PETRONIUS
The most curious and in some respects the most remarkable work that the
Silver Age has bequeathed to us is a fragment of a novel, the
_Satyricon_ of Petronius Arbiter, Its author is generally identified
with Titus Petronius, the friend and victim of Nero. Tacitus has
described him in a passage, remarkable even among Tacitean portraits for
its extraordinary brilliance. 'His days he passed in sleep, his nights
in the business and pleasures of life. Indolence had raised him to fame,
as energy raises others, and he was reckoned not a debauchee and
spendthrift, like most of those who squander their substance, but a man
of refined luxury. And indeed his talk and his doings, the freer they
were, and the more show of carelessness they exhibited, were the better
liked for their look of a natural simplicity. Yet as proconsul of
Bithynia and soon afterwards as consul, he showed himself a man of
vigour and equal to business. Then, falling back into vice or affecting
vice, he was chosen by Nero to be one of his few intimate associates, as
a critic in matters of taste (_elegantiae arbiter_). The emperor thought
nothing charming or elegant in luxury unless Petronius had expressed his
approval. Hence jealousy on the part of Tigellinus, who looked on him as
a rival, and even his superior, in the science of pleasure. And so he
worked on the prince's cruelty, which dominated every other passion:
charging Petronius with having been the friend of Scaevinus, bribing a
slave to turn informer, robbing him of the means of defence, and
hurrying into prison the greater part of his domestics. It happened at
the time that the emperor was on his way to Campania, and that
Petronius, after going as far as Cumae, was there detained. He bore no
longer the suspense of fear or of hope. Yet he did not fling away life
with precipitate haste, but having made an incision in his veins and
then according to his humour bound them up, he again opened them, while
he conversed with his friends, not in a serious strain or on topics that
might win him the glory of courage. He listened to them as they
repeated, not thoughts on the immortality of the soul or on the theories
of philosophers, but light poetry and playful verses. To some of his
slaves he gave liberal presents, to others a flogging. He dined,
indulged himself in sleep, that death, even though forced, might have a
natural appearance. Even in his will he did not, as did many in their
last moments, flatter Nero or Tigellinus, or any other of the men in
power. On the contrary, he described fully the prince's shameful
excesses, with the names of his male and female companions and their
novelties in debauchery, and sent the account under seal to Nero. Then
he broke his signet-ring, that it might not be available to bring others
into peril.'[309]
There is nothing definitely to bring this ingenious and brilliant
debauchee into connexion with the Petronius Arbiter of the _Satyricon_.
But the character of Titus Petronius is exactly in keeping with the tone
of the novel; the novelist's cognomen Arbiter, though in itself by no
means extraordinary, may well have sprung from or given rise to the
title _elegantiae arbiter_; and finally the few indications of date in
the novel all point to a period not far from the reign of Nero. There is
the criticism of Lucan,[310] which certainly loses point if not written
during Lucan's lifetime; there is the criticism of the rhetorical
training of the day,[311] which finds a remarkable echo in the criticism
of Vipstanus Messala in the _Dialogus_ of Tacitus, a work which,
whatever the date of its actual composition, certainly refers to a
period less than ten years after the death of T. Petronius; there is the
style of the work itself; wherever the writer abandons the colloquial
Latin, in which so much of the work is written, we find a finished
diction, whether in prose or verse, which no unprejudiced judge could
place later than the accession of Trajan, and which has nothing in it to
prevent its attribution to the reign of Nero. In that reign there is but
one Petronius to whom we can assign the _Satyricon_, the Petronius
immortalized by Tacitus.[312]
Of the work as a whole this is no place to speak. The fragments which
survive are in the main in prose. But the work is modelled on the
Menippean satires of Varro, and belongs to the same class of writing as
the _Apocolocyntosis_ of Seneca. In the form of a loosely-strung and
rambling novel we have a satirical commentary on human life; the satire
is cynical and pungent, rather than mordant, makes no pretence of
logic, and proceeds not from a moral sense but from a sense of humour.
