[In the following essay, Bowen summarizes the Satyricon, with particular emphasis on the section called "Trimalchio's Dinner. "]

Fiction is the all-prevailing form of literature today. There is hardly a civilized nation whose literature is not now dominated by the novel. In France, Germany, Italy, and Russia this form of literature is conceded to be supreme; and in England and America the tyranny of the novel is acknowledged without question. How long fiction will continue to reign supreme is a problem to which the future alone can give a definite and correct answer. There are some among us, however, who assume the role of the prophet and jauntily inform us that the novel is already doomed. An eminent French littérateur recently announced with all the gravity and authority of an oracle that within the next half century the novel will have become a thing of the past. The modern newspaper, it is surmised, is destined to supplant entirely the novel, whose territory it is already beginning to invade. It is an easy enough matter to venture such off-hand predictions and oracular vaticinations, but the world usually discounts them and takes them with many grains of salt. Such inspired predictions, like those of Cassandra, fail to create confidence and do not carry conviction to many minds.

The present tyranny of the novel has not been of very long duration. We do not have to go very far back in our literary history before we arrive at a period when the novel, far from being supreme, was almost entirely neglected. Yet the novel as a form of literary expression is of a hoary antiquity. We are all aware that fiction was known among the ancient Greeks and Romans. But the fiction of these nations took the form of poetry, for the most part, and very rarely appeared as prose. Yet a few Greek and Roman writers of fiction adopted prose as the medium of expression; and some fragments of their works. of fiction have actually come down to us. All students of Greek literature are tolerably well acquainted with the so-called Milesian Tales. These tales are the earliest forms of prose fiction found in the literature of the Hellenes. This species of literary expression was cultivated by Aristides and others about the third or fourth century, B.C. AS to the specific form of these prose stories comparatively little is definitely known, except that they were brief, witty, and more or less indecent. Now, whether the last named quality was an essential characteristic or a mere accident in the constitution of those novelettes which have survived the tooth of time, is a question we are not here concerned with. For I do not propose in the present paper to treat of the Milesian Tales in general, but simply and briefly to draw attention to à novel by a Roman author who wrote in imitation of these tales. It is interesting to note in passing that the Milesian Tales were the prototypes of the romances which were so popular during the Middle Ages and are so widely disseminated among all the European literatures.

The Milesian Tales found their way to Rome through the teaching of Parthenius of Nicaa, a native Greek who taught at Rome during the first century, B.C. It will be recalled that this Greek scholar was a tutor of the poet Vergil and that his influence upon the Mantuan bard was so strong that the poet translated and published several of his teacher's poems, as, for example, the poem Moretum, which is frequently attributed to Vergil as its original author. Parthenius had a flourishing school among the cultured classes of Rome. He so impressed himself upon the family of the Cæsars that Tiberius, some years after Parthenius's death, had a bust of him set up in the imperial library. Young men aspiring to become men of letters affected to write in imitation of the style of Parthenius. One of the most conspicuous of his imitators was Petronius, the maitre de plaisirs of Nero's reign.

Of Petronius, or Gaius Petronius, to give his full name, very little is known. Indeed, the little information which we have is unsatisfactory and downright tantalizing. For we are not absolutely sure that the Gaius Petronius, mentioned in history as the arbiter elegantiarum under Nero, is the author of the novel in question which has come down to us. Gaius Petronius is the Petronius whom the skilful novelist Henryk Sienkiewicz has portrayed with masterly touch in his engaging "Quo Vadis;" and it is worth while to remark in passing that the sketch of Petronius given by the Polish novelist is, in all essential points, true to history. There is a brief but graphic description of Petronius found in the Annals of the Roman historian Tacitus. According to Tacitus, in the year 66 A.D. Petronius fell a victim to the dire jealousy of Tigellinus, the infamous court favorite of Nero, and in consequence thereof forfeited his life. In the strong summary of Petronius's life given in his Annals the philosophic Roman historian says: "His days were passed in sleep, his nights in the duties or pleasures of life; where others toiled for fame he lounged into it, and he had the reputation not, like most members of that profligate society, of a dissolute wanton, but of a trained master of luxury. A sort of careless ease, an entire absence of self-consciousness added a peculiar charm and grace to whatever he did. Yet while proconsul in Bithynia, he showed himself vigorous and capable. Then surrendering himself to vice, or simulating it, he became the boon companion—the arbiter of elegance—of Nero; and such was his influence and such his authority in all matters of taste that the emperor regarded nothing delicate or charming except what Petronius had first put the stamp of his approval upon. Thus the jealousy of Tigellinus was aroused against Petronius as the purveyor of pleasure and the rival of himself."

