At the head of the epic poets who flourished during the silver age stands Lucan. He was a member of the same family as the Senecas, for the same rhetorician of that name was his grandfather, and the Stoic philosopher his uncle. Another of his uncles, also, L. Junius Gallio, is mentioned in the Eusebian Chronicle as a celebrated rhetorician. This Gallio derived his surname from being the adopted son of Jun. Gallio, who, by some, is supposed to have been the proconsul of Achaia, mentioned in the Acts of the Apostles.[1097]
The father of Lucan, M. Annæus Mela, was a Roman knight, who made a large fortune as a collector of the imperial revenue. He is supposed by some to have been identical with the geographer Pomponius Mela, who was the author of a brief description, in three books, of the coasts of Europe, Asia, and Africa. The style of this writer is concise, as is suitable to a mere sketch or abridgment; and his matter, although derived from other sources, and not from personal observation, is accurate and interesting. The poet was born at Corduba (Cordova,) on the beautiful banks of the Bætis (Guadalquiver.) His birthplace is thus elegantly alluded to by Statius, in a poem addressed to his widow, on the anniversary of his birth:—
Pliny tells us that on his infant lips, as on those of Hesiod, a swarm of bees settled, and thus gave presage of his poetical career; a tale which owes its origin entirely to the Greek tradition. Much which rests upon no foundation has been mixed up with the extant lives of Lucan; for example, the favour shown to him, whilst a child, by Nero; his consequent elevation in his boyhood to the rank of a senator; and his defeat of the emperor in a poetical contest at the quinquennial games, instituted by the latter, in which no one entered with any other view than that their royal antagonist might have the credit of a mock victory.[1098] The enmity of the jealous emperor can be accounted for without having recourse to so insane a competition.
It is probable that Lucan was very young when he came to Rome; that his literary reputation was soon established; and that Nero, who could not bear the idea of a rival, forbade him to recite his poems, which was now the common mode of publication. Nor was he content with silencing him as a poet, but also would not allow him to plead as an advocate.[1099] Smarting under this provocation he hastily joined a conspiracy against the emperor’s life, and signalized himself by the bitterness of his hatred against his powerful enemy. The ringleader of this plot was Piso,[1100] a tragic poet of some talent, a skilful orator, and a munificent man. But he was deficient in decision and infirm of purpose: the plot therefore failed. When Lucan’s passion cooled he as quickly repented, and was pardoned on condition of pointing out his confederates. In the vain hope of saving himself from the monster’s vengeance, he actually impeached his mother. The upright historian contrasts this stain on the poet’s character with the courage which Epicharis displayed. This noble woman was incapable of treason. Tacitus describes the resolution with which she scorned the question.[1101] “The scourge, the flames, the rage of the executioners, who tortured her the more savagely, lest they should be scorned by a woman, were powerless to extort a false confession.” Lucan never received the reward which he purchased by treachery. The warrant for his death was issued, and he caused his veins to be cut asunder. As the stream of his life’s blood flowed away, he repeated from his own poem the description of a soldier expiring from his wounds.[1102] He died in the twenty-seventh year of his age; and the following inscription to his memory has been attributed to Nero:—
The sentiments contained in the Pharsalia, so far as he dared express them, breathe a love of freedom, and an attachment to the old Roman republicanism. Although the imperial patronage which he at first enjoyed, and, perhaps, the better promise of the commencement of Nero’s reign, tempted him to indulge in courtly flattery; still, even at that time, his praises of liberty evidently came from the heart. As the poem proceeds his sentiments become more exalted; his virtuous indignation gradually rises, until it pours forth a torrent of burning satire on the inhuman tyrant. This poem, the only one of his works which survives, is an epic in ten books; its subject, the civil war between Cæsar and Pompey. It bears evident marks of having been left unfinished, and of not having received the last touches from the hand of the author. It was preceded by four other shorter poems—the first on the Death of Hector; the second on the Visit of Orpheus to the Infernal Regions; the third, on the Burning of Rome; the fourth addressed to his wife Polla Argentaria. He also wrote some prose works; and Martial attributes to him some poems on lighter subjects.[1103]
Lucan is an unequal poet: his Pharsalia is defaced with great faults and blemishes; but at the same time it possesses peculiar beauties. Its subject is a noble one and full of historic interest, and is treated with spirit, brilliance, and animation. Its arrangement is that of annals, and therefore it wants the unity of an epic poem: it has not the connectedness of history, because the poet naturally selected only the most striking and romantic incidents; and yet, notwithstanding these defects in the plan, the historical pictures themselves are beautifully drawn. The characters of Cæsar and Pompey, for example, are master-pieces. Again, some passages have neither the dignity of prose nor the melody of poetry; whilst others are scarcely inferior to any written by the best Latin poets. This inequality has caused the great diversity of opinions which have been held by critics respecting the merits of Lucan. Some have unjustly depreciated him; others, as groundlessly, have lauded him to the skies. Quintilian commended his ardent enthusiasm and lucidity of expression,[1104] but qualified his praise by adding, that he would be admired by orators rather than by poets. Corneille preferred him to Virgil, of whom he was obviously a warm admirer. His poem furnishes materials and reason for this diversity of judgment; but it may safely be asserted that his faults are due to the age in which he lived, whilst his beauties were the fruits and developments of his own native genius. His principal merit is originality: although he was not great enough to lead the taste of the age, and to rise superior to its false principles, he did not condescend to be a servile imitator even of those poets whose reputation was firmly established. There are many parallelisms between his poetry and that of Virgil, but they are the parallelisms of a student, not of a plagiarist.