Wild and indecent as Petronius' laughter often is, it springs from one
who is a real artist, possessing a sense of proportion as well as the
sense of contrast that is the source and fount of humour. This is most
strongly evident in that portion of his satire which concerns us here,
inasmuch as it is directed against contemporary literary tendencies. We
must beware of fastening on the words of the characters in the novel as
necessarily expressing the thoughts of its author. But it is noteworthy
that all his literary criticism points in the same direction; it is
above all conservative. Through the mouths of Encolpius, the dissolute
hero of the story, and the rhetorician Agamemnon[313] he denounces the
flamboyant rhetoric of the day, its remoteness from reality, the lack
of sanity and industry on the part both of pupil and instructor. 'As
boys they pass their time at school at what is no better than play, as
youths they make themselves ridiculous in the forum, and, worst of all,
when they grow old they refuse to acknowledge the faults acquired by
their education.' Study is necessary, and above all the study of good
models. Sophocles, Euripides, Pindar, the great lyricists, Plato,
Demosthenes, Thucydides, Hyperides, all the great classics, these are
the true models for the young orator. Agamemnon cannot restrain himself
and even bursts into verse in the course of this disquisition on the
decadence of oratory:
artis severae si quis ambit effectus
mentemque magnis applicat, prius mores
frugalitatis lege poliat exacta.
nec curet alto regiam trucem vultu
cliensve cenas impotentium captet
nec perditis addictus obruat vino
mentis calorem, neve plausor in scaenam
sedeat redemptus histrionis ad rictus.
sed sive armigerae rident Tritonidis arces,
seu Lacedaemonio tellus habitata colono
Sirenumve domus, det primos versibus annos
Maeoniumque bibat felici pectore fontem.
mox et Socratico plenus grege mittat habenas
liber et ingentis quatiat Demosthenis arma.
hinc Romana manus circumfluat et modo Graio
exonerata sono mutet suffusa saporem.
interdum subducta foro det pagina cursum
et cortina[314] sonet celeri distincta meatu;
dein[315] epulas et bella truci memorata canore
grandiaque indomiti Ciceronis verba minetur.
his animum succinge bonis: sic flumine largo
plenus Pierio defundes pectore verba.
If any man court success in the lofty art of letters and
apply his mind to great things, he must first perfect his
character by simplicity's stern law; he must care naught for
the haughty frown of the fierce tyrant that lords it in his
palace, nor seek client-like for invitations to the board of
the profligate, nor deliver himself over to the company of
debauchees and drown the fire of his understanding in wine,
nor sit in the theatre the hired applauder of the mouthing
actor. But whether the citadel of panoplied Minerva allure him
with its smile, or the land where the Spartan exile came to
dwell, or the Sirens' home, let him devote his early years to
poesy, and let his spirit drink in with happy omen a draught
from the Maeonian fount. Thereafter, when his soul is full of
the lore of the Socratic school, let him give himself free rein
and brandish the weapons of great Demosthenes. Next let the band
of Roman authors throng him round, and, but newly freed from the
music of Greece, suffuse his soul and change its tone. Meanwhile,
let his pen run its course withdrawn from the forum, and let
Apollo's tripod send forth a voice rhythmic and swift: next let
him roll forth in lordly speech the tale of heroes' feasting and
wars, set forth in fierce strain and lofty language, such as fell
from the lips of dauntless Cicero. Prepare thy soul for joys such
as these; and, steeped in the plenteous stream of letters, thou
shalt give utterance to the thoughts of thy Pierian soul.
This is not inspired poetry; but its advice is sound, and its point of
view just. Nor is this criticism a mere _jeu d'esprit_; it is hard to
resist the conclusion that the author is putting his own views into the
mouths of his more than shady characters. For, _mutatis mutandis_, the
same attitude towards literary art is revealed in the utterances of the
poet Eumolpus.[316] It is a curious fact that while none of the
characters in Petronius are to be taken seriously, their speech at times
soars from the reeking atmosphere of the brothel and the clamour of the
streets to clearer and loftier regions of thought, if not of action. The
first appearance of Eumolpus is conceived in a broadly comic vein.
'While I was thus engaged a grey-haired old man entered the picture
gallery. He had a troubled countenance, which seemed to promise some
momentous utterance. His dress was lamentable, and showed that he was
clearly one of those literary gentlemen so unpopular with the rich. He
took his stand by my side. "I am a poet," he said, "and no mean one, if
any trust is to be placed in wreaths of honour, which are so often
bestowed even on those who least deserve them." "Why, then, are you so
ill-clad?" I asked. "Just for that very reason. Devotion to art never
brought any one wealth"--
qui pelago credit magno se faenore tollit;
qui pugnas et castra petit, praecingitur auro;
vilis adulator picto iacet ebrius ostro,
et qui sollicitat nuptas, ad praemia peccat:
sola pruinosis horret facundia pannis
atque inopi lingua desertas invocat artes.[317]
He who entrusts his fortunes to the sea, wins a mighty
harvest; he who seeks the camp and the field of war, may
gird him with gold: the vile flatterer lies drunken on
embroidered purple; the gallant who courts the favours of
wedded wives, wins wealth by his sin: eloquence alone
shivers in frosty rags and invokes the neglected arts
with pauper tongue.
