No More Learning

THE DEATH-BED OF LAURA
N°
O POWER of darkness, with ill influence, dared
Within a space so holy to intrude,
Till Death his terrible triumph had declared.
Then hushed was all lament, all fear subd ed;
Each on those beauteous features gazed intent,
And from despair was armed with fortitude.
As a pure flame that not by force is spent,
But faint and fainter softly dies away
Passed gently forth in peace the soul, content;
And as a light of clear and steady ray.
When fails the source from which its brightness flows,
She to the last held on her wonted way.
Pale, was she? no; but white as shrouding snows,
That, when the winds are lulled, fall silently,
She seemed as one o'erwearied to repose.
E'en as in balmy slumbers lapt to lie
(The spirit parted from the form below),
In her appeared what th' unwise term to die;
And Death sate beauteous on her beauteous brow.
XIX-712
Translation of Lady Dacre.


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11378
PETRARCH
"OIMÉ IL BEL VISO! OIMÉ IL SOAVE AGUARDO! »
ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF LAURA
A
LAS! that touching glance, that beauteous face!
Alas! that dignity with sweetness fraught!
Alas! that speech which tamed the wildest thought!
That roused the coward, glory to embrace;
Alas! that smile which in me did encase
The fatal dart, whence here I hope for naught.
Oh! hadst thou earlier our regions sought,
The world had then confessed thy sovereign grace!
In thee I breathed; life's flame was nursed by thee,
For I was thine; and since of thee bereaved,
Each other woe hath lost its venomed sting:
My soul's blest joy! when last thy voice on me
In music fell, my heart sweet hope conceived;
Alas! thy words have sped on zephyrs' wing!
Translation of Miss Wollaston.
"SE LAMENTAR AUGELLI, O VERDI FRONDE»
SHE IS EVER PRESENT TO HIM
I'
F THE the lorn bird complain, or rustling weep
Soft summer airs o'er foliage waving slow,
Or the hoarse brook come murmuring down the steep,
Where on the enameled bank I sit below,
With thoughts of love that bid my numbers flow,-
'Tis then I see her, though in earth she sleep!
Her, formed in heaven! I see, and hear, and know!
Responsive sighing, weeping as I weep:
"Alas! " she pitying says, «< ere yet the hour,
Why hurry life away with swifter flight?
Why from thy eyes this flood of sorrow pour?
No longer mourn my fate! through death my days
Become eternal! to eternal light
These eyes, which seemed in darkness closed, I raise! "
Translation of Lady Dacre.


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PETRARCH
11379
"ALMA FELICE, CHE SOVENTE TORNI»
HE THANKS HER THAT FROM TIME TO TIME SHE RETURNS TO CONSOLE
HIM WITH HER PRESENCE
WHE
HEN welcome slumber locks my torpid frame,
I see thy spirit in the midnight dream;
Thine eyes that still in living lustre beam:
In all but frail mortality the same.
Ah! then, from earth and all its sorrows free,
Methinks I meet thee in each former scene,
Once the sweet shelter of a heart serene;
Now vocal only while I weep for thee.
For thee! -ah, no! From human ills secure,
Thy hallowed soul exults in endless day,
'Tis I who linger on the toilsome way.
No balm relieves the anguish I endure,
Save the fond feeble hope that thou art near
To soothe my sufferings with an angel's tear.
Translation of Anne Bannerman.
"I HO PIEN DI SOSPIR QUEST' AER TUTTO»
VAUCLUSE HAS BECOME TO HIM A SCENE OF PAIN
NO EVERY Sound, save sighs, this air is mute,
T
When from rude rocks I view the smiling land
Where she was born, who held my life in hand
From its first bud till blossoms turned to fruit.
To heaven she's gone, and I left destitute
To mourn her loss, and cast around in pain
These wearied eyes, which, seeking her in vain
Where'er they turn, o'erflow with grief acute;
There's not a root or stone amongst these hills,
Nor branch nor verdant leaf 'midst these soft glades,
Nor in the valley flowery herbage grows,
Nor liquid drop the sparkling fount distils,
Nor savage beast that shelters in these shades,
But knows how sharp my grief-how deep my woes.
Translation of Mrs. Wrottesley.


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11380
PETRARCH
«PASSATO È 'L TEMPO OMAI, LASSO! CHE TANTO »
HIS ONLY DESIRE IS AGAIN TO BE WITH HER
Α'
H! GONE for ever are the happy years
That soothed my soul amid love's fiercest fire,
And she for whom I wept and tuned my lyre
Has gone, alas! —but left my lyre, my tears:
Gone is the face, whose holy look endears;
But in my heart, ere yet it did retire,
Left the sweet radiance of its eyes entire ;
My heart? Ah, no! not mine! for to the spheres
Of light she bore it captive, soaring high,
In angel robe triumphant, and now stands
Crowned with the laurel wreath of chastity:
Oh, could I throw aside these earthly bands
That tie me down where wretched mortals sigh,
To join blest spirits in celestial lands!
Ο
Translation of Dr. Morehead.
"SENTO L' AURA MIA ANTICA, E I DOLCI COLLI»
HE REVISITS VAUCLUSE
NCE more, ye balmy gales, I feel you blow;
Again, sweet hills, I mark the morning beams
Gild your green summits; while your silver streams
Through vales of fragrance undulating flow.
But you, ye dreams of bliss, no longer here
Give life and beauty to the glowing scene;
For stern remembrance stands where you have been,
And blasts the verdure of the blooming year.
O Laura! Laura! in the dust with thee,
Would I could find a refuge from despair!
Is this thy boasted triumph, Love, to tear
A heart thy coward malice dares not free;
And bid it live, while every hope is fled,
To weep among the ashes of the dead?
Translation of Anne Bannerman.


