Among the dependants were nearly all the genteel unemployed of Rome, including the Grub-Street men of letters, who in those days could make little, if anything, by their books, and who therefore sought the same kind of assistance as did our own literary rank and file in the early eighteenth century.  When we read the authors of the period we are inevitably reminded of Samuel Johnson waiting in the ante-chamber of Lord Chesterfield, and of the flattering dedications of books which were so liberally or illiberally paid for by the recipients of such compliments.  From his little flat, often a single room and practically an attic, in the tenement-house, the client would emerge before daylight, dressed de rigueur in his toga, which was often sadly worn and thin.  He would make his way for a mile or more through the carts, the cattle, an the schoolboys, sometimes in fine weather, sometimes through the rain and cold, when the streets were muddy and slippery, and would climb the hill to his patron’s door, joined perhaps on the way by other citizens bent on the same errand.  Gathering in that open space or vestibule which has already been described, they waited for the janitor to open the door.  If the doorkeeper of Silius was like the generality of his kind, he would take a flunkey’s pleasure in keeping them waiting, and also, except in the case of those who had been wise enough to ease his manners with a “tip,” or who were known to be in special favour, a flunkey’s pleasure in exhibiting his contempt.  Brought into the hall, they stood or sat about and conversed until Silius appeared.  Then, according to an established order of precedence—­which apparently depended on seniority of acquaintance, while again it might be affected by a douceur—­they were presented one by one to the patron.

One must not expect a Roman noble to deign always to remember the names of humble persons—­sometimes he actually did not—­and therefore a slave, known as the “name-caller,” announces each client in turn.  The client says, “Good morning, Sir,” and Silius replies, “Good morning, So-and-So,” or “Good morning, Sir,” or simply “Good morning.”  There is a shaking of hands, or, if the patron is a gracious gentleman and the client is of old standing, Silius may kiss him on the cheek and offer some polite inquiry or remark.  A very haughty person might merely offer his hand to be kissed and perhaps not open his mouth at all, even if he condescended to look at you.  But these habits were hardly so characteristic of our times as of a somewhat later date.

The reception over, the client obtains information as to the movements of his patron during the day.  On the present occasion it appears that Silius himself is to proceed at once to pay his own morning homage to a still higher patron, His Highness Nero, who is at home on the Palatine Hill, and whose levee calls imperatively for the attendance of certain members of the aristocracy.  At the palace there exists