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Updated: June 10, 2025
He and Statius were indisputably the chief poets of the day. One or other must hold the first place. We have no means of knowing how this quarrel, if quarrel it was, arose. Among Martial's other friends were Quintilian, Valerius Flaccus, and Juvenal.
This remarkable contrast forms the subject of one of Martial's Epigrams, lib. iv. Ep. 44. It is thus rendered by Mr. Addison: "Vesuvius covered with the fruitful vine Here flourished once, and ran with floods of wine. Here Bacchus oft to the cool shades retired, And his own native Nysa less admired. Oft to the mountain's airy tops advanced, The frisking Satyrs on the summit danced.
But then the shortness of his pieces takes away that relief which a longer satire must have, not only for its author's sake, but for purposes of artistic success. He must have read Juvenal with care, and sometimes seems to give a decoction of his satires. It is probable that we do not possess all Martial's poems. It is also possible that many of those we possess under his name are not by him.
The whole face of the wall is a museum of Roman gods, tombs, inscriptions, bas- reliefs: the wreck of Martial's 'Pulcherrima Narbo, the old Roman city, which was demolished by Louis XIII., to build the ugly fortifications of the then new fashion, now antiquated and useless. Take one glance, and walk on, to look at live Nature far more interesting than dead Art.
In the rebuke about the mote in thy brother's eye and the beam in thine own, the first letter in the Latin for eye was carelessly dropped out, and left a word which may be found occasionally in Martial's Epigrams, but not in books of purer Latin and purer ideas.
The few moments that she had passed alone, after Marie-Anne's departure, she had spent in grave reflection. Martial's mind and person pleased her. In him were combined all the qualifications which any ambitious woman would desire in a husband and she decided that he should be her husband.
"One of the fugitives must have fallen," said Martial, quickly, "and was dangerously wounded!" "Upon my word!" exclaimed the Duc de Sairmeuse, "if Baron d'Escorval has broken his neck, I shall be delighted!" Martial's face turned crimson, and he looked searchingly at his father. "I suppose, Monsieur, that you do not mean one word of what you are saying," Martial said, coldly.
Aunt Medea and her niece were too horror-stricken to articulate a word, and for five minutes no sound broke the stillness save Martial's monotonous tread, as he paced up and down the room. At last he paused before his wife. "I have just ordered post-horses. You will excuse me for leaving you here alone. I must go to Sairmeuse at once. I shall not be absent more than a week."
"No!" answered Francois, still listening: "they have just passed our door; they are running downstairs; now they open the kitchen door." "You think so?" "Yes, yes; I know the noise it makes." "Martial's dog keeps on howling," said Amandine; then suddenly she cried, "Francois, brother calls us." "Martial?" "Yes, don't you hear him?"
A dozen soldiers were indeed approaching at the top of their speed. "Ah! I spoke the truth!" exclaimed Maurice. "The coward came, but the gendarmes accompanied him." He bounded back, and breaking his sword over his knee, he hurled the fragments in Martial's face, saying: "Here, miserable wretch!" "Wretch!" repeated Jean and Corporal Bavois, "traitor! coward!"
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