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PETRARCH
11381
«E' MI PAR D'OR IN ORA UDIRE IL MESSO»
HE FEELS THAT THE DAY OF THEIR REUNION IS AT HAND
ETHINKS from hour to hour her voice I hear;
Μ
My Lady calls me! I would fain obey:
Within, without, I feel myself decay;
And am so altered not with many a year-
That to myself a stranger I appear;
All my old usual life is put away.
Could I but know how long I have to stay!
Grant, Heaven, the long-wished summons may be near!
Oh, blest the day when from this earthly jail
I shall be freed; when burst and broken lies
This mortal guise, so heavy yet so frail;
When from this black night my saved spirit flies,
Soaring up, up, above the bright serene,
Where with my Lord my Lady shall be seen.
Translation of Major Macgregor.
-
«SOLO E PENSOSO I PIÙ DESERTI CAMPI»
HE SEEKS SOLITUDE, BUT LOVE FOLLOWS HIM EVERYWHERE
LONE, and lost in thought, the desert glade
A
Measuring, I roam with ling'ring steps and slow;
And still a watchful glance around me throw,
Anxious to shun the print of human tread:
No other means I find, no surer aid
From the world's prying eye to hide my woe:
So well my wild disordered gestures show,
And love-lorn looks, the fire within me bred,
That well I deem each mountain, wood, and plain,
And river, knows what I from man conceal,-
What dreary hues my life's fond prospects dim.
Yet whate'er wild or savage paths I've ta'en,
Where'er I wander, Love attends me still,
Soft whisp'ring to my soul, and I to him.
Translation Anonymous: Oxford, 1795.


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11382
PETRARCH
PADRE DEL CIEL, DOPO I PERDUTI GIORNI »
CONSCIOUS OF HIS FOLLY, HE PRAYS GOD TO TURN HIM TO A BETTER
LIFE
ATHER of heaven! after days misspent,
FATH
After the nights of wild tumultuous thought,
In that fierce passion's strong entanglement,
One, for my peace too lovely fair, had wrought:
Vouchsafe that by thy grace, my spirit, bent
On nobler aims, to holier ways be brought;
That so my Foe, spreading with dark intent
His mortal snares, be foiled, and held at naught.
E'en now th' eleventh year its course fulfills,
That I have bowed me to the tyranny
Relentless most to fealty most tried.
Have mercy, Lord! on my unworthy ills;
Fix all my thoughts in contemplation high,-
How on the cross this day a Savior died.
-
WHO
Translation of Lady Dacre.
«CHI VUOL VEDER QUANTUNQUE PUÒ NATURA»
WHOEVER BEHOLDS HER MUST ADMIT THAT HIS PRAISES CANNOT REACH
HER PERFECTION
нO wishes to behold the utmost might
Of heaven and nature, on her let him gaze,-
Sole sun, not only in my partial lays,
But to the dark world, blind to virtue's light!
And let him haste to view: for death in spite
The guilty leaves, and on the virtuous preys;
For this loved angel heaven impatient stays;
And mortal charms are transient as they're bright!
Here shall he see, if timely he arrive,
Virtue and beauty, royalty of mind,
In one blest union joined. Then shall he say
That vainly my weak rhymes to praise her strive,
Whose dazzling beams have struck my genius blind;
He must forever weep if he delay!
Translation of Lord Charlemont.
1


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PETRARCH
11383
«NÈ MAI PIETOSA MADRE AL CARO FIGLIO »
HER COUNSEL ALONE AFFORDS HIM RELIEF
NE
E'ER to the son in whom her age is blest,
The anxious mother, nor to her loved lord
The wedded dame, impending ill to ward,-
With careful sighs so faithful counsel pressed,
As she who, from her high eternal rest,
Bending as though my exile she deplored,
With all her wonted tenderness restored,
And softer pity on her brow impressed!
Now with a mother's fears, and now as one
-
Who loves with chaste affection, in her speech
She points what to pursue and what to shun!
Our years retracing of long, various grief,
Wooing my soul at higher good to reach,
And while she speaks, my bosom finds relief!
Translation of Lady Dacre.
«QUI REPOSAN QUEI CASTE E FELICI OSSA»
SONNET FOUND IN LAURA'S TOMB
H
ERE now repose those chaste, those blest remains
Of that most gentle spirit, sole in earth!
Harsh monumental stone, that here confinest
True honor, fame, and beauty, all o'erthrown!
Death has destroyed that Laurel green, and torn
Its tender roots; and all the noble meed
Of my long warfare, passing (if aright
My melancholy reckoning holds) four lustres.
O happy plant! Avignon's favored soil.
Has seen thee spring and die; - and here with thee
Thy poet's pen, and Muse, and genius lie.
O lovely beauteous limbs! O vivid fire,
That even in death hast power to melt the soul!
Heaven be thy portion, peace with God on high!
Translation of Lord Woodhouselee.


