a prodigious number of subjects, that the writer should not have made us acquainted with a multitude of facts, which, while remarkable in themselves, are the more precious from the circumstance that at the present day he is the only author extant who relates them. It is to be regretted however that the manner in which he has collected and grouped this mass of matter, has caused it to lose some portion of its value, from his mixture of fable with truth. But if Pliny possesses little merit as a critic, it is far otherwise with his talent as a writer, and the immense treasury which he opens to us of Latin terms and forms of expression: these, from the very abundance of the subjects upon which he treats, render his work one of the richest repositories of the Roman language. Wherever he finds it possible to give expression to general ideas or to philosophical views, his language assumes considerable energy and vivacity, and his thoughts present to us a certain novelty and boldness which tend in a very great degree to relieve the dryness of his enumerations, and, with the majority of his readers, excuse the insufficiency of his scientific indications. He is always noble and serious, full of the love of justice and virtue, detestation of cruelty and baseness, of which he had such frightful instances before his eyes, and contempt for that unbridled luxury which in his time had so deeply corrupted the Roman people. For these great merits Pliny cannot be too highly praised, and despite the faults which we are obliged to admit in him when viewed as a naturalist, we are bound to regard him as one of the most meritorious of the Roman writers, and among those most worthy to be reckoned in the number of the classics who wrote after the reign of Augustus.”

Among the later honors conferred upon Pliny was one which indirectly cost him his life—his appointment by Vespasian, A.D. 74, as prefect of the Roman fleet on the west coast of Italy. Three years later, in the great eruption of Mt. Vesuvius and the destruction of Herculaneum and Pompeii, he met his romantic end in the execution of his duty, the story of which is again graphically told by the younger Pliny in two letters to his friend Tacitus the historian:—

