The most important and characteristic feature of Roman social life was the dinner party. Martial accepted the invitations of his patrons as a matter of course, and it is inconceivable that a man of such unrivalled wit and social qualities could have failed to be in constant demand elsewhere. Between the two, he probably saw as much if not more of this side of life than any other man of his time. No wonder he did not live to be seventy-five

in spite of his temperate habits!

Nothing has been added to Roman experience in the methods of giving a dinner. Singing, for example, music, vaudeville, and the like, which some of our wealthy contemporaries are just beginning to discover, were already old when Martial began his career. His own opinion is (ix, 77) that "the best kind of a dinner is the dinner at which no flute player is present." Doubtless there are some in these days who will agree with him.

But of all the persons one met at these large entertainments the best known and the most frequently mentioned is the professional diner-out, the 'dinner-hunter.' One of Juvenal's best satires is devoted to this character. But not even Juvenal can surpass Martial's observation of this specific type of dead-beat. "Some of these people carry off as much food as they can conceal in their napkins. The next day they either eat it themselves or sell it to someone else. They try to make you believe that they don't care to dine out, but this is false. Others, on the contrary, swear that they never dine at home, and this is true,— for two reasons.'

But the Nemesis of the dinner-hunter is the stingy host. The stingy host has many ways of displaying his really remarkable ingenuity. He can blend good and bad wines, he can give a different wine to his guests from that which he drinks himselfthough he sometimes tries to conceal it by giving them poor wine in good bottles. He can allow his guests the privilege of watching him eat mushrooms. Or if he does give them something good he may give them so little of it as to be merely an appetizer. Such, for example, is Mancinus, who set out one poor, little, unprotected boar for no less than thirty hungry men. Or the stingy host never invites a man except when he knows that he has a previous engagement. Again he furnishes handsome

decorations at the expense of the dinner, or he gives a poor dinner and tries to excuse himself by abusing the cook.

You

will observe, however, that these persons are only niggardly with other people. In their own pleasures they are extravagant enough.

The strangest type, however, are those who are too stingy to do anything even for themselves. A curious anomaly, the miser. Here is Calenus, for example. Calenus never became stingy at all until he had inherited a fortune and could affort to be generous. The twin brother of the miser is the spendthrift, and they are both alike in their inability to realize the value of money.

One of the most tedious duties of a client was the necessity of presenting himself at the daily receptions of his patrons. These took place regularly at daylight. On the whole, it was the heaviest burden of Martial's life in Rome. He often complained that his literary work was sadly interfered with by this duty. And there is no real affection in it, he says. Some patrons, for instance, insist upon having all the titles. Nor is there much profit in it. The only ones who get anything are the rich, or those persons who know too much about their patron. And as for the sportula it is so small and so poor that foreign competition for it is quite discouraged. For example, there was my countryman Tuccius (iii,14):—

Poor Tuccius, quite starved at home,
To seek his fortune here in Rome
Came all the way from Spain.

But when he reached the city gate

He heard about the dole,- and straight
Went posting back again.

No one knows better than Martial all the possible varieties of the genus Millionaire. The type which we have recently named the migratory rich is nothing new to him, and his comment is, that "a man who lives everywhere lives nowhere." He knows the sort who cherish a high temper, "because it is cheaper to fly into a passion than it is to give." Another one gives but he never ceases to remind you of the fact. wealthy invalid and recommends, free of charge, one dose of

He knows the

real poverty. Nor does he fail to observe the rich upstart who is forever trying to steal a knight's seat in the theatre or who attempts to get into society by changing a too-significant name. Mus is a small matter-as Horace says, 'ridiculus mus.' But observe what a difference it makes between Cinnamus, the exslave, and Cinna, the patrician.

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Martial devotes more than one caustic epigram to that large class in Rome who lived beyond their means "in ambitiosa paupertate," as his friend Juvenal puts it-eking out what they lack by all sorts of shifts and hypocrisies, the mere counterfeit presentment of wealth in an age of high prices and vulgar ostentation. Most hopeless of all is the semi-respectable person, too indolent to work, too self-indulgent to be independent. "You say you desire to be free [ii,53]. You lie, Maximus, you do not desire it. But if you should desire it this is the way. Give up dining out. Be content with vin ordinaire. Learn to smile at dyspeptic Cinna's golden dinner service. Be satisfied with a toga like mine. Submit to lower your head when you enter your house. If you have such strength of mind as this, you may live more free than the Parthian king."