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11384
PETRONIUS ARBITER
(FIRST CENTURY A. D. : DIED 66)
BY HARRIET WATERS PRESTON
N THE solemn last book of the fragmentary Annals of Taci-
tus, where the historian is enumerating the distinguished
victims of Nero's tyranny, he pauses for a moment before
one gallant figure, of which the smiling, dauntless, almost insolent
grace appears to discountenance and half confute the sombre vehe-
mence of his own righteous wrath.
It
"But about Gaius Petronius," he says, "a word more is necessary.
had been the habit of this man to sleep in the daytime, reserving the night
hours both for the duties and the delights of life.
Others win fame by industry; he won his by
indolence. Yet it was not as a roysterer, or a
debauchee, that he was renowned, like the com-
mon herd of spendthrifts, but for being pro-
foundly versed in the art of luxury. Free of
speech, prompt in action, and ostentatiously care-
less of consequences, he nevertheless charmed by
a complete absence of affectation. Yet when he
was proconsul in Bithynia, and afterward as con-
sul, he showed great vigor and ability in affairs.
Returning then to his vices,-or to his affecta-
tion of vice,- he was received into the small
circle of Nero's intimates as arbiter, or final
authority in matters of taste. Nothing was con-
sidered truly elegant and refined until Petronius
had given it his sanction. All this excited the
jealousy of Tigellinus, who scented a rival, and one more accomplished than
himself in the proper lore of the voluptuary. He therefore began appealing to
the emperor's cruelty, which was stronger in him than any other sentiment;
accused Petronius of complicity with Scævinus, had him indicted, seized and
imprisoned the greater part of his household, suborned a slave to testify
against him, bought off the defense. Meanwhile Cæsar had gone into Cam-
pania; but Petronius, who was to have followed him, was arrested at Cumæ,
and preferred himself to put an end to all uncertainty. Yet he showed no
unseemly hurry even about taking his own life. When his veins had been
once opened, he ordered them bound up again for a little and talked with his
friends cheerfully and lightly,- not in the least as though wishing to impress

PETRONIUS ARBITER


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PETRONIUS ARBITER
11385
them by his fortitude. Verses were improvised, and merry songs were sung.
He was ready to listen to anything and everything except philosophical max-
ims and discourse on the immortality of the soul. To some of his slaves
he gave largess, and to some he gave lashes. Finally he lay down upon a
couch, and composed himself to sleep, as though preferring that his compul-
sory end should appear an accidental one. He had not, however, like many
of the victims of that period, devoted his last will and testament to the adula-
tion of Nero and Tigellinus. On the contrary, he drew up an arraignment of
the Emperor, detailing all his adulteries and ingenious atrocities, and giving
the names of those whom he had destroyed, both men and women; which
document he sealed and dispatched to Nero. He then broke his seal-ring,
that it might bring no one else into trouble. »
Except for what remains of his own writing, and for casual and
unimportant allusions by the elder Pliny, Macrobius, and one or two
other ancient writers, this is literally all we know of Nero's arbiter
elegantiæ; but seldom have a character and a career been condensed
into fewer and more telling words. The whole man is there, as
truly as in the highly elaborated recent portrait by Henryk Sien-
kiewicz, in 'Quo Vadis. ' We see and know him in all his native
amiability and perfect breeding, his keen insight, quiet daring, and
immense reserve of power; his irresistible gayety and careless fasci-
nation. But even without the help of the stern yet candid analysis
of Tacitus, we almost think we could have divined the same inter-
esting personality from the disjointed fragments of Petronius's own
book. Even where the matter of the story it tells is coarsest, the
narrator's accent is so refined, his touch so light, above all, his
humor is at once so droll and so delightfully indulgent and humane,
- that we cannot help separating the man from his work. We feel
as if he had the magic art of keeping his own fine toga to some
extent unsmirched by the filth amid which he treads; and as if it
were quite deliberately, and with a motive not base, and even less
unkindly, that he holds his artistic silver mirror up to the festering
waste of common Roman nature.
-
The
Satiricon,' or 'Satirorum Liber Petronii Arbitri,' contained
originally or was apparently to have contained-some twenty books,
of which we only possess parts of the fifteenth and sixteenth, and a
few more disconnected passages. The species of satire was that
known as Menippean, or prose interspersed with bits of verse. In the
language of our day, the works would be called a novel of manners
and adventure. And what manners! what adventures! Over and over
again we turn away in disgust, but the irresistible accents of the
narrator win us back. "Come, come," he seems to say, "nothing
human is alien! Squeamishness- pardon me! -is often a mere lack
of nerve! These curious, wallowing folk are, after all, our next of