Tigellinus, whose influence with the dissolute Nero was unbounded, accused Petronius of being an intimate and confederate of the traitor Scaevinus; and he cut off all Petronius's means of self-defence by speedily arresting his slaves and throwing them into prison, so that they could not testify in behalf of their master's innocence. He then directed his attack upon Petronius himself, and he persuaded the suspicious and wicked Nero to have him arrested while he was accompanying the emperor on a journey to Cumae. Here at Cumae Petronius was placed under arrest at the command of Nero; and here anticipating the dire consequences of the displeasure which he had incurred, he deliberately had his own veins opened and thus took his own life. Some relate that, realizing that his life was forfeited, Petronius gave a grand banquet to his friends and at the conclusion himself arose and, in the presence of his guests, had his veins opened, meantime chatting with those around him as if nothing unusual were happening. Others say that he employed the interval between his arrest and his death in writing a satire upon the vices and debauchery of Nero and his profligate court, and sealed it and sent it to the emperor. Tacitus tells us that he made his will and that, contrary to the practice of those condemned to death during those times, he did not flatter the emperor or any of his corrupt court favorites, but satirized their vices, giving a description of each new kind of debauchery.

Such, in brief, is the portrait of Gaius Petronius, the Beau Brummell of Nero's reign, which the Roman historian has handed down to us. It is generally assumed by modern scholarship that this Petronius is the author of the interesting and entertaining Roman novel which has been preserved in Latin literature. This novel was published under the title of "Satira" and extended through sixteen books. Only fragments of it have been preserved to our time, and these are hardly sufficient to enable us to determine definitely whether the novel was strictly a novel with a plot or not. The "Satira" is more in the nature of a romance than a satire. It is a narrative in a brilliant style, a series of episodes strung together with no natural sequence or logical connection. The fragment preserved to us contains two very engaging episodes. The one is the famous story of the Matron of Ephesus, which is one of the most important of the Milesian Tales. The other is Trimalchio's dinner party, which is a masterpiece of comic literature.

Some scholars. have contended that in the "Satiria" we have the scurrilous and drastic satire of Nero and his court which Petronius composed immediately before his death and sent to the emperor with his compliments. But this Neronian hypothesis rests upon a flimsy basis and has been almost entirely abandoned by scholars of the present day. For it is altogether improbable that Petronius could have written so voluminous a diatribe (the "Satira" originally contained at least sixteen books) against the emperor during the short interim between his arrest and his death; and even granted that Petronius could have done so, it is not to be supposed that Nero would have permitted such a book to exist without making an effort to suppress it. Moreover, there is much in the book which cannot, except by a strained and far-fetched theory, be interpeted as referring to Nero. We may, therefore, safely reject the Neronian hypothesis as untenable. But we are unable to determine the date of the composition of the "Satira," except that it must have been written prior to the year 66 A.D.

The "Satira" seems to have lent itself readily to quotation during the period in the Dark Ages when Latin was little read and studied. For we find excerpts from it and allusions to it, comparatively frequently, in the works of the grammarians and scholars of those times, such as Macrobius, Servius, Lydus, Jerome, Fulgentius and Priscian. Moreover, there are known to be extant at least twenty-one manuscripts of the work, distributed throughout the libraries of Europe. This argues a tolerably wide acquaintance with the book on the part of mediaeval scholars. The language of the "Satira" is remarkable as being the sermo plebeius, i.e. the everyday speech of the Roman common people. Solecisms abound and there is much of what by convention is called slang. Yet the language is not uniformly vulgar or provincial. Sometimes it rises to the dignity and rank of classic Latin. But more frequently it is a mere vulgar patois, such as was heard only in plebeian circles of society and. among the lowest classes of the imperial city. It was perhaps the unclassical character of the Latinity that induced a certain French scholar during the seventeenth century to produce a forgery and to attempt to foist the fraudulent manuscript upon the public. The language naturally offered a tempting bait to unscrupulous scholars to fill out the gap and make spurious additions to the fragmentary work.