Nor are the fortune-hunters forgotten (ii, 65): "Why are you so sad?" says Martial to his acquaintance Sollianus. "Why indeed! I have just buried my wife." "Oh great crime of Destiny!" Martial cries with exaggerated sympathy, "Oh heavy chance! To think that Secundilla is dead-and so wealthy too-she left you a million sesterces, didn't she? My brokenhearted friend, I cannot tell you how much I regret that this has happened to you."

No new observations have been made on the various professions since Martial's day and, surely, no classical scholar would venture to guess how long it has been since anything new has been contributed to the theme of lovely woman.

"Diaulus [i, 47] began as a doctor. Then he became an undertaker. Really, a distinction without a difference. In either case he laid us out."

"In the evening Andragorus supped gaily with me. In the morning he was found dead. He must have dreamed that he saw Dr. Hermocrates!"

"The artist [vi, 54] who painted your Venus, must have intended to flatter Minerva." The point of this criticism is seen as soon as we recollect that the only time Menerva ever contended in a beauty-show was on that memorable occasion when Paris was umpire and gave the prize to Venus. Perhaps Martial was justified in his suspicion that if the severe and unapproachable goddess of wisdom was sufficiently human to enter such a contest she was also sufficiently human to enjoy seeing her victorious rival so dreadfully caricatured by the artist.

"All of Fabia's friends [viii, 79] among the women are old and ugly to the last degree. Fabia thoroughly understands the value of background."

To Catulla, fascinating but false, Martial says (viii, 53):

So very fair! And yet so very common?

Would you were plainer! Or a better woman!

Which is really far superior to Congreve's famous song which ends:

Would thou couldst make of me a saint,

Or I of thee a sinner!

Many of Martial's best epigrams may be grouped under the head of character sketches. So many of these men are quite as familiar to us as they were to him eighteen centuries ago.

Here is Cinna (i, 89) who takes you aside with a great air of mystery to tell you that "it is a warm day."

Here is Laurus (ii, 64) who all his life has been intending to do something great but has never been able to decide what it shall be.

We all know Nævolus (iv,83). Nævolus is never polite or affable except when he is in trouble. On the other hand, we also know Postumus (ii, 67). Postumus is the painfully civil person. If he saw you from a merry-go-round he would say "how do you do" every time he passed.

And which one of us has failed to meet Tucca (xii, 94), the Admirable Crichton, the Jack-of-all-trades, the man who knows it all? Tucca always reminds me of the Welsh Giant in my old copy of Jack the Giant-killer. Whenever you have done anything he at once lets you know that "Hur can do that hursel."

Poor Tom Moore, among his titled friends, finds his prototype in Philomusus (vii, 76), of whom Martial says,

Delectas, Philomuse, non amaris,—

["You divert them, Philomusus; you are not an object of their regard."]

Another type is represented by Linus (vii, 95). Linus is the affectionate person with a long beard and a cold nose who never misses the chance of kissing you on a winter's day. "Pray put it off," Martial cries, "put it off, until April!" These kissers, these 'basiatores,' as he calls them, were the poet's bête noire. "You cannot escape them," he complains (xi, 98), "you meet them all the time and everywhere. I might return from Spain, but the thought of the 'basiatores' gives me pause.'

One other familiar type in Rome was also the poet's especial dislike. This was the 'bellus homo,'-the pretty man, the beau. "Pray tell me," he inquires of Cotilus in iii, 63, "what is a 'bellus homo' anyhow?" "A bellus homo," Cotilus replies, "is one who curls his locks and lays them all in place; who always smells of balm, forever smells of cinnamon; who hums the gay ditties of the Nile and the dance music of Cadiz; who throws his smooth arms in various attitudes; who idles away the whole day long among the chairs of the ladies, and is always whispering in someone's ear; reads little billets-doux from this quarter and from that and writes them in return; who avoids ruffling his dress by contact with his neighbor's sleeve; he knows with whom every body is in love; he flutters from entertainment to entertainment; he can give you to the uttermost degree every ancestor of the latest race horse." "That, then, is a bellus homo. In that case, Cotilus, a bellus homo is a monstrously trifling affair.”

Sextus, the money lender (ii, 44), hates to say no but has no intention of saying yes:

Whenever he observes me purchasing

A slave, a cloak, or any such like thing,
Sextus the usurer- a man, you know,

Who's been my friend for twenty years or so,

In fear that I may ask him for a loan,

Thus whispers, to himself, but in a tone