“Your request that I would send you an account of my uncle’s death, in order to transmit a more exact relation of it to posterity, deserves my acknowledgments; for, if this accident shall be celebrated by your pen, the glory of it, I am well assured, will be rendered forever illustrious. And notwithstanding he perished by a misfortune, which, as it involved at the same time a most beautiful country in ruins, and destroyed so many populous cities, seems to promise him an everlasting remembrance notwithstanding he has himself composed many and lasting works; yet I am persuaded, the mentioning of him in your immortal writings, will greatly contribute to render his name immortal. Happy I esteem those to be to whom by provision of the gods has been granted the ability either to do such actions as are worthy of being related or to relate them in a manner worthy of being read. My uncle was at that time with the fleet under his command at Misenum, in the Bay of Naples. On the 24th of August, about one in the afternoon, my mother desired him to observe a cloud which appeared of a very unusual size and shape. He had just taken a turn in the sun, and, after bathing himself in cold water, and making a light luncheon, had gone back to his books: he immediately arose and went out upon a piece of rising ground, where he could get a better sight of this very uncommon appearance. A cloud was ascending from a mountain, afterwards found to be Vesuvius, the appearance of which I cannot more accurately describe than by likening it to that of a pine tree, for it shot up to a great height in the form of a very tall trunk, spreading itself out at the top into a sort of branch. It appeared sometimes bright and sometimes dark and spotted, according as it was either more or less impregnated with earth and cinders.[2] This phenomenon seemed to a man of such learning and research as my uncle extraordinary and worth further looking into. He accordingly ordered a light vessel to be got ready, and gave me leave, if I liked, to accompany him. I preferred to go on with my work; and it so happened that he had himself given me something to write out. Just as he was coming out of the house, tablets in hand, he received a note from Rectina, the wife of Bassus, who was in the utmost alarm at the imminent danger which threatened her; as her villa lay at the foot of Mount Vesuvius, there was no way of escape but by sea; she earnestly entreated him therefore to come to her assistance. So he changed his first intention, and what he had begun from a philosophical, he now carried out in a noble and generous spirit. He ordered the galleys to put to sea, and went himself on board with an intention of assisting not only Rectina, but the several other towns which lay thickly strewn along that beautiful coast. Hastening then to the place from which others were fleeing in the utmost terror, he steered his course direct to the point of danger, and with so much calmness and presence of mind as to be able to make and dictate his observations upon all the phenomena of that dreadful scene. He was now so close to the mountain that the cinders, which grew thicker and hotter the nearer he approached, fell into the ships, together with pumice-stones, and great black pieces of burning rock: they were in danger of getting aground by the sudden retreat of the sea, as well as from the vast fragments which rolled down from the mountain, and obstructed all the shore. Here for a moment he stopped to consider whether or not he should turn back; but when the pilot advised him to do so, he exclaimed, ‘Fortune favors the brave; steer to Pomponianus.’ Pomponianus was at Stabiae (now called Castelamare), separated by a bay, which the sea, after several insensible windings, forms with the shore. He had already sent his baggage on board the ships, for though he was not at that time in actual danger, yet being within sight of it, and extremely near, he determined, if it should in the least increase, to put to sea as soon as the wind, which was blowing dead in-shore, should go down. It was favorable, however, for carrying my uncle to Pomponianus, whom he found in the greatest consternation: he embraced him tenderly, encouraging and urging him to keep his spirits, and, the more effectually to soothe his fears by seeming unconcerned himself, ordered a bath to be got ready, bathed and sat down to supper with great cheerfulness, or at least, what is just as heroic, with every appearance of it. Meanwhile broad flames shone out in several places from Mount Vesuvius, which the darkness of the night contributed to render still brighter and clearer. My uncle, to soothe the apprehensions of his friend, assured him that it was only the burning of the villages, which the country people had abandoned to the flames: after this he retired to rest, and was so little disquieted as to fall into a sound sleep: for his breathing, which, on account of his corpulence, was rather heavy and sonorous, was heard by the attendants outside. The court which led to his apartment was now almost filled with stones and ashes, and if he had continued there any longer, it would have been impossible for him to have made his way out. So he was awakened, and getting up, went to Pomponianus and the rest of his company, who were feeling too anxious to think of sleep. They consulted together whether it would be most prudent to trust to the houses, which now rocked from side to side with frequent and violent concussions as though shaken from their very foundations; or fly to the open fields, where the calcined stones and cinders, though light, fell in such large showers as to threaten destruction. In this choice of dangers they resolved for the fields: but I must say that while the rest of the company were hurried into this resolution by their fears, my uncle embraced it upon cool and deliberate consideration. They tied pillows upon their heads with napkins, and went out, and this was their whole defence against the storm of stones that fell round them. It was now day everywhere else, but there a deeper darkness prevailed than in the thickest night, alleviated, however, in some degree by torches and other lights of various kinds. They thought proper to go farther down upon the shore to see if they might safely put out to sea, but found the waves still running extremely high and boisterous. There my uncle, laying himself down upon a sail-cloth, which was spread for him, called twice for some cold water, which he drank, when immediately the flames, preceded by a strong whiff of sulphur, dispersed the rest of the party, and obliged him to rise. He raised himself up with the assistance of two of his servants, and instantly fell down dead; suffocated, as I conjecture, by the noxious vapor, having always had a weak throat, which was often inflamed. As soon as it was light again, which was not till the third day after this melancholy accident, his body was found untouched and without any marks of violence upon it, in the dress in which he fell, and looking more like a man asleep than dead. During all this time my mother and I were at Misenum. *** After my uncle had left us, I spent the time in my studies until it was the hour for my bath, after which I went to supper, and then fell into a short and uneasy sleep. A trembling of the earth had been noticed for many days