Trimalchio's dinner party, which forms the greater part of the "Satira," gives what we may presume to be a faithful picture of the typical life of the Roman bourgeoisie. It is a bit of character-sketching almost worthy of the pen of Dickens, and the humor is sustained throughout. It is a matter for regret that parts of it are coarse—perhaps indecent is the word that ought to be used—but we must bear in mind that the book is the product of an immoral age, when men's tastes, by over-stimulation, had become jaded, and unusual and unnatural methods were employed to produce desired effects. The narrative reads like a twentieth century dime novel, or like what the English call a "shilling shocker."

Trimalchio is a grotesque specimen of the nouveaux riches. He is a man of obscure origin who was once a slave, but on obtaining his freedom he got a start in life and amassed a vast fortune beyond the dreams of avarice. He is a bald, red-faced, unlettered fellow, inordinately fond of ostentation and vulgar display, proud of his accumulated fortune, conceited and a gourmand withal. Yet he desires above all things to appear a man of literary attainments and takes the deepest pleasure in airing his scant erudition. But almost invariably, while masquerading in the attire of a scholar, he would show the cloven foot which betrayed him. His wife is Fortunata, a sharp, shrewd, lemonfaced little woman to whose frugality and thrift Trimalchio frankly confesses his indebtedness for a large share of his success. She is not so inordinately vain as her husband, and therefore she does not make such ludicrous blunders in displaying her knowledge. There are two companions of Trimalchio—Encolpius and Ascyltus—both of whom are invited, along with others, to the dinner party. The narrative of their experience is set forth by Petronius in a comic vein, remarkable alike for its racy humor and flashing wit. The details of the dinner are given in full—a dinner rendered conspicuous by its lavish profusion as well as its shocking lack of taste.

The guests meet at the magnificently furnished house of Trimalchio at the appointed hour, and the dinner begins. But the host, for some reason or other, does not appear at the sumptuous table when the guests all take their seats. He waits till the dinner is begun and well under way, before he enters the room and takes the seat of honor, which has been reserved for him. He thereupon informs his guests, presumably to compose them, what inconvenience he was put to, to keep his engagement to dine with them. After this speech he becomes utterly listless, and with a nonchalant air he falls to picking his teeth with a pin and then, by way of diversion, begins a game of checkers with a friend sitting next to him. According to the Roman fashion, a course of eggs is first served. But the guests are startled at the manner in which the eggs are served. For the eggs are placed under a wooden hen with outstretched wings sitting upon a tray; and, on breaking the shells, which are simply pastry, each guest draws out a plump reed-bird surrounded by yolk of egg, well seasoned with salt and pepper. At this juncture Trimalchio abandons his game of checkers and begins his dinner. Wine now commences literally to flow like water and is poured over the hands of each guest. Then wine-jars are brought in, containing "Falernian Opimian, one hundred years old" and are placed one at each plate. This elicits from the host the polite remark, addressed to the guests, "I did not put nearly such good liquor on my table yesterday, and yet the people who dined with me then were socially very much superior to you."

The next course served is one of all sorts of rich viands—capons, hare, sow's paunch, fish, kidneys, roast beef, meat pie, lobster, and goose. The guests, now warmed up by the copious draughts of the genuine old Opimian, begin to talk freely; and one of them for the enlightenment of Encolpius, undertakes a brief description, in an undertone, of the different personages at the table and intersperses his description with racy side-remarks about the hostess Fortunata. Trimalchio, too, lets his tongue wag and airs his learning amid the profuse display of his wealth. "Tell me," says he to one of those sitting near him, "do you remember the Twelve Labors of Hercules, or the story of Ulysses, and how the Cyclops twisted his thumb after he had been turned into a pig? When I was a boy I used to read these things in Homer; and with my own eyes I once saw the Sibyl at Cumae hanging in a great jar, and when the young men asked her, 'Sibyl, what do you want?, she said, 'I want to die!," [I quote here and elsewhere from Professor Peck's admirable translation of "Trimalchio's Dinner."]

A slave serving grapes recites some of Trimalchio's verses to the company, and as a reward receives his freedom. Trimalchio suddenly rises from the table to go to the next room for something, and while he is away, the conversation becomes quite general. One comments on the trite topic of the weather and the shortness of the day; another deplores the practice of daily baths, which consume so much time. They fall to cracking jokes and telling anecdotes of friends who have lately died. One laments the degeneracy of the times and, laudator temporis acti that he is, revels in the reminiscences of the good old times when he was a boy, just come from Asia. One of the freedmen ventures to give his views on education, which I quote in part as showing the style of the novel.