Without adopting the unauthorized assumptions, found in some of his biographies, that he was educated under the immediate superintendence of his uncle Seneca, that Remmius Palæmon taught him grammar, Virginius Flaccus rhetoric, and Cornutus philosophy, it is clear that his taste was formed and his talents drawn out in an age, the characteristics of which were pedantic erudition, inflated rhetoric, and dogmatic philosophy. It is clear, also, that even though Seneca was not his tutor, still the conceit and affectation which dimmed the transcendent abilities of the philosopher, exercised a baneful influence over the literary taste of his contemporaries. In the midst of these influences Lucan was educated, and for that reason his poem is disfigured by commonplace maxims, pompous diction, an affectation of learning, a rhetorical exuberance which outstripped its subjects, and therefore produces the effect of frigidity. In a poem, the characters and events of which are historical, the real is in too strong contrast to the ideal, hence the effect of both is marred. The fidelity expected of the historian circumscribes the creative power of the poet. To the poet who constructs his work out of the materials of epochs which are beyond the reach of history, the whole field of the past is open. The only limits within which he must restrain his genius are those of the probable: within these bounds he may conjure up the most magnificent ideal forms; he may use the most gorgeous imagery, the most supernatural machinery: the whole wears an air of historic truth; as there are no realities with which his ideal can be compared and tested, truth never appears to be violated.
But in history, almost contemporaneous with the age of the poet, every circumstance is recorded, every character well known and estimated. If an act of bravery is exaggerated into one of superhuman heroism, or one who is known to have been a man, although a great man, recast in the heroic mould, we are struck at once with the falsehood: and therefore the poet cannot venture on such efforts of genius. In a train of events, which the page of history enables us to trace from the beginning to the end, no difficulties can occur deserving of supernatural machinery, no dignus vindice nodus; and thus, in the place of the Olympian Pantheon of Homer and Virgil, Lucan can only deify the popular but unpoetical principle of chance, and personify Fortune.
This position may appear inconsistent with the charm which confessedly belongs to the modern historical romance; but then it is to be remembered, that the interest we take in the historical portions is purely historical, enlivened by the events grouping themselves round the hero: in fact, the interest of biography is united with that of history. The strictest accuracy, therefore, in matters which fall within the range of history is perfectly compatible. The romantic interest depends on the inner or social life of the characters—which forms no part of history—in which, as there is no standard of comparison, the imagination of the poet is quite free and unfettered. But this is totally different from the plan on which such a poem as the Pharsalia is constructed. The vision of the genius of Rome which appeared to Cæsar at the fatal Rubicon, those which haunt the slumbers of the Cæsareans in the plundered camp of Pompey, and the dream of Pompey, in which the secrets of the infernal regions are laid open by the shade of his departed wife Julia, are the nearest approaches to that invisible world which the imagination of Homer disclosed, and which Virgil reproduced;[1105] but these are only isolated passages.