'There's no doubt as to the truth of it. If a man has a detestation of
vice and chooses the paths of virtue, he is hated on the ground that his
morals are eccentric. No one approves of ways of life other than his
own. Then there are those whose sole care is the acquisition of wealth;
they are unwilling that anything should be thought to be a superior good
to that which they themselves possess. And so they persecute lovers of
literature with all their might.' This _vitiorum omnium inimicus_ then
proceeds to tell a story which casts a startling light upon his
'eccentric morality'. Its undoubted humour can hardly be said to redeem
its amazing grossness. He has scarcely finished the narration of his own
shame when he is back again in another world--the world of letters. He
laments the decay of art and philosophy. 'The passion for money-making
has brought ruin in its train. While virtue went bare and was a welcome
guest, the noble arts flourished, and men vied with one another in the
effort to discover anything that might be of service to mankind.' He
quotes the examples of Democritus, Eudoxus, Chrysippus in the world of
science, of Myron in art. 'We have given ourselves up to wine and women,
and take no pains to become acquainted even with the arts already
discovered. We traduce antiquity by teaching and learning its vices
only. Where is dialectic? Where is astronomy? Where is philosophy?' He
sees that Encolpius is not listening, but is absorbed in the
contemplation of a picture representing the sack of Troy, and seizes the
opportunity of reciting a poem of his own upon the subject. The lines
are for the most part neither original nor striking; they form a kind of
abstract in iambics of the second Aeneid, from the appearance of Sinon
to the emergence of the Greeks from the Trojan horse. But the work is
finished and elegant,[318] and the simile which describes the arrival of
the serpents that were to slay Laocoon is not unworthy of a more
successful poet than Eumolpus is represented to have been:
ecce alia monstra; celsa qua Tenedos mare
dorso replevit, tumida consurgunt freta
undaque resultat scissa tranquillo minans[319]
qualis silenti nocte remorum sonus
longe refertur, cum premunt classes mare
pulsumque marmor abiete imposita gemit.
respicimus; angues orbibus geminis ferunt
ad saxa fluctus, tumida quorum pectora
rates ut altae lateribus spumas agunt.
Lo! a fresh portent; where the ridge of lofty Tenedos
filled the sea, there breaks a swelling surge, and the
broken waves rebound and threaten the calm: as when in
the silent night the sound of oars is borne afar, when
navies burden the main and the smitten deep groans beneath
its freight of pine. We looked round: the waves bear towards
the rocks two coiling snakes, whose swelling breasts, like
tall ships, drive the water in foam along their sides.
The picture is at once vivid and beautiful, and we feel almost regretful
at the fate which his recitation brought on the unhappy poet. 'Those who
were walking in the colonnade began to throw stones at Eumolpus as he
recited. He recognized this method of applauding his wit, covered his
head with his cloak and fled from the temple. I was afraid that he would
denounce me as a poet. And so I followed him till I came to the
sea-shore and was out of range. "What do you mean," I said, "by
inflicting this disease of yours upon us? You have been less than two
hours in my company, and you have more often spoken like a poet than a
man. I'm not surprised that people throw stones at you. I'm going to
fill my own pockets with stones, and the moment you begin to unburden
yourself, I'm going to break your head." His face revealed a painful
emotion. "My good youth," said he, "to-day is not the first occasion on
which I have suffered this fate. Nay, I have never entered a theatre to
recite, without attracting this kind of welcome. But as I don't want to
quarrel with you, I will abstain from my daily food for the whole day."'
Eumolpus did not keep this promise; but the poem with which he broke it
is of small importance and need not detain us.[320] It is a little
disquisition on the refinements of luxury now prevalent, and has but one
notable line--the last--
quidquid quaeritur optimum videtur.
Whatever must be sought for, that seems best.
But later he has another outbreak. Encolpius and his friends have been
shipwrecked near Croton. On their way to the town Eumolpus beguiles the
tedium of the climb by the criticism of Lucan and the attempt to improve
on the _Pharsalia_, which have been discussed in the chapter on Lucan.