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PETRONIUS ARBITER
kin. Do not let us commit the unpardonable vulgarity of being
ashamed of our relations! And then-they are so deliciously droll! *
So he pursues his theme with all the verve of Dumas père, and all
but the unerring discernment and dramatic power of Shakespeare.
The freedman Eucolpius is relating his adventures, and those of
his friend Ascyltos, by sea and land. They appear, when we abruptly
make their acquaintance, already to have traveled far and seen much.
In the fifth century we come upon traces of them at Marseilles, in
the writings of a no less worthy author than Sidonius Apollinaris,-
but just where we pick them up they are living by their abundant
wits among the semi-Greek cities of southern Italy; chiefly perhaps
at Cumæ. The best and most complete episode they have to offer
us is that of a stupendous feast, given by an enormously rich and
ignorant parvenu named Trimalchio. The invitations have been so
general that our two ne'er-do-weels find it easy to be included. The
clumsy ceremonial and sumptuous hideosity of the house of entertain-
ment are minutely and conscientiously described, the costly serving
of impossible viands, the persons of the host and of his wife Fortu-
nata, with the ineffably queer contrast between their naïve grossness
and their æsthetic affectations, their good temper and bad taste.
Then we have the motley assemblage of guests, who, when Trimal-
chio leaves the table for a few minutes, all break out into uproarious
talk. They have had just wine enough to reveal themselves without
stint or shame. Two, a trifle more maudlin than the rest, solemnly
discuss the folly and danger of too frequent baths. A morose old
fellow interrupts them to bemoan the degeneracy of the times, the
frightful decay of religion,-above all, the high cost of living. He
will tell anybody who will listen to him, how cheap bread used to
be, and how big the loaves when a certain Safinius was Ædile. After
Trimalchio comes back, he makes a pompous attempt at turning the
conversation to higher themes. He has heard that literature and art
are the proper things to discuss at banquets, and he calls attention
to the splendor of his own table ware, and repeats what they used to
tell him at school about Homer. His elderly spouse, Fortunata, who
has had a little too much wine since she joined the company at des-
sert, now obliges them with a dance; after which the fun becomes
fast and furious, and unutterable anecdotes are in order. Trimalchio
himself tells a ghost story; then, lapsing into a sentimental mood, he
begins to recite his own last will and testament, and is so overcome
by the generosity of his own posthumous provisions that he bursts
into tears, and blubbers out an epitaph which begins, "Here lies
Gaius Pompeius Trimalchio, the new Mæcenas," and closes with the
touching words, "He left thirty million sesterces, and never attended
a course of Philosophy. Stranger, go thou and do likewise! "
―――


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The wit, spirit, and dramatic life of the whole scene are wonder-
ful; the satire on the high life of the day and its frantic luxury is
audacious and merciless. So hearty, infectious, and in the main,
wholesome a laugh is not to be found elsewhere in all the Latin
classics; not even in Horace, or Terence, or the gayest letters of
Cicero. If, as appears likely enough, Tigellinus himself was glanced
at in the demurely detailed solecisms and ineptitudes of Trimalchio
at table, we really cannot wonder that Petronius's life was forfeit.
All other and graver injuries would be light to a man of that de-
scription, beside the doom of being made supremely and eternally
ridiculous.
Each one of the heterogeneous mob at Trimalchio's table is made
to speak his own proper and inevitable dialect. Eucolpius, the hero,
talks the cultivated Latin of his day-the Latin of a man who also
knows Greek. But rustic and otherwise vulgar idioms come naturally
to the lips of other guests; and there is a spice of racy old Roman
slang of the sort, no doubt, over which Cicero and his friend Papir-
ius Pætus used to chuckle in their soixantaine, and which diverted
them as the most polished Greek epigram could not do.
The friends manage to slip away during the emotion occasioned
by Trimalchio's epitaph, and resume their vagrant life. Presently
they have a furious quarrel, and after they have parted company,
Eucolpius, while wandering disconsolately through a richly frescoed
portico in a certain seaside town, falls in with a fat and unappre-
ciated poet named Eumolpus, who is also a great connoisseur in art,
and explains the paintings. These two join fortunes in their turn,
and finally arrive together at Cortona, "the most ancient town in
Italy," the manners and customs of whose citizens are described with
an elaborate irony, of which, amusing as it is, we suspect that we
do not appreciate quite all the delicate malice. Eumolpus, who has
written long poems, both on the 'Capture of Troy' and the 'Civil
War,' is lavish of recitations from these neglected masterpieces: and
his poetry is by no means bad; though in the midst of its most
serious and dignified passages, the reader is liable to be irresistibly
tickled by a sly touch of irreverent Virgilian parody.
The MS. of the Cena Trimalchionis' was first discovered in a
convent at Trau in Dalmatia, in 1650, and published at Padua four
years later.
It has been several times translated; and considering
the obvious affinities between Petronius and the more polished repre-
sentatives of "l'esprit Gaulois," one would have expected the French
translations to be the best of all. But the most noteworthy and
complete of these, by Héguin de Guerle of the Academy of Lyons,
is weakened by excessive diffuseness; and is not to be compared in
point, pith, and color, with a German version by Heinrich Merkens,