"Well, Agememnon," says he, "you look as though you were saying, 'Why is this bore babbling?' Why, simply because you, who know how to talk book talk, won't speak at all. You don't belong to our set, and so you make fun of every thing a poor man says. I know you are cracked on account of your learning, but what good is it all to you? Some day I'll persuade you to come out to my country place and look at my humble dwelling. We'll find something there to chew on,—chickens and eggs—and it will be rather nice there even though the drought this year has burnt everything brown. Still, we'll find something to fill our bellies with. My little shaver is growing up to be a pupil of yours. Already he can say his table of four times; and if he lives, you'll find him a very faithful pupil, for when he has any time to himself, he never takes his head out of a book. He's clever and has good stuff in him, though he's crazy after pet birds. I've already killed three goldfinches of his and told him that the weasel ate them up; but he took up some other nonsense, and just now he's very fond of painting. He's just given Greek the go-by, and he's begun to take hold of Latin very well, even though his teacher is too easy-going and doesn't stick to one thing, but just comes and sets him a lesson to learn, and never wants to take any pains himself. I've also another tutor for him who doesn't know very much, to be sure, but who's very diligent and teaches more than he understands himself.

On the quarter-days he comes to the house and is perfectly satisfied with whatever you pay him. I've just bought the boy some law books, because I want to have him get a little snack of law for home use, for this is a practical bread-and-butter subject. The boy has really pottered over literature long enough, and if he doesn't care about it in the end, I've decided to teach him a trade,—either the barber's, or the auctioneer's, or else the lawyer's,—and then nothing but death can take it from him. That's why I say to him every day, 'My dear boy, believe me, whatever you learn you learn for your own good. Just look at Phileros, the lawyer. If he hadn't learned law, he wouldn't be able today to keep the wolf from the door. Why, not very long ago he was carrying around goods for sale, on his back, whereas now, he matches himself against Norbanus.' Yes, learning is a treasure; but still a trade never dies."

Trimalchio then returns from the next room whither he has gone, and the conversation wanes. But the dinner proceeds as before. A huge roasted pig is served, whole and apparently undrawn. The guests are amazed and sit with bated breath. But they are soon reassured when a carver comes in, and slashing right and left, opens the roasted pig and out come the well-seasoned sausages, tumbling over the dish. The astonishment of those at the table breaks forth into a burst of applause, and the host rewards the cleverness of his chef with the present of a silver crown and a cup handed him on a salver of Corinthian bronze. Trimalchio uses this occasion to deliver a lecture on Corinthian bronze and bric-a-brac in general, explaining to his entire satisfaction how Corinthian bronze was first made by Hannibal from the melting down of the metal taken at the capture of Troy. In his conversation Trimalchio gets his mythology wofully mixed, as when in reference to the relief work upon his cups he explains a figure of Daedalus shutting up Niobe in the Trojan horse, or the figure of Cassandra killing her sons. He next has a slave enter the dining hall and read the official report of what has happened on his estates the preceding day, in imitation of the Roman acti diurna. Then musicians and actors are introduced to contribute to the entertainment of the company.

During one of the performances Trimalchio is accidently struck on the neck by one of the acrobats. This furnishes him the inspiration for an epigram which he composes upon the spot and reads to his admiring audience. He also composes some verses which he recites and then proceeds to deliver off-hand a lecture on poetry. The guests now begin to feel the effects of their liberal potations, and two of them fall to quarrelling and pour forth a flood of choice Billingsgate, which Trimalchio as peacemaker at length succeeds in checking. A troop of declaimers in costume enter and recite from Homer. The host then tells the story of the Trojan war, according to its own version, which, I need hardly add, is a long departure from the accepted account. "Do you know what play they are acting?" says Trimalchio to one of the guests seated near him, referring to the troop of declaimers. "Diomede and Ganymede were two brothers. Their sister was Helen. Agamemnon carried her off and put a deer in her place for Diana, and so now Homer explains how the Trojans and Parentines are waging war. Agamemnon, you must know, came off victor and gave his daughter Iphigenia to be the wife of Achilles. Thereupon Ajax went mad, and presently now will show us the dènouement."

After further feasting the sumptuous and elaborate dinner is finally concluded, and the viands being removed, the guests fall to telling stories. Niceros relates as his story the interesting and realistic tale of the werewolf, and Trimalchio follows with a hair-raising witch story which he vows is actual fact. Though the werewolf story is somewhat long, I make bold to quote it because it illustrates Petronius's method and art as a story-teller and is itself one of the most notably realistic stories in all Latin literature.

