Complaints are many that you had to feed the homestead in place of it feeding you, and when Martial has given a pleasant picture of a family reaching the gate of Rome with a coachful of the typical produce of the country, he ends by suddenly letting you know that they are not coming in from their country house but are going out to it.  The complaint of the English seaside town that there will be no fish “till the train comes in from London,” is thus a sufficiently old one.  Yet the same Martial supplies another picture, painted with such zest of frank enjoyment that we are at once convinced of its truth.  Some portions of it perhaps admit of translation in the following terms:—­

      Our friend Fundanus’ Baian seat,
      My Bassus, is no pleasance neat,
      Where myrtles trim in idle lines,
      Clipped box, and planes unwed to vines
      Rob of right use the acres wide: 
      ’Tis farm-life true and countrified. 
      In every corner grain is stacked,
      Old wines in fragrant jars are packed: 
      About the farmyard gabbling gander
      And spangled peacock freely wander: 
      With pheasant and flamingo prowl
      Partridge and speckled guinea-fowl: 
      Pigeon and waxen turtle-dove
      Rustle their wings in cotes above. 
      The farm-wife’s apron draws a rout
      Of greedy porkers round about;
      And eagerly the tender lamb
      Waits the filled udder of its dam. 
      With plenteous logs the hearth is bright. 
      The household Gods glow in the light,
      And baby slaves are sprawling round. 
      No town-bred idlers here are found: 
      No cellarer grows pale with sloth,
      No trainer wastes his oil, but both
      Go forth afield and subtly plan
      To snare the greedy ortolan. 
      Meanwhile the garden rings with mirth,
      While townfolk dig the yielding earth: 
      No need for the page-master’s voice;
      The saucy long-haired boys rejoice
      To do the manager’s commands. 
      At morn ’tis not with empty hands
      The country pays its call, but some
      Bring honey in its native comb,
      Or cones of cheese; some think as good
      A sleepy dormouse from the wood;
      And honest tenants’ big girls bring
      Baskets with “mother’s offering.”

The visit to the country in the season of the “mad star” and the scirocco was as necessary to the ancient Roman as is his villeggiatura to the modern.  But there were other seasons when he fled from town.  If to the heat of summer he sought the hills, in the colder he might seek the south of Italy, and in spring or autumn the seaside at various points the mouth of the Tiber to southward of Salerno, might run away from inconvenient business or ceremonies, or through a mere desire to get rest or sleep or change.  He might wish, as Cicero and Pliny did, to get away