before, which did not alarm us much, as this is quite an ordinary occurrence in Campania; but it was so particularly violent that night that it not only shook but actually overturned, as it would seem, everything about us. My mother rushed into my chamber, where she found me rising in order to awaken her. We sat down in the open court of the house, which occupied a small space between the buildings and the sea. As I was at that time but eighteen years of age, I know not whether I should call my behavior, in this dangerous juncture, courage or folly; but I took up Livy, and amused myself turning over that author, and even making extracts from him, as if I had been perfectly at my leisure. Just then, a friend of my uncle’s, who had lately come to him from Spain, joined us, and observing me sitting by my mother with a book in my hand, reproved her for her calmness, and me at the same time for my careless security: nevertheless I went on with my author. Though it was now morning, the light was still exceedingly faint and doubtful; the buildings all around us tottered, and though we stood upon open ground, yet as the place was narrow and confined, it was not possible to remain without imminent danger: we therefore resolved to quit the town. A panic-stricken crowd followed us, and, as to a mind distracted with terror every suggestion seems more prudent than its own, pressed on us in dense array to drive us forward as we came out. When at a convenient distance from the house, we stopped in the midst of a most dangerous and dreadful scene. The chariots, which we had ordered to be drawn out, were so agitated backwards and forwards, though upon the most level ground, that we could not keep them steady, even by supporting them with large stones. The sea seemed to roll back upon itself, and to be driven from its banks by the convulsive motion of the earth; it is certain at least that the shore was considerably enlarged, and several sea animals were left upon it. On the other side, a dreadful black cloud, broken with rapid, zigzag flashes, revealed behind it variously shaped masses of flame: these last were like sheet-lightning, but much larger. Upon this our Spanish friend, whom I mentioned above, addressing himself to my mother with great energy and urgency, said: ‘If your brother be safe, he certainly wishes you may be so too: and if he has perished, it was his desire, no doubt, that you might both survive him: so why do you delay your escape a moment?’ ‘We could never think of our own safety,’ said she, ‘while we are uncertain of his.’ Upon this our friend left us, and withdrew from the danger with the utmost precipitation. Soon afterwards, the cloud began to descend, and cover the sea. It had already surrounded and concealed the island of Capri and the promontory of Misenum. My mother now besought, urged, even commanded me to make my escape at any rate, which, as I was young, I might easily do; as for herself, she said, her age and corpulency rendered all attempts of that sort impossible; however, she would willingly meet death if she could have the satisfaction of seeing that she was not the occasion of mine. But I absolutely refused to leave her, and, taking her by the hand, compelled her to go with me. She complied with great reluctance, and not without many reproaches to herself for retarding my flight. The ashes now began to fall upon us, though in no great quantity. I looked back; a dense, dark mist seemed to be following us, spreading itself over the country like a cloud. ‘Let us turn out of the high-road,’ I said, ‘while we can still see, for fear that, should we fall in the road, we should be pressed to death in the dark, by the crowds that are following us.’ We had scarcely sat down when night came upon us, not such as we have when the sky is cloudy, or when there is no moon, but that of a room when it is shut up, and all the lights put out. You might hear the shrieks of women, the screams of children, and the shouts of men; some calling for their children, others for their parents, others for their husbands, and seeking to recognize each other by the voices that replied; one lamenting his own fate, another that of his family; some wishing to die, from the very fear of dying; some lifting their hands to the gods; but the greater part convinced that there were now no gods at all, and that the final, endless night of which we have heard had come upon the world.[3] Some augmented the real terrors by others imaginary or wilfully invented. I remember some who declared that one part of Misenum had fallen, and that another was on fire; it was false, but they found people to believe them. It now grew rather lighter, which we imagined to be not the forerunner of an approaching burst of flames, as in truth it was, but the return of day: however, the fire fell at a distance from us: then we were immersed again in thick darkness, and a heavy shower of ashes rained upon us, which we were obliged every now and then to stand up to shake off, otherwise we should have been crushed and buried in the heap. I might boast that, during all this scene of horror, not a sigh or expression of fear escaped me, for my support was grounded in that miserable, though mighty consolation, that all mankind were involved in the same calamity, and that I was perishing with the world itself. At last this dreadful darkness was dissipated by degrees, like a cloud or smoke; the real day returned, and even the sun shone out, though with a lurid light, as when an eclipse is coming on. Every object that presented itself to our eyes, now extremely weakened, seemed changed, being covered deep with ashes as with snow. We returned to Misenum, where we refreshed ourselves as well as we could, and passed an anxious night between hope and fear; though with a much larger share of the latter; for the earthquake still continued, and many frenzied persons ran up and down heightening their own and their friends’ calamities by terrible predictions. However, my mother and I, notwithstanding the danger we had passed, and that which still threatened us, had no thoughts of leaving the place, till we could receive some news of my uncle.

“And now, please read this narrative without any view of inserting it in your history, of which it is not in the least worthy; indeed, you must lay it to your own request if my account does not appear worth even the trouble of a letter. Farewell.”

In the preparation of the most interesting parts of Pliny’s Natural History for younger readers, I have had constant recourse for foot-notes to the annotations of those devoted students of Pliny—Cuvier, Bostock, and Ajasson, whose work can rarely be improved upon. The literal rendering of the original Latin text has been closely followed, and in all instances where the author’s statements have proved in the light of modern science to be erroneous (unless evidently preposterous) attention has been called to the fact.

With this volume I reluctantly bring to completion the brief series of classical authors best adapted for the reading of boys and girls, in the preparation of which the greater part of my leisure hours during the past three years has been occupied. Plutarch, Herodotus, Pliny—a trio of illustrious names! Of how many can it be truly said, as of them, the world is wiser and better for their living?

New York City,

July 1, 1885.