We have sketches of Jewish activities in Rome during the following years drawn by master hands. In every instance, of course, the picture is drawn with distinct lack of sympathy, but it is none the less valuable on that account. Easily of first importance is the information furnished us by the cleverest of Roman poets, Horace. Quintus Horatius Flaccus was the son of a former slave. His racial origin accordingly may have been found in any corner of the Mediterranean in which we choose to look for it. That fact, however, is of little importance, except that the consciousness of servile ancestry must have largely influenced his personal intercourse, and his patriotism must have been somewhat qualified, despite some vigorously Roman sentiments. Suave, obese, witty, a thoroughly polished gentleman of wide reading and perfect manners, both sensual and shrewdly practical, Horace had early reached the point at which one descants on the merits of frugality and simplicity at the end of a seven-course dinner. His star was in the ascendant. His patron Maecenas was the trusted minister of Augustus; and to Augustus, and not Antony, fell the task of rebuilding the shattered framework of the state. Secure in the possession of every creature comfort, the freedman’s son could loaf and invite his soul. That he did so in exquisite verses is our good fortune, and that he chose to put his shrewd philosophy and criticism of life into the form of sketches that are medleys of scenes, lively chat, satirical attacks, and portraits of types and individuals, makes the period in which he lived and the society in which he moved almost as vivid to us as that depicted in the letters of Cicero. In one of his Satires—“Chats,” as he called them—he tells the story of his encounter with a pushing gentleman, of a type familiar to every age. Horace cannot escape from the infliction of his presence, and miserably succumbing to the inane chatter of the bore, he comes upon his friend Titus Aristius Fuscus. But his hopes in that quarter are doomed to disappointment. “Surely,” says Horace, nudging Fuscus, “you said you had something you wanted to speak to me about in private.” “Yes, yes, I remember,” answers Fuscus, “but we’ll let that go for some more suitable time. To-day’s the thirtieth Sabbath. Why, man, would you want to offend the circumcised Jews?” “I can’t say that I feel any scruples on that score.” “But I do. I haven’t your strength of mind. I’m only a humble citizen. You’ll excuse me. I shall talk over our business at some other time.”