If neither his poetry nor his criticism as a whole are sound, they are
at least meant seriously. Here, again, we have a plea for earnest study,
and for the avoidance of mere tricks of rhetoric. As for the rhetorician
Agamemnon, so for Eumolpus, the great poets of the past are Homer and
the lyric poets; and nearer home are the 'Roman Vergil' and Horace. If
there was nothing else in this passage than the immortal phrase 'Horatii
curiosa felicitas', it would redeem it from the commonplace. Petronius
is a 'classicist'; the friend of Nero, he protests against the
flamboyance of the age as typified in the rhetorical style of Seneca and
Lucan. If the work was written at the time when Seneca and Lucan first
fell from the Imperial favour, such criticism may well have found favour
at court. If, with the brilliant whimsicality that characterizes all his
work, Petronius has placed these utterances in the mouth of disreputable
and broadly comic figures, that does not impair the value or sincerity
of the criticism. Eumolpus' complaint of the decline of the arts and the
baneful effect of the struggle for wealth is no doubt primarily inspired
by the fact that he is poor and can find no patron nor praise for his
verse, but must put up with execrations and showers of stones. But that
does not affect the truth of much that he says, nor throw doubt upon the
sincerity of Petronius himself.
The same whimsicality is shown elsewhere in the course of the novel.
It contains not a few poems which, detached from their context, are
full of grace and charm, though their application is often disgusting
in the extreme. Such are the hexameters towards the close of the work
in which Encolpius describes the scene of his unhappy love affair with
a certain Circe:
Idaeo quales fudit de vertice flores
terra parens, cum se concesso iunxit amori
Iuppiter et toto concepit pectore flammas:
emicuere rosae violaeque et molle cyperon,
albaque de viridi riserunt lilia prato:
talis humus Venerem molles clamavit in herbas,
candidiorque dies secreto favit amori (127);
As the flowers poured forth by mother earth from Ida's peak,
when she yielded to Jove's embrace and the god's soul was
filled with passionate flame; the rose, the violet, and the
soft iris flashed forth, and white lilies gleamed from the
green meadow; so shone the earth when it called our love to
rest upon the soft grass, and the day, brighter than its wont,
smiled on our secret passion.
nobilis aestivas platanus diffuderat umbras
et bacis redimita Daphne tremulaeque cupressus
et circum tonsae trepidanti vertice pinus.
has inter ludebat aquis errantibus amnis
spumeus et querulo vexabat rore lapillos.
dignus amore locus: testis silvestris aedon
atque urbana Procne, quae circum gramina fusae
ac molles violas cantu sua furta colebant (131).
A noble plane tree and the bay tree with its garland of berries,
and the quivering cypress and the trim pine with its tremulous
top, spread a sweet summer shade abroad. Amid them a foaming
river sported with wandering waters and lashed the pebbles with
its peevish spray. Meet was the place for love, with the woodland
nightingale and the town-haunting swallow for witness, that,
flitting all about the grass and the soft violets, told of their
loves in song.
The unpleasing nature of the context cannot obscure the fact that here
we have genuine poetry of great delicacy and beauty.[321]
Of the satirical epigrams contained in the novel little need be said.
They are not in any way pointless or feeble, but they lack the ease and
grace, and, it may be added, the sting, of the best work of Martial.
The themes are hackneyed and suffer from the absence of the personal
note. But it is at least refreshing to find that Petronius does not
attempt, like Martial and others, to excuse his obscenity on the ground
that his actual life is chaste. He speaks out frankly. 'Why hide what
all men know?'
quid me constricta spectatis fronte Catones
damnatisque novae simplicitatis opus?
sermonis puri non tristis gratia ridet,
quodque facit populus, Candida lingua refert (132).
Why gaze at me, ye Catos, with frowning brow, and damn the
fresh frankness of my work? my speech is Latin undefiled, and
has grace unmarred by gloom, and my candid tongue tells of what
all Rome's people do.