It is impossible to be at once an historian and a poet: in the one character the author must restrain the flights of his imagination; in the other, he must sacrifice truth. Nor is there any doubt of which character we demand the conservation, when matters of history are concerned. We desiderate truth: we wish moot points to be settled and doubts solved. All imaginative pictures we look upon as interruptions, and cast them aside as warping the judgment and giving prejudiced views. Hence, our admiration of Lucan is called forth, not by considering his poem as an epic, but for the sake of isolated scenes, such as the naval victory off Marseilles; splendid descriptions, such as that of the cruelties of Marius and Sulla; felicitous comparisons, that, for example, of Pompey to an aged oak; and the epigrammatic terseness which gives force, as well as beauty, to his sayings. In a single line, for instance—
he describes the wealth and avarice of the conqueror, and in the well-known verse—
he depicts the disinterestedness of Cato. To this may be added, that the subject of the Pharsalia is, although a period of the deepest historical interest, ill adapted to poetry. Events so nearly contemporary were fitter for history and panegyric than for poetry; and although they give scope for descriptive power and bold imagery, they are deficient in that mysterious and romantic character which is required for an epic poem. His imagination was rich—his enthusiasm refused to be curbed. They were such as we might suppose would be nurtured by the warm and sunny climate of Spain. His sentiments often exhibit that chivalrous tone which distinguishes the Spanish poets of modern times. We may discern the nobleness, the liberality, the courage, which once marked the high-born Spanish gentleman; and the grave and thoughtful wisdom which makes Spanish literature so rich in proverbs, and which peeps out even from under the unreal conventionalisms of the contemporary Roman philosophy.
Description forms the principal feature in the poetry of Lucan; it occupies more than one half of the Pharsalia; so that it might almost as appropriately be termed a descriptive as an epic poem. Description, in fact, constitutes one of the characteristic features of Roman literature in its decline, because poetry had more than ever become an art, and the epoch one of erudition; and thus a treasure of imagery was stored up suitable for descriptive embellishment. The finest parts of Persius are descriptive: even Martial, brief though his pieces are, delights in it; and facility in this department is the strong point of Silius Italicus, and the sole merit of Valerius Flaccus. Owing to the enthusiasm with which Lucan throws himself into this kind of writing, he abounds in minute detail. He reminds one of the descriptive talent possessed in so eminent a degree by our own Thomson. Not a feature escapes his notice, whether it suggest ideas of the beautiful, the sublime, or the terrible. He is not content, as Virgil is, with a sketch—with broad lights and shadows; he delights in a finished picture; he possesses the power of placing his subject strongly before the eyes, leaving little or nothing for the imagination to supply. He omits no means of attaining descriptive truth;[1106] the inward state of feeling, the character of each passion, is presented, not so much in its moral and psychical as in its physical developments; that which is internal is exhibited in its external symptoms, with the hand of a painter and the skill of the physiognomist. Virgil sketches, Lucan paints; the latter describes physically—the former philosophically. The following passages, which describe the passage of the Rubicon and the death of Pompey, are noble specimens of Lucan’s style:—
C. Silius Italicus was born in the reign of Tiberius, A. D. 25. The place of his birth is unknown. His surname, Italicus, has led some to suppose that he was a native of Italica, in Spain. But it is not probable that, if this were the case, his friend and fellow-courtier Martial, when he compared his eloquence to that of Cicero, and his poetry to that of Virgil,[1107] called him the glory of the Castalian sisters,[1108] and felicitated him on his political honours, would have forgotten to claim him as a countryman. Others, with somewhat more show of reason, have imagined that his birthplace was the city of Corfinium, in Pelignia, which was called Italica,[1109] because it was the head-quarters of the confederates in the social war; whilst Stephens mentions a little town in Sicily, of the same name, which might have been his native place.[1110]
