ime. Martial was a contemporary of Juvenal, and addressed two or
three of his epigrams to him. His works consisted of fourteen books,
containing altogether more than fifteen hundred of these short poems.

The appearance of such works may be taken as indicative of the condition
of Rome at the time. The calls of business had become more urgent from
the increase of the population and development of commerce, while the
unsatisfactory state of the Government and of foreign affairs kept men's
minds in agitation and suspense. Martial himself observes that those
were no times for poems of any length, and that some of his friends
would not even read his longer pieces, though they never exceeded thirty
lines. The period demanded something light and short--a book which could
be taken up and laid down without any interruption of the narrative. But
the swifter current of affairs had also produced a keener or more active
turn of mind, so that it was necessary not only to be short, but also
pithy. It was not necessary to be humorous, but it was essential to be
concise and interesting, and thus Martial gave to the epigram that
character for point which it has since maintained.

Nothing could be more attractive than allusions to contemporary men,
passing scenes, or novelties of the day, and when we read his works we
seem to be transported by magic into the streets and houses of ancient
Rome. On one page we have the sanguinary scenes of the circus; in
another we see the ladies waving their purple fans, and hear them
toasted in as many glasses as they have letters to their names.

From this kind of gaiety Martial graduates into another--that of
pleasantry. In an epitaph on his barber, he bids the earth lie light
upon him, adding, "It could not be lighter than his artistic hand." From
his censure of bad wit, it is evident that he drew great distinctions
between broad and subtle humour. "Every man," he says, "has not a
_nose_," _i.e._, a keen perception--cannot smell a fault. He is very
seldom guilty of a pun, and says in one place that he has not adopted
verbal tricks, imitating echoes, or making lines which can be read
backwards or forwards.[26] Nor has he any intention to indulge in bitter
reflections; he says,--

"My page injures not those it hates, and no reputation obtained at the
expense of another is pleasing to me. Some versifiers wish publications
which are but darts dipped in the blood of Lycambus to be mine, and
vomit forth t