A more interesting collection of poems, probably Petronian, remains to
be discussed. In addition to the numerous fragments of poetry included
in the surviving excerpts from the _Satyricon_, a considerable number of
epigrams, attributed with more or less certainty to Petronius, are
preserved in the fragments of the _Anthologia Latina_.[322] Immediately
following on the epigrams assigned to the authorship of Seneca, the
Codex Vossianus Q. 86 gives sixteen epigrams,[323] each headed by the
word _item_. Of these two are quoted by Fulgentius as the work of
Petronius.[324] There is, therefore, especially in view of the fact that
they all bear a marked family resemblance to one another, a strong
presumption that all are by the author of the _Satyricon_. Further,
there are eleven epigrams[325] published by Binet in his edition of
Petronius[326] from a MS. originally in the cathedral library of
Beauvais, but now unfortunately lost. The first of the series is quoted
by Fulgentius[327] as being by Petronius, and there is no reason for
doubting the accuracy of Binet or his MS.[328] as to the rest. These
poems are followed by eight more epigrams,[329] the first two of which
Binet attributes to Petronius on stylistic grounds, but without any MS.
authority.[330] Lastly, four epigrams are preserved by a third MS. (Cod.
Voss. F. III) under the title _Petronii_[331]. Of these the first two
are found in the extant portions of the _Satyricon_. The evidence for
the Petronian authorship of these thirty-seven poems is not conclusive.
Arguments based on resemblance or divergence in points of style are
somewhat precarious in the case of an author like Petronius, writing
with great variety of style on a variety of subjects. But there are some
very marked resemblances between certain of these poems and verses
surviving in the excerpts from the Satyricon[332], and the evidence
_against_ the Petronian authorship is of the slightest. A possible
exception may be made in the case of the last eight epigrams preserved
by Binet, though even here Binet is just enough in pointing out the
resemblance of the first two of these to what is admittedly the work of
Petronius. But with regard to the rest we shall run small risk in
regarding them as selected from the lost books of the _Satyricon_.
These poems are very varied in character and as a whole reach a higher
poetical level than most of those preserved in the existing fragments of
the _Satyricon_.[1] The most notable features are simplicity and
unaffected grace of diction coupled with a delicate appreciation of the
beauties of nature. There is nothing that is out of keeping with the
classicism on which we have insisted as a characteristic of Petronius,
there is much that is worthy of the best writers of the Augustan age.
The five lines in which he describes the coming of autumn have much in
common with the descriptions of nature already quoted from the
_Satyricon_. The last line in particular has at once a conciseness and a
wealth of suggestion that is rare in any post-Ovidian poet:
iam nunc algentes autumnus fecerat umbras
atque hiemem tepidis spectabat Phoebus habenis,
iam platanus iactare comas, iam coeperat uvas
adnumerare suas defecto palmite vitis:
ante oculos stabat, quidquid promiserat annus.[333]
Now autumn had brought its cool shades, Phoebus' reins glowed
less hot and he was looking winterward. The plane was beginning
to shed her leaves, the vine to count its clusters, and its
fresh shoots were withered. Before our eyes stood all the
promise of the year.
Equally charming and sincere in tone is the description of the delights
of the simple life:
parvula securo tegitur mihi culmine sedes
uvaque plena mero fecunda pendet ab ulmo.
dant rami cerasos, dant mala rubentia silvae
Palladiumque nemus pingui se vertice frangit.
iam qua diductos potat levis area fontes,
Corycium mihi surgit olus malvaeque supinae
et non sollicitos missura papavera somnos.
praeterea sive alitibus contexere fraudem
seu magis inbelles libuit circumdare cervos
aut tereti lino pavidum subducere piscem,
hos tantum novere dolos mea sordida rura.
i nunc et vitae fugientis tempora vende
divitibus cenis! me qui manet exitus olim,
hic precor inveniat consumptaque tempora poscat.[334]
My cottage is sheltered by a roof that fears no ill; the
grape, bursting with wine, hangs from the fertile elm;
cherries hang by the bough and my orchard yields its rosy
apples, and the tree that Pallas loves breaks beneath the
rich burden of its branches. And now, where the garden bed's
light soil drinks in the runnels of water, rises for me
Corycian kale and low-growing mallow, and the poppy that grants
easy slumber. Moreover, whether 'tis my pleasure to set snares
for birds or hem in the timid deer, or on fine-meshed net to
draw up the affrighted fish, this is all the guile known to my
humble lands. Go to, now, and waste the flying hours of life
on sumptuous feasts! I pray, that my destined end may find me
here, and here demand an account of the days I have lived.