Silius was celebrated as an advocate; but in that age of affected and rhetorical display, a high reputation does not prove that his eloquence, although it might have displayed a similar elegance of language, was more lively and stirring than his poetry. He was consul A. D. 68; an office which was also filled by his son,[1111] and by another member of his family.[1112] He was afterwards proconsul of Asia; the duties of which lucrative office he appears to have performed with credit to himself. He was very wealthy; and, as he grew old, retired from the perils of public life to enjoy his affluence, and the retirement of literary ease in his numerous villas. One cannot be surprised that an orator and a poet especially delighted in the house of Virgil, near Naples, and the Academy of Cicero, of both which he was the fortunate possessor. He lived to the age of seventy-five, and then starved himself to death, because he could not bear the pain of disease. “I have just been informed,” writes Pliny the Younger, to his friend Caninius,[1113] “that Silius Italicus has put an end to his existence by starvation, at his Neapolitan villa. He had an incurable carbuncle, from the annoyance of which he took refuge in death, with a firm and irrevocable constancy. He enjoyed happiness and prosperity to his dying day, if we except the loss of the younger of his two sons; but the elder and superior one survived him in the enjoyment of prosperity, and even of consular rank. The belief that he had voluntarily come forward as a public accuser injured his reputation in the reign of Nero; but, as a friend of Vitellius, his conduct was wise and his behaviour courteous. His career in the proconsulate of Asia was an honourable one, for he washed out the stain of his former activity by a praiseworthy abstinence from public affairs. He had no influence with the great; but then he was safe from envy. All courted him, and were assiduous in paying their respects to him; and as ill health confined him to his bed, his chamber was thronged with visitors, beyond what might have been expected from his rank and station. Whenever he could spare time for writing, he passed it in learned conversation. His poems display elaborate care rather than genius: sometimes he invited criticism by recitations. Yielding to the suggestion of advancing years, he at length retired from Rome, and resided in Campania; nor had the accession of a new emperor (Trajan) power to entice him from his retirement. High praise to the monarch under whose rule he was free to act so!—high praise to him who had courage to use that freedom! His love of virtù caused in him a reprehensible passion for buying: he was the possessor of more than one villa in the same localities; and he so delighted in the newest purchase as to neglect that which he inhabited before. He had a vast collection of books, besides statues and busts, which he not only possessed, but almost worshipped. He kept Virgil’s birthday more religiously than his own, and had more busts of him than any one else, especially at Naples, where he was in the habit of visiting his tomb, as if it were a temple. In this tranquil retirement he exceeded his seventy-fifth year, his constitution being delicate rather than weakly. As he was the last consul made by Nero, so he died the last of those whom he had made. It is also worthy of remark that the consul, in whose year of office Nero died, died the last of Nero’s consuls. When I call this to mind, I feel compassion for human frailty: for what is so brief as the longest span of human life!”
Little interest attaches to the biography of one who owed a life of uninterrupted prosperity to his being the favourite and intimate of two emperors; the one, a blood-thirsty tyrant—the other, a gross sensualist.[1114] His ponderous work survives—the dullest and most tedious poem in the Latin language. Its title is “Punica:” it consists of seventeen books, and contains a history in heroic verse of the second Punic war. The Æneid of Virgil was his model, and the narrative of Livy furnished his materials. Niebuhr states that he read through the whole of his works with great care, and that he was quite convinced that he had taken every thing from Livy, of whose work his is only a paraphrase.[1115] The criticism of Pliny the Younger is, upon the whole, just: “Scribebat carmina majori cura quam ingenio;” for, although it is impossible to read his poem with pleasure as a whole, his versification is harmonious, and will often, in point of smoothness, bear comparison with that of Virgil. The following passage is quoted by C. Barthius as one of the most favourable specimens of his sentiments and style; and Cellarius, whose praise is extravagantly fulsome, gives it the epithet of “Aurea:”—
Some of his episodes, if considered as separate pieces, will repay the trouble of perusal; and the following passage, which Addison thought worthy of translation, may be taken as a fair specimen of his descriptive powers:—
C. Valerius Flaccus flourished in the reign of Vespasian; and, according to an epigram of Martial, in which the poet advises his friend to leave the Muses for the drier but more profitable profession of a pleader, he was born at Patavium[1116] (Padua.) The frequent addition of the surnames Setinus Balbus have caused it to be supposed that he was a native of Setia, in Campania (Sezzo;) but it is impossible to form any satisfactory conjecture as to their signification, and the statement of Martial is too definite to admit of a doubt. Quintilian[1117] asserts that, when he wrote, V. Flaccus had lately died: he was, therefore, probably cut off prematurely about A. D. 88.
His only poem which is extant is entitled “Argonautica,” and is an imitation, and, in some parts, a translation, of the Greek poem of Apollonius Rhodius on the same subject. It is addressed to the Emperor, and in the proëmium he pays a compliment to Domitian on his poetry, and to Titus on his victories over the Jews.