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PETRONIUS ARBITER
published — strange to say, without any paraphernalia of notes or
parade of scholarship-at Jena in 1876.
Besides the fragments of the 'Satiricon,' there are a good many
others, both in prose and verse,- some of the latter very charming,-
which are attributed with reasonable if not absolute certainty to
Petronius Arbiter. One thinks at times with an impatience border-
ing on exasperation of all the lost books of the 'Satiricon,' and of
what they might have told us concerning the habits and humors of
the dead and gone Romans; but the rigid moralist will be apt to
consider that what we have is enough.
Harmet Mac's Preston
THE ADVENTURE OF THE CLOAK
"But,"
A
SCYLTOS wished to push on to Naples that very day.
say I, "it is most imprudent to go to a place where we
may be sure close search will be made for us. Let us
rather keep clear of the city, and travel about for a few days;
we have enough money to do it comfortably. " He falls in with
my plan, and we set out for a town, charmingly situated among
smiling fields, where not a few of our friends were enjoying the
pleasures of the season. Hardly however had we accomplished half
our journey, when bucketfuls of rain began to fall from a great
cloud, and we fled for refuge to a wayside inn, where we found
many others in like plight with ourselves. The crowd prevented
our being watched; and so we examined with curious eyes to
see what theft stood easiest to our hands, and presently Ascyltos
picked up a little sack which proved to contain many gold pieces.
Rejoicing that our first omen should be so lucky, but afraid that
the bag might be missed, we slipped out by the back door. Here
we saw a groom saddling some horses, who presently entered the
house in search of something he had forgotten; and during his
absence I undid the cords, and made off with a gorgeous cloak
which was bound to one of the saddles. Then skirting the stable
walls, we took refuge in a wood hard by. Safe in its recesses,
we had a great discussion as to the best disposition of our
treasure, that we might not excite any suspicion either of being
thieves or of possessing valuables. Finally we determined to sew
the money into the lining of a worn mantle, which I then threw
I


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11389
over my shoulders, while Ascyltos took charge of the cloak; and
we planned to make our way by unfrequented roads to the city.
But just as we were getting out of the forest, we heard on our
left: "They won't escape: they went into the wood.
Split up
the party and make a thorough search. In this way we shall
catch them easily. " When we heard this we were so frightened
that Ascyltos plunged off through the briers toward town, while
I rushed back into the wood at such a pace that the precious
mantle fell from my shoulders without my knowing it. Worn out
at last, and incapable of walking a step further, I threw myself
down in the shade of a tree, and then noticed for the first time
that my mantle was gone. Grief restored my strength; and ris-
ing, I set about recovering my treasure.
After a long and fruit-
less search, overcome by fatigue and sorrow, I found myself in
a deep thicket, where for four hours, melancholy and alone, I
stayed amid the horrid shades. When I had at last resolved to
leave this place, on a sudden I came face to face with a peasant.
Then in truth I had need of all my firmness; nor did it fail
I went boldly up to him, and asked him the way to the
city, declaring that I was lost in the forest. My appearance
roused his compassion, for I was pale as death and covered with
mud; and after asking if I had seen any one in the wood, and
receiving a negative answer, he obligingly put me on the high-
road, where he met two of his friends, who reported that they
had scoured every forest-path and found nothing but the mantle,
which they displayed. I had not sufficient audacity to claim it as
mine, you may easily believe, though I knew it well enough and
its value; but how I regretted it and sighed for the loss of my
fortune! The peasants, however, suspected nothing, and with
ever more and more lagging footsteps I pursued my way.
me.
It was late when I reached the city; and there at the first
inn I found Ascyltos lying, half dead with fatigue, on a miser-
able pallet. I let myself fall on another bed, and couldn't utter
a single word. Greatly disturbed at not seeing my mantle, he
demanded it of me in the most peremptory tones. I was too
weak to articulate, and a melancholy glance was my only answer.
Later, when my strength returned, I unfolded our misfortune to
Ascyltos. He thought I was joking; and in spite of my tears
and solemn protestations, did not entirely lay aside his suspicions,
but seemed inclined to think that I wanted to cheat him out of
the money.
This distressed me; and still more the consciousness


