Campus Martius, in the bend of the Tiber to the north of the Circus Flaminius, and to have represented a familiar portion of the great Roman park and race-course. In the Circus, also, and in the book-shops, in the hallowed Temple of Capitoline Jupiter at no great distance from the same public resort, as well as in the Promenade and Portico of Pompey the Great, lying to the south of the Campus Martius, and attached to the Theatre of Pompey built by him in his second consulship B.C. 55 (and so now in the height of fashion and novelty), Catullus has sought his friend, but can nowhere get an inkling of him. But for the mention of the book-stalls, we might have passed by the whereabouts of Camerius, as the nature of the poet's inquiries implies that the truant was pleasantly engaged in a congenial flirtation, which he had the good sense to keep to himself. The sequel, however, of the verses of Catullus goes to prove that he was himself alive to the same amusements as his friend, and would have been well pleased to have been of his company. The grievance was that the search proved fruitless. His Alexandrian myth-lore furnishes him half-a-dozen standards of fleetness to which he professes to have attained—Talus, Ladas, Perseus, Pegasus, and the steeds of Rhesus—and yet he has not overtaken Camerius, but had to chew the cud of his disappointment, besides being tired and footsore.
But it would be a mistake to argue systematic frivolity from casual glimpses of days wasted, upon a lively poet's own showing. On the other side of the