He evidently did not live to complete his original design: even the eighth book is unfinished; and, from the events still remaining to be related, he probably planned an epic poem of the same length as that of Virgil, whose style and versification he endeavoured to imitate. An Italian poet, John Baptista Pius, continued the subject, by an addition to the eighth book, and by subjoining two more, the incidents of which were partly borrowed from Apollonius.
Of his merits Quintilian speaks favourably in the passage already alluded to, and says, that in him literature had sustained a severe loss. The severer criticism of Scaliger is more precise and more judicious:—“Immaturâ morte præreptus acerbum item poëma suum nobis reliquit. Est autem omnino duriusculus, penitus vero nudus Gratiarum comitate.” The defects of the Argonautica are, in fact, rather of a negative than a positive character. There are no glaring faults or blemishes; none of the affectation or rhetorical artifices which belong to the period of the decline. There may be a little occasional hardness, and a few awkward expressions and paraphrases, but there is no bombast to outrage good taste, and no unmetrical cadences to offend the ear. But there is no genius, no inspiration, no thrilling fervour, no thoughts that breathe or words that burn. He never rises above a dead level. Every thing is in accordance with decent and direct propriety. He has some talent as a descriptive poet: his versification is harmonious, and he attains to those superficial excellencies which are found in the prize poem of a pains-taking, ingenious, and well-educated scholar. Virgil was an imitator: that is, his taste, like Roman taste, universally was formed and trained by imitation; but his spirit disdained these trammels, and soared to originality. V. Flaccus is scarcely ever original except when he is commonplace: he imitates Virgil successfully, as far as the outward graces of style are concerned; but in the charm of natural simplicity, he always falls short of his great original.
Towards the middle of the first century of the Christian era,[1118] there arrived at Rome, from Naples, a grammarian, named P. Papinius Statius. He opened a school, and soon became so celebrated as a public instructor, that he became tutor to the young Domitian, whose favour and affection continued after he became emperor. Some of his fame was also founded on gaining, in his boyhood, the prize in many public contests of poetry. Every year between the age of thirteen and nineteen, he is said to have been crowned. These contests were partly of an improvisatorial character; and in an age when public readings and recitations were in vogue, and were the means which poets had of gaining fame and patronage, success of this kind was highly valued. The subject of one of his poems is said to have been the conflagration of the Capitol, during the struggle between the Vitellians and the supporters of Vespasian.[1119] Statius, however, seems to have possessed no higher degree of poetical power than a happy facility in versification, for he died[1120] and left no works which have stood the test of time.
A son, however, inherited poetical talents of the same kind, but of a far higher order than those of his father, and although, for a long time, he was entirely dependent upon his works for the means of living, and, notwithstanding thunders of applause, must starve, unless he can sell his play to the manager Paris,[1121] the sunshine of imperial favour, which his father had enjoyed, shone upon him.[1122] He purchased patronage, however, at the expense of grossly flattering the tyrant. This son, who bore the same name as his father, was the author of the Silvæ, Thebaid, and Achilleid. He was born A. D. 61, and died in the prime of life, A. D. 95, at Naples, his native city. As no interesting particulars are recorded respecting his life, and as he is never mentioned by any classical author except Juvenal,[1123] it is impossible to say how the opinion arose which was entertained by his admirer Dante, and others, that he was in secret a defender of the Christians, and also himself a believer.[1124]
He was a true Italian in the character of his genius. He had a thorough perception of the beauties of nature. His Silvæ are full of truthful pictures. He possessed ready facility in versification, which was surpassed by no poet of classic antiquity except Ovid, and that improvisatorial power for which his countrymen in the present day are so often celebrated. As long as he was content to be a poet on a small scale he was eminently successful. His Sylvæ contain many poetical incidents which might stand by themselves as perfect fugitive pieces,—brief effusions, suggested by statues[1125] and buildings,[1126] verses of compliment[1127] and delicate flattery,[1128] or condolence[1129] or congratulation. It matters not how light or trifling the subject, he can raise it and adorn it. He writes with equal beauty on the tree of his friend Atedius;[1130] the death of a parrot; of the emperor’s lion;[1131] the locks of Flavius Earinus;[1132] the rude freedom of the Saturnalia.[1133] It is in these unpretending poems that we see his natural and unaffected elegance, his harmonious ear, and his truthfulness of perception. But the case is totally different when the subject is above him.[1134] He had neither grasp of mind, nor vigour of imagination, to fit him for the task of an epic poet; and, hence, his great work, the Thebaid, and his other unfinished epic, the Achilleid, are complete failures.
