’Yes, but those Romans who mimic my Athenian ancestors do everything so heavily.  Even in the chase they make their slaves carry Plato with them; and whenever the boar is lost, out they take their books and their papyrus, in order not to lose their time too.  When the dancing-girls swim before them in all the blandishment of Persian manners, some drone of a freedman, with a face of stone, reads them a section of Cicero “De Officiis”.  Unskilful pharmacists! pleasure and study are not elements to be thus mixed together, they must be enjoyed separately:  the Romans lose both by this pragmatical affectation of refinement, and prove that they have no souls for either.  Oh, my Clodius, how little your countrymen know of the true versatility of a Pericles, of the true witcheries of an Aspasia!  It was but the other day that I paid a visit to Pliny:  he was sitting in his summer-house writing, while an unfortunate slave played on the tibia.  His nephew (oh! whip me such philosophical coxcombs!) was reading Thucydides’ description of the plague, and nodding his conceited little head in time to the music, while his lips were repeating all the loathsome details of that terrible delineation.  The puppy saw nothing incongruous in learning at the same time a ditty of love and a description of the plague.’

‘Why, they are much the same thing,’ said Clodius.

’So I told him, in excuse for his coxcombry—­but my youth stared me rebukingly in the face, without taking the jest, and answered, that it was only the insensate ear that the music pleased, whereas the book (the description of the plague, mind you!) elevated the heart.  “Ah!” quoth the fat uncle, wheezing, “my boy is quite an Athenian, always mixing the utile with the dulce.”  O Minerva, how I laughed in my sleeve!  While I was there, they came to tell the boy-sophist that his favorite freedman was just dead of a fever.  “Inexorable death!” cried he; “get me my Horace.  How beautifully the sweet poet consoles us for these misfortunes!” Oh, can these men love, my Clodius?  Scarcely even with the senses.  How rarely a Roman has a heart!  He is but the mechanism of genius—­he wants its bones and flesh.’

Though Clodius was secretly a little sore at these remarks on his countrymen, he affected to sympathize with his friend, partly because he was by nature a parasite, and partly because it was the fashion among the dissolute young Romans to affect a little contempt for the very birth which, in reality, made them so arrogant; it was the mode to imitate the Greeks, and yet to laugh at their own clumsy imitation.

Thus conversing, their steps were arrested by a crowd gathered round an open space where three streets met; and, just where the porticoes of a light and graceful temple threw their shade, there stood a young girl, with a flower-basket on her right arm, and a small three-stringed instrument of music in the left hand, to whose low and soft tones she was modulating a wild and half-barbaric air.  At every pause in the music she gracefully waved her flower-basket round, inviting the loiterers to buy; and many a sesterce was showered into the basket, either in compliment to the music or in compassion to the songstress—­for she was blind.