It has been a commonplace for centuries that there is much more in Martial than scurrility. Yet to those who do not read him his name is probably still synonymous with a certain type of crude and monotonous jesting: to that extent at least he has been unfortunate. The jests, brilliantly phrased and pointed, are plain enough, but (quite apart from the reasonable assumption that he had to make them or starve) it is not mere wishful thinking which compels his admirers to maintain that the true man is not to be found there. For to many he is one of the most human and companionable of Latin authors, and they return with perennial delight to his descriptions of country life, his friends and amusements, his troubles and disappointments, his whole lively picture of the world of his day. Critics have remarked at length on his perpetual brilliance, his complete mastery of language, and it would be pointless to draw attention once again to the superb craftsmanship and exquisite polish which characterize every line of his best work.

‘No other poet in any language has the same never-failing grace and charm and brilliance, the same arresting ingenuity, an equal facility and finish.’ So Mr. H. W. Garrod in a well-known essay. And it is a verdict from which few will dissent.

For all that, it may be argued that there is still one further aspect of Martial's genius, or character, which has received something less than its rightful share of attention; a quality of mind difficult to define in set terms, but which perhaps may be tentatively described as tenderness; a sensitive and warm sympathy; above all, an almost painful awareness of the swiftly passing beauty of childhood and the bitterness of the death which comes too soon.