"When I was still a slave," says Niceros, beginning his tale, "I used to live in a little street where Gavilla lives now. At that time, as the gods would have it, I fell in love with the wife of Terentius, the inn-keeper. You must have known her; her name was Melissa, native of Tarentum, and a very kissable girl, too. Yet there wasn't anything wrong in my love for her, but I just liked her because she had such nice ways.… As it happened, her husband died at his place in the country, so I tried by hook and by crook to get to her, for you know a friend in need is a friend indeed. As chance would have it, my master had gone to Capua to look after some wares; and so, seizing the opportunity, I asked the man who was staying with us to go with me as far as the fifth milestone. He was a soldier, as bold as hell. We set off about cock-crow, while the moon was still shining as bright as mid-day. At last we came to a cemetery, and my companion went off among the tombstones, while I took a rest, humming a tune and counting the monuments. Presently, when I looked at my companion, he had undressed and put all his clothes by the roadside. My heart was in my mouth, and I sat there like a dead man; but he walked around his clothes and all of a sudden was turned into a wolf. Now, don't imagine that I am fooling you, for I wouldn't tell any lies for the world. But, as I was going on to say just now, he was turned into a wolf, and began to howl and then ran off into the woods. At first I did not know where I was, but when I went up to his clothes to pick them up, lo and behold, they had all been turned into stone! Well, I was about ready to die of fright, but I drew my sword and all along the road I cut and thrust at every shadow until I reached my friend's house. When I entered as pale as a ghost, I almost fainted. The sweat was running down my crotch, my eyes were fixed, and it was with the greatest difficulty that I was brought to. Melissa wondered at me to think that I was out so late, and she said, 'If you'd only come sooner, you might have been of some help to me; for a wolf has just entered the grounds and attacked our flocks and made them bleed like a butcher. He didn't get off unhurt, however, for one of my slaves struck him in the neck with a spear.' After I heard this I couldn't close my eyes; but as soon as it was bright daylight, I hurried home like a plundered pedlar; and when I came to the place where the clothes had been turned into a stone, I found nothing there but a pool of blood. But when I reached home, there lay my friend the soldier, in his bed like a stuck pig, with the doctor putting a plaster on his neck. Then I knew that he was a werewolf, and from that day on I couldn't have eaten a mouthful of bread with him even if you had killed me. I leave it to others to say what they think of this; but if I have lied to you, I hope your honors will have nothing more to do with me."

Toward the end a friend of Trimalchio's with his wife enters the dining-room and both sit down at the table. Trimalchio, moved by maudlin sentimentality, orders a slave to bring him his will, which he reads, and after giving the arrangements for his funeral, he begins to weep bitterly. At length he rises from the table and the guests follow him to the baths where they take a hot bath. The bath finished, they all proceed to another dining-hall where a second elaborate dinner is served. During this meal Trimalchio, by way of amusement, trumps up a quarrel with Fortunata, and throwing first a cup at her head, afterwards fires a volley of invectives and select vituperation, after which peace is again restored. The wine-jars are again filled. Trimalchio stretches himself out, full length, as if dead, and lying there invites the company to consider him as if lying in state and begs each one to say pleasant thigs about him as though he were actually dead. The hornblowers now play a funeral march over his body and so the dinner at last ends.

I have thus given a somewhat detailed account of "Trimalchio's Dinner." It is the longest and most important fragment of Petronius's lost novel, and illustrates the author's dramatic power and art better than any other fragment. It serves also to show us the breadth and compass of the Milesian Tale, as it grew and flourished after being transplanted from the genial soil of Hellas to sunny Italy. It shows us, further, the nearest approach, among the Greeks and Romans, to our own novel. After reading "Trimalchio's Dinner"—a mere fragment of Petronius's "Satira"—we are convinced that its loss forms no inconsiderable gap in the literary remains of the Romans, and we can but deplore the untoward accident, if accident it was, that deprived us of the missing parts of the novel. For the book is unique; and in point of vividness and dramatic power there is nothing comparable to it in the entire range of Latin literature. It is conceived along the line of the broadest humor. It abounds in wit and fun and is intensely human. We feel that it would almost do credit to the art of our own Fielding, the creator of Tom Jones and Amelia.