flights of stairs; but, like Horace, he had also his "Sabine farm," the dimensions of which he humorously indicates by informing us that a cucumber could not lie straight on it. Yet the light-hearted poet tickled the public fancy till he had composed not less than 1,500 "Epigrams." Collected in fourteen books they have won universal fame. Martial is a keen satirist as well as a happy epigrammatist. Bores, whether literary or social, were his lawful prey: foibles, eccentricities, or extravagance of dress or manner were the objects of his attacks; and he spared nothing in the shape of affectation or hypocrisy. In his lighter verses, written merely to amuse, are found exquisite flights of fancy, brilliancy of description and graceful elegance. But Martial is censured for gross indecency, and the charge cannot be denied, though the poor excuse may be offered that he only complied with the perverted taste of his age. He himself declared, "Our page is wanton, but our life correct." Martial's domestic life in Rome seems to have been a chronic genteel poverty, though he had the Emperor Domitian as his patron. After thirty-four years, he yearned to revisit the scenes of his youth and taste again the bliss of rural quiet and felicity. His desire was gratified, but he found to his dismay that the magnetism of Roman society still drew him towards the city. He was fortunate enough, however, to secure in marriage the hand of a handsome young Spanish lady, who he says compensated for all. Through his wife's devotion and modest little fortune, he was enabled to end his days in comfort and peace, A.D. 104. ARRIA AND PÆTUS. WHEN from her breast chaste Arria snatched the sword, And gave the deathful weapon to her lord, "My wound," she said, "believe me, does not smart; NOT AT HOME. MAY I not live, but, were it in my power, Two miles I go to see you; and two more Two miles, to see you, give me no great pain: THE PRETTY GENIUS. YES, you're a pretty preacher, sir, we know it; Write pretty novels, are a pretty poet; A pretty critic, and tell fortunes too; CHLOE. I COULD resign that eye of blue, Howe'er its splendor used to thrill me; To lose it, Chloe, scarce would kill me. That snowy neck I ne'er should miss, I think I could exist without it. In short, so well I've learned to fast, That sooth, my love, I know not whether I might not bring myself at last THE ONLY SURE WEALTH. YOUR slave will with your gold abscond, Your debtor will disown his bond, Your farm no crops bestow: equal, or perhaps his superior, except in this, that he himself knew when to take his hand off a picture,-a memorable lesson, which teaches us that over-carefulness may be productive of bad results. His candor too, was equal to his talent; he acknowledged the superiority of Melanthius in his grouping, and of Asclepiodorus in the niceness of his measurements, or, in other words, the distances that ought to be left between the objects represented. A circumstance that happened to him in connection with Protogenes is worthy of notice. The latter was living at Rhodes, when Apelles disembarked there, desirous of seeing the works of a man whom he had hitherto only known by reputation. Accordingly, he repaired at once to the studio; Protogenes was not at home, but there happened to be a large panel upon the easel ready for painting, with an old woman who was left in charge. To his inquiries she made answer, that Protogenes was not at home, and then asked whom she should name as the visitor, "Here he is," was the reply of Apelles, and seizing a brush, he traced with color upon the panel an outline of a singularly minute fineness. Upon his return, the old woman mentioned to Protogenes what had happened. The artist, it is said, upon remarking the delicacy of the touch, instantly exclaimed that Apelles must have been the visitor, for that no other person was capable of executing anything so exquisitely perfect. So saying, he traced within the same outline a still finer outline, but with another color, and then took his departure, with instructions to the woman to show it to the stranger, if he returned, and to let him know that this was the person whom he had come to see. It happened as he anticipated; Apelles returned, and vexed at finding himself thus surpassed, took up another color and drew between both outlines, leaving no possibility of anything finer being executed. Upon seeing this, Protogenes admitted that he was defeated, and at once flew to the harbor to look for his guest. He thought proper, too, to transmit the panel to posterity, just as it was, and it always continued to be held in the highest admiration by all, artists in particular. I am told that it was burnt in the first fire which took place at Cæsar's palace on the Palatine Hill; but in former times I have often stopped to admire it. Upon its vast surface it contained nothing whatever except the three outlines, so remarkably fine as to escape the sight: among the most elaborate works of numerous other artists it had all the appearance of a blank space; and yet by that very fact it attracted the notice of every one, and was held in higher estimation than any other painting there. It was a custom with Apelles, to which he most tenaciously adhered, never to let any day pass, however busy he might be, without exercising himself by tracing some outline or other; a practice which has now passed into a proverb. * It was also a practice with him, when he had completed a work, to exhibit it to the view of the passers-by in some exposed place; while he himself, concealed behind the picture, would listen to the criticisms that were passed upon it; it being his opinion that the judgment of the public was preferable to his own, as being the more discerning of the two. It was under these circumstances, they say, that he was censured by a shoemaker for having represented the shoes with one shoe-string too little. The next day, the shoemaker, quite proud at seeing the former error corrected, thanks to his advice, began to criticize the leg; upon which Apelles, full of indignation, popped his head out, and reminded him that a shoemaker should give no opinion beyond the shoes, a piece of advice which has equally passed into a proverb.† MARTIAL. EPIGRAM, which had long flourished in the Greek language, was thoroughly naturalized in Latin, even before the time of Martial, but to him it chiefly owes its fame. Before his time the word epigram implied nothing more than a brief verse suitable for an inscription, but he added the sting or point, which henceforth became its characteristic. Marcus Valerius Martialis was born at Bilbilis, in Spain, in 43 A.D. He tells us that his parents foolishly gave him a literary education. At Rome he lived in lodgings, up three * Nulla dies sine linea. "No day without a line.” †Ne sutor ultra crepidam. "Let the shoemaker stick to his last." flights of stairs; but, like Horace, he had also his "Sabine farm," the dimensions of which he humorously indicates by informing us that a cucumber could not lie straight on it. Yet the light-hearted poet tickled the public fancy till he had composed not less than 1,500 "Epigrams." Collected in fourteen books they have won universal fame. Martial is a keen satirist as well as a happy epigrammatist. Bores, whether literary or social, were his lawful prey: foibles, eccentricities, or extravagance of dress or manner were the objects of his attacks; and he spared nothing in the shape of affectation or hypocrisy. In his lighter verses, written merely to amuse, are found exquisite flights of fancy, brilliancy of description and graceful elegance. But Martial is censured for gross indecency, and the charge cannot be denied, though the poor excuse may be offered that he only complied with the perverted taste of his age. He himself declared, "Our page is wanton, but our life correct." Martial's domestic life in Rome seems to have been a chronic genteel poverty, though he had the Emperor Domitian as his patron. After thirty-four years, he yearned to revisit the scenes of his youth and taste again the bliss of rural quiet and felicity. His desire was gratified, but he found to his dismay that the magnetism of Roman society still drew him towards the city. He was fortunate enough, however, to secure in marriage the hand of a handsome young Spanish lady, who he says compensated for all. Through his wife's devotion and modest little fortune, he was enabled to end his days in comfort and peace, A.D. 104. ARRIA AND PÆTUS. WHEN from her breast chaste Arria snatched the sword, And gave the deathful weapon to her lord, "My wound," she said, "believe me, does not smart; NOT AT HOME. MAY I not live, but, were it in my power, With thee I'd pass both day and night each hour. |