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PETRONIUS ARBITER
that the police were on our tracks. When I spoke of this to
Ascyltos, he took it lightly enough, because he had escaped from
their clutches before. He assured me that we were perfectly
safe, as we had no acquaintances, and no one had seen us. Yet
we would have liked to feign illness, and keep to our bedroom;
but our money was gone, and we had to set out sooner than we
had planned, and under the pressure of need sell some of our
garments.
As night was closing in, we came to a market-place where
we saw a quantity of things on sale, not valuable in truth, and
of which the ownership was so questionable that night was surely
the best time to dispose of them. We too had brought the
stolen cloak; and finding the opportunity so favorable, we took up
our stand in a corner, and unfolded an edge of the garment, in
the hope that its splendor might attract a purchaser. In a few
minutes up comes a peasant well known to me by sight, with a
young woman alongside, and begins to examine the cloak care-
fully. On his part Ascyltos cast a glance towards the shoulders
of the rustic, and stood spell-bound; for he saw it was the very
man who had picked up my mantle in the forest, neither more
nor less.
But Ascyltos could not believe his eyes; and to make
sure, under pretext of drawing the would-be purchaser towards
him, he drew the mantle from his shoulders and fingered it care-
fully.
Oh, wonderful irony of fortune! the peasant had never felt
the seams, and was ready to sell it for a mere mass of rags,
which a beggar would scorn. As soon
as he had made sure
that our deposit was intact, Ascyltos, after surveying the man,
drew me to one side and-"Learn, brother," said he, "that the
treasure for which I lamented is restored to us. That is the
very mantle and the money in it, to the best of my belief. Now
what are we to do to get it back? " I was delighted, not only
because I saw the plunder, but because fortune had cleared me
of so base a suspicion. I wanted no beating about the bush, but
a straightforward appeal to justice; and should the man refuse
to give up another's property on demand, his summons to court.
But Ascyltos stood in dread of the law. "Who knows us
here," said he, "or who would believe what we said? Better
buy it, since we know its value, even though it be ours already,
than get into court. We shall get it cheap.


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PETRONIUS ARBITER
11391
"What is the use of laws, where our lady Money sits queen, or
Where a man who is poor never has right on his side?
Round their frugal board the philosophers mourn at such fashions,
Yet they too have been found selling their speeches for gold.
So the judges' rights are reduced to a tariff of prices;
Knights, when they sit on the bench, prove that the case has
been bought. ""
But save for one small coin, with which we had meant to buy
pease and beans, we were penniless. So not to lose our hold,
nor run the risk of letting slip the better bargain, we came down
in the price of the cloak As soon as we had unfolded our mer-
chandise, the woman, who with covered head had been stand-
ing at the peasant's side, grasped the garment with both hands,
screaming at the top of her voice that she had caught her thieves.
In response, for the sake of doing something, though we were
horribly frightened, we seized the torn and dirty mantle, and with
equal energy announced that it was our property. But our case
was weaker than theirs by far, and the crowd, which ran up at the
noise, enjoyed a hearty laugh at our expense; seeing that the oth-
ers were claiming a splendid garment, and we one that was dirty
and covered with patches. When they had had their laugh out,
Ascyltos said, "You see a man loves his own best: let them give
us back our mantle and take their cloak. " This bargain suited
both the peasant and the woman; but up came two sheriffs — two
night-hawks, rather-and wanted to appropriate the cloak. They
demanded that both garments should be deposited with them,
saying the judge would decide on the merits of the case the fol-
lowing day. And they said moreover that the real question was,
against which party a charge of theft could be brought. They
had all but settled on confiscating the goods; and a man in the
crowd, bald, with pimply forehead, who had something to do with
the courts, took hold of the cloak and declared that he would
produce it the following day. It was clear that their real object.
was to get hold of the cloak and share it among themselves,
feeling sure that we would not dare to present ourselves in court.
True enough too, and so the case was speedily settled; for the
angry peasant, disgusted at our making such a fuss about a mass
of patches, threw the mantle in Ascyltos's face and ordered him
to hand over the cloak, the only ground of dispute. Our treas-
ure once more in our hands, we hurried away to the tavern, and


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11392
PETRONIUS ARBITER
behind closed doors had a good laugh at the sharpness of the
peasant and the crowd, who had combined by their cleverness to
get us back our money.
Translated for A Library of the World's Best Literature by L. P. D.
TRIMALCHIO'S REMINISCENCES
TRI
RIMALCHIO now turned his beaming countenance in our direc-
tion. "If you don't like the wine," said he, "I will change
it. Your drink must suit you. Praise be to the gods.
don't buy it, for all that pleases your palate comes from a certain
country-place of mine, which I have not yet visited. They say
it lies between Terracina and Taranto. My present purpose is to
add Sicily to my other estates, so that if I should want to go to
Africa, I might keep to my own property on the journey. But
tell me, Agamemnon, what was the subject of your discussion
to-day? for though I am no lawyer, still I have acquired all
the principles of a polite education; and to prove that I keep up
my studies, learn that I have three libraries, one Greek and two
Latin. So give me the peroration of your address. "
When Agamemnon had begun, "Two men, one rich and one
poor, were enemies — » "What is poor? » demands Trimalchio.
"Neat point! " exclaims Agamemnon, and went on to give some
sort of a learned dissertation. Presently Trimalchio interrupted
him. "If the subject in hand," says he, "be fact, there is no
room for argument; if not fact, then it is nothing at all. "
As we received these and such-like statements with the warm-
est expressions of approval, he proceeded: "Pray, my dear Aga-
memnon, do you remember by any chance the twelve labors of
Hercules, or anything about the story of Ulysses,-as for exam-
ple, how the Cyclops dislocated his thumb with a paint-brush? I
used to read Homer when I was a boy, and at Cumæ I saw
with my own eyes the Sibyl hung up in a glass bottle; and when
the boys said to her, 'What do you want, Sibyl? ' she used to
answer, 'I want to die. '
Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature' by L. P. D.