In his minor poems he seems to trust to the natural powers of his genius; he never strains at producing effect, nor is he too solicitous about exact finish and laborious polish. Although not improvisatorial, they partake of that character, and have all its freshness combined with the advantage of written and corrected performances. His thoughts are inspired by his subject; and its reality, which he was capable of appreciating, gives a life to his compositions. But the principal fault in his Silvæ is too great a display of Greek learning. Every page is full of mythological allusions, which sometimes render his graceful verses dry and wearisome, and must have rendered them acceptable to those only who were well versed in Greek literature: they never could have been universally popular. The qualities which recommended his Silvæ do not adorn his epic poetry. His imaginary heroes do not inspire and warm his imagination: he is not affected by their personality in the same way in which he is by the lawns and groves, and sun, and forests, and skies of Italy.
For this deficiency he attempts to compensate by extravagant bombast, totally out of keeping with the action of the poem, and by an attention to the theoretical principles of art, and an elaborate finish which must have cost him many hours of toil. Yet this perseverance is thrown away, and the effect produced by the contrast between the action and essence of the poem, and the language in which it is externally clothed, produces an effect contrary to that which was intended.
He was a skilful draughtsman, a gorgeous colourist, a pleasing landscape-painter, and a diligent student of the rules of art; but his genius could not rise to the highest departments of art—he could not give the mind or the morale to those characters whose external features he was so apt in delineating. He owes the estimation in which he is held as an epic poet not to his absolute but his relative merit. He was the best of the heroic poets of his day. Statius, notwithstanding his defects, was evidently a profound student as well as an admirer of the Homeric poems; and there are two points in which he has proved himself a successful imitator. These are his battles and his similes. His descriptions of the former are stirring and dramatic, and some of his similes will bear comparison with the best Latin specimens of this kind of illustration. When it is remembered that no epic poet has approached more nearly to Homer in the use of the simile than Dante, and that he equals the Greek bard in sublime and picturesque description, it may easily be imagined that these were the qualities in the poems of Statius which especially called forth his admiration.
A few words only are necessary to describe the nature and subject-matter of the poems of Statius. The Silvæ consist of thirty-two separate pieces. They are all hexametrical, with the exception of four in hendecasyllabics,[1135] one in Alcaic,[1136] and one in Sapphic metre.[1137] Each of the five books in which these poems are arranged has a prose dedication to some friend prefixed; the first being addressed to the poet Stella, the common friend of himself and Martial.[1138] The title Silvæ was given to these poems, on account of the very quality which constitutes their especial charm. They are the rude materials of thought, springing up spontaneously in all their wild luxuriance from the rich natural soil of the poet’s imagination, unpruned, untrimmed, ignorant of that cultivated art which an affected and artificial age thought necessary to constitute a finished poem. “Such extemporaneous performances as these,” says Quintilian, “are called Silvæ: the author subsequently re-examines and corrects his effusions.”[1139] The Thebaid is comprised in twelve books, and its subject is the ancient Greek legends respecting the war of the Seven against Thebes. The composition of this work preceded the publication of the Silvæ. Achilleid was intended, doubtless, to embrace all the exploits of Achilles, but only two books were completed.
A paraphrase of the Phænomena of Aratus belongs to this age. It has been ascribed to Germanicus, but its real author was Domitian, who, as well as Nero, wrote verses.[1140] As far as language and versification are concerned, it is not without merit; but the subject is unsuitable to poetry.[1141] Domitian had taste, although his talents did not deserve the adulatory commendations of Quintilian;[1142] but he encouraged learned men: and to his encouragement we owe those distinguished contemporary writers who, for one generation, arrested the downward progress of Roman literature.
The Greek Epigram was originally, as the word implies, simply an inscription. It was therefore short and concise; its metre elegiac, as especially suited to the periodic structure of the sentiment, and its characteristic qualities, terseness and neatness. So long as it retained this character it was free from bitterness; and the principal element of success in this species of composition was tact rather than genius, and a cultivated taste rather than poetical inspiration. Not only were Catullus, Virgil, and Ovid epigrammatists, but some Roman literati, arrived at mediocrity, or even excellence, in epigram, who were not capable of becoming great poets. Julius Cæsar wrote one on Terence, and perhaps the following neatly-turned lines; although they have been ascribed to Augustus and Germanicus:—