These lines may be no more than an academic exercise on a commonplace
theme, but there can be no doubt of their artistic success. We find the
same simplicity in Columella, but not the same art. Compare them with
the work of Petronius' contemporary, Calpurnius Siculus, and there is
all the difference between true poetry and mere poetising. More
passionate and more convincing is the elegiac poem celebrating the
poet's return to the scene of former happiness:
o litus vita mihi dulcius, o mare! felix,
cui licet ad terras ire subinde tuas!
o formosa dies! hoc quondam rure solebam
naidas alterna[335] sollicitare manu.
hic fontis lacus est, illic sinus egerit algas:
haec statio est tacitis fida cupidinibus.
pervixi; neque enim fortuna malignior umquam
eripiet nobis, quod prior aura dedit.[336]
O shore, O sea, that I love more than life! Happy is he
that may straightway visit the lands ye border. O fairest
day! 'Twas here that once I was wont to swim and vex the
sea-nymphs with my hands' alternate strokes. Here is a
stream's deep pool, there the bay casts up its seaweed: here
is a spot that can faithfully guard the secret of one's love.
I have lived my life to the full; nor can grudging fortune
ever rob me of that which her favouring breeze once gave me.
But Petronius can attain to equal success in other veins. Now we have a
fragment in the epic style containing a simile at once original and
beautiful:
haec ait et tremulo deduxit vertice canos
consecuitque genas; oculis nec defuit imber,
sed qualis rapitur per vallis improbus amnis,
cum gelidae periere nives et languidus auster
non patitur glaciem resoluta vivere terra,
gurgite sic pleno facies manavit et alto
insonuit gemitu turbato murmure pectus.[337]
He spake, and rent the white hair on his trembling head
and tore his cheeks, and his eyes streamed with a flood of
tears. As when a resistless river sweeps down the valley
when the chill snows have melted and the languid south wind
thaws the earth and suffers not the ice to remain, even so
his face streamed with a torrent of weeping and his breast
groaned loud with a confused murmur of sorrow.
Elsewhere we find him writing in satirical vein of the origin of
religion,[338] on the decay of virtue,[339] on the hardship of the
married state[340]:
'uxor legis onus, debet quasi census amari.'
nec censum vellem semper amare meum.
'One should love one's wife as one loves one's fortune.'
Nay, I desire not always to love even my fortune.
But it is in a love-poem that he reaches his highest achievement:
lecto compositus vix prima silentia noctis
carpebam et somno lumina victa dabam:
cum me saevus Amor prensat sursumque capillis
excitat et lacerum pervigilare iubet.
'tu famulus meus,' inquit, 'ames cum mille puellas,
solus, io, solus, dure, iacere potes?'
exsilio et pedibus nudis tunicaque soluta
omne iter incipio, nullum iter expedio.
nunc propero, nunc ire piget, rursumque redire
paenitet et pudor est stare via media.
ecce tacent voces hominum strepitusque viarum
et volucrum cantus turbaque fida canum:
solus ego ex cunctis paveo somnumque torumque
et sequor imperium, magne Cupido, tuum.[341]
I lay on my bed and began to enjoy the silence of the night
scarce yet begun, and was yielding my wearied eyes to sleep,
when fierce Love laid hold of me, and, seizing me by the
hair, aroused me, tore me, and bade me wake. 'Canst thou, my
servant,' he cried, 'the lover of a thousand girls, lie thus
alone, alone, hard-hearted?' I leapt from my couch, and
barefoot, with dishevelled robe, started on my errand, yet
never accomplished it. Now I hurry forward, now am loth to go;
now repent me that I have returned, and feel shame to stand
thus aimless in mid-street. So the voices of men, the murmur
of the streets, the song of birds, and the trusty watchdogs
all are silent; and I alone dread the slumbers of my couch and
follow thy behest, great god of love.
If this is not great poetry, it is at least one of the most perfect
specimens of conventional erotic verse in all ancient literature. If we
except a very few of the best poems of Propertius, Latin Elegiacs have
nothing to show that combines such perfection of form with such
exquisite sensuous charm. It breathes the fragrance of the Greek
anthology.
The general impression left by the poetical work of Petronius is
curiously unlike that left by any Latin poet. Sometimes dull, he is
never eccentric; without the originality of the greatest artists, he has
all the artist's sensibility for form. He writes not as one inspired,
but as one steeped in the best literature. Many were greater stylists,
but few were endowed with such an exquisite sense of style. As a poet he
is a _dilettante_, and his claim to greatness lies in the brilliant and
audacious humour of his 'picaresque novel'. But his verse at its best
has a charm and fragrance of its own that is almost unique in Latin, and
reveals a combination of grace and facility, to find a parallel for
which among writers of the post-Augustan age we must turn to the pages
of Martial.