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PETRONIUS ARBITER
11393
LAUDATOR TEMPORIS ACTI
HEN said Ganymede: -"You're talking in the air, and nobody
gives a thought to the famine which threatens us. By Her-
cules! I haven't been able to get a crumb of bread to-day.
And why not? The long drought. Why, I've been on short
rations for a year now! The ædiles-curse 'em! -are in league
with the bakers. 'One good turn deserves another,' is their
motto; and so the poor toil on, and the jaws that crush them
make one long holiday. Oh, if we only had some of those
valiant defenders, such as I found here when first I came from
Asia. That was living. This sort of thing had been going
on in the interior of Sicily: there had been a drought as though
Jupiter were in a rage with the Sicilians. But I remember Safi.
nius; when I was a boy he lived by the old arch. What a keen
tongue the man had! Wherever he went, he caused a flare-up!
But he was an upright man, on whom you could depend.
who stood by his friends—with whom you could play morra in
the dark. But when he spoke in the Senate! How he dealt
his adversaries one after another a knock-down blow: he didn't
talk in the air, either, but went straight to the point. When he
was pleading at the bar his voice would peal out like a trum-
pet; but he never got hot or had to clear his throat. He had
a certain something of us Asiatics about him, you see. And
how kindly he was! always returned your bow! never forgot a
name! Just like one of us! By the same token, when he was
ædile, living was dirt-cheap. Two men couldn't get to the end
of a penny loaf; while those you get for the same price nowa-
days are about as a bull's eye. These are bad times; this colony
is growing backwards like a calf's tail. And why not? We have a
good-for-nothing ædile, who would rather gain a penny than save
one of our lives. He lives high, and makes more in one day
than all another man's fortune. I know what brought him in at
thousand nummi in gold; but if we were any good, we should
make him laugh out of the other side of his mouth. But we are
all alike, brave as lions at home, timid as a fox abroad. As
for me, I've eaten my wardrobe, and if the scarcity continues
I shall sell my little cottage. For what will become of us if
neither god nor man has compassion on this colony? I wish I
may starve if I don't believe it all comes from the gods! For
XIX-713


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11394
PETRONIUS ARBITER
nobody believes in heaven any longer; nobody keeps the fasts;
nobody cares a straw for Jove: but all shut their eye to every-
thing but their possessions. In olden times the women used to
go barefoot to the Capitol, their hair loose and their thoughts
pure, and implore Jupiter the god of Rain; and immediately the
water would come down in bucketfuls, and all laughed with joy.
Never a bit of it now! The feet of the women are shod, and
the feet of the gods are slow; it's because we don't keep up our
religious ceremonies that the fields lie waste. "
"Come now," said Echion, the rag-man, "be a little more
complimentary! 'Here we go up, and here we go down! ' as
the peasant said when he lost his spotted pig. What to-day is
not, will be to-morrow. Such is life. By Hercules! our country
would be all right, if it had any men in it. It's passing through
a crisis just now. And that's not the whole of it. We ought to
take things as we find them: the zenith is always overhead. If
you were in another land, you would say that here the pigs
walked round all ready roasted. And we are to have a fine treat
in three days' time on the feast-day; none of your professional
gladiators, but a lot of freedmen. Our friend Titus has a warm
heart and a clever head. He's got something or other up his
sleeve. I ought to know, for I'm a great friend of his. He's no
sparer of flesh: he will give them good swords and no quarter;
the spectators will have a solid heap of dead in their midst: and
he can afford it. His father left him a million and a half. Sup-
pose he spends twenty thousand: his fortune won't feel it, and
his name will live forever. "
Translated for A Library of the World's Best Literature by L. P. D.
>
THE MASTER OF THE FEAST
IN THE best of humors, Trimalchio began:-"My friends, even
slaves are men, and suck the same milk as ourselves, though
ill-luck keeps them down in the world. And by my life!
they shall soon drink of the water of freedom. In short, I have
set them all free in my will. I have given, besides, a farm to
Philagyras, and the woman who lives with him, and to Carrio a
whole block of buildings free of taxes, and a bed with bedding.
Fortunata I make my residuary legatee, and I recommend her to
the care of all my friends; and I make these facts known that


