und; that cabbages should be reared in dry
soil; that the forelegs of a doe-hare are choice titbits; that to make a
fowl tender you must plunge it alive into boiling wine and water; that
oysters are best at the new moon; that prawns and snails give zest to
wine; that olive oil should be mixed with pickled tunny roe, chopped
herbs, and saffron. If these prescriptions are observed, he says,
travestying a fine Lucretian line, the diner-out may draw near to and
drink deep from the well-spring of a happy life. By contrast he paints
the character of Ofellus, a farmer, whom he had known when a boy on the
Apulian hills, and had visited in his old age (Sat. II, ii). Deprived of
his estate after Philippi, Ofellus had rented it from its new master,
working on as tenant where he had formerly been lord. "How are we worse
off now?" says the gallant old fellow to his sons. "When I was rich, we
lived on smoked bacon and cabbages, with perhaps a pullet or a kid if
a friend dropped in; our dessert of split figs and raisins grown upon
the farm. Well, we have just the same to-day. What matter that they
called me 'owner' then, that a stranger is called owner now? There is no
such thing as 'owner.' This man turned us out, someone else may turn him
out to-morrow; his heir will do so at any rate when he dies. The farm
was called mine once, it is called his to-day; it can never 'belong' to
anyone except the man who works and uses it. So, my boys, keep stout
hearts, and be ready to meet adversity bravely when it comes."

He lashes the legacy-hunters, who, in a time when disinclination to
marriage had multiplied the number of childless old men, were becoming a
curse to society; gives rules with affected seriousness for angling in a
senior's hoards (Sat. II, v). Be sure you send him game, tell him often
how you love him, address him by his first, what we should call his
Christian, name--that tickles sensitive ears. If he offers you his will,
refuse to read it, but glance sidelong at the line where the names of
legatees are written. Praise his bad verses, shoulder a way for him in
the streets, entreat him to cover up from cold his dear old head, make
up to his housekeeper, flatter him till he bids you stop. Then when he
is dead and you find yourself his heir, shed tears, spend money on his
funeral, bear your honours meekly--and go on to practise upon someone
else. And he throws in a sly story of a testatrix who bequeathed her
money on condition that