## p. 11395 (#619) ##########################################

PETRONIUS ARBITER
11395
my slaves may love me as well now as though I were already.
dead. "
All began to express their gratitude to their indulgent master.
He took it with perfect seriousness; and ordered a copy of his
will to be brought, which he repeated from the first word to the
last, amid the groans of his household. Then, turning towards
Habinnas, "Promise, my dearest friend," said he, "that you will
build my monument according to my directions. Let there be a
little dog at the feet of my statue, and deck it with garlands and
perfumes, and paint about it all the incidents of my life; so by
your kindness, though dead, I shall still live. Moreover, I want
my lot to have a hundred feet frontage, and be two hundred feet
deep. I want you to plant all kinds of apple-trees about my
ashes, and plenty of grape-vines. For it is wrong to beautify the
homes of the living only, and neglect those abodes where we are
sure to make a longer stay. And so I beg you, above all things,
to set up a notice: This monument does not pass to the heir. '
Moreover, I will provide in my will against any insult being
offered my remains: I will put one of my freedmen in charge
of my sepulchre, whose business shall be to see that no nuisance
is committed there. I beg you put ships on my monument, going
under full sail, and my likeness, clad in robes of state, and sitting
on the tribune's seat, with fine gold rings on my fingers, and
scattering a bagful of money among the crowd;-you recollect
when I gave a public entertainment and two denarii apiece to the
guests all round. And pray have a dining-room, and all the folks
enjoying themselves! At my right hand you must put a statue
of my beloved Fortunata holding a dove, and leading a small
dog by a leash; and have my Cicaro represented, and some big
jars tightly sealed, so the wine cannot possibly run out; and
see that they carve a broken urn with a boy weeping over it.
Finally you must put a timepiece in the centre, so that whoever
looks up to learn the hour will have no choice but to read my
name. "
At this point Trimalchio began to weep; Fortunata and Habin-
nas also burst out sobbing, and all the slaves followed suit, till
the dining-room resounded with lamentations, as though they
were all at a funeral. I also was preparing to burst into tears,
when Trimalchio checked me by the remark, "Well then, since
we know that we must die, why not live while we may? "
Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature' by L. P. D.


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11396
PETRONIUS ARBITER
ON DREAMS
THE
HE dreams that tease us with their phantoms eerie
Come not from holy shrine nor heavenly space,
But from within. Sleep stays the limbs a-weary,
The truant spirit goes its wanton ways.
Deeds of the day, deeds of the dark. The warrior
Sees hosts in flight and hapless towns on fire;
The monarch slain confronts his fell destroyer,
Amid a weltering waste of blood-stained mire
The Forum's all-triumphant pleader trembles
Before the law, or frets within the bar;
The miser his unearthed gold assembles,
And baying hounds the huntsman call afar;
The sinking seaman grasps the vessel keeling,
The courtesan indites a billet-doux,
The debauchee counts out his coin unwilling,
The very dogs in dreams their hare pursue.
Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature by H. W. P.
EPITAPH ON A FAVORITE HUNTING-DOG
(ATTRIBUTED TO PETRONIUS ARBITER)
N^
ATIVE of Gaul was I, and the name they gave me was Cockle,
After a white sea-shell. I was beautiful too,
Ay, and brave! I would scour the darkest depths of the forest,
Or upon desolate hill startle the quarry hirsute.
Never was need at all of ugly chains to withhold me,
Never an insolent lash wounded my snowy skin;
Softly I used to lie in the lap of my lord or my lady,
Or on the high state bed, when I came panting home.
Even my bark, men said, awoke no terror insensate:
Only a poor dumb beast, yet with a speech of my own!
Nevertheless the doom ordained from my birthday o'ertook me,
Wherefore I sleep in earth under this tiny stone.
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11397
PHILEMON
(361-263 B. C. )
MENANDER
(342-291 B. C. )
AND THE LOST ATTIC COMEDY
BY WILLIAM CRANSTON LAWTON
RAGMENTARY and tantalizing as is the flotsam and jetsam
drifted to us from the wreck of Greek civilization, we can
yet say, of the literary masterpieces at least, that we have
almost always a fair selection from the best in each kind. The bit-
terest loss is in lyric poetry. Probably most lovers of the old life
would be tempted to give up even Pindar's cold and resounding
splendor to recover the love songs of Sappho.
In the case of comedy, there can be no doubt that Aristopha-
nes was the one exuberantly original genius, whose lonely height has
been reached since then only twice at most: by Molière, and by the
myriad-sided creator of Jack Falstaff, Caliban, and Bottom the weaver.
If Attic comedy could have but one representative surviving in the
modern world, there was no one to contest the right of Aristophanes.
And yet his very originality, his elemental creativeness, mocks the
patient student who attempts to cite from him historical data, traits
of manners, or even usages of the theatre! Nothing in his comic
world walks our earth, or breathes our heavier air. We may as
well appeal for mere facts to the adventurous Alice.
In a memorable passage at the close of Plato's 'Symposium,' after
all the other banqueters are asleep, Socrates forces Aristophanes and
the tragic poet Agathon-much against the will of both-to concede
that their two arts are one, and that he who is a master artist in
comedy can create tragedy no less. Though this seems to us like
a marvelous foreshadowing of Shakespeare, it probably was in fact
suggested to Plato by a process which he must have seen already
far advanced; namely, the rapid approximation of the two dramatic
forms to each other, until they were practically fused in the realistic
melodrama, the comedy of manners. This creation is chiefly asso-
ciated by the Athenians themselves with the long happy career of
Philemon, though later ages preferred his younger and briefer-lived
rival Menander.


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