A detailed account of him, which must be divinely inspired since there is no human material for it, has been made popular in the last half-century by the author—a foreign gentleman, whose name for the moment escapes me—of a novel entitled Quo Vadis. Fond as he must have been of oysters, there is no evidence that Petronius ever visited England, but it should be borne in mind that the law for which he is generally regarded as showing insufficient respect was not enacted here until more than eighteen hundred years after his death. Moreover, suicide, the one offence with which he is definitely charged, was not in his or his contemporaries' eyes the horrid felony which, I hope, it will always be in yours. That his work—of which this volume forms but a fragmentary part—had made its way into this country, with unusual rapidity, in little more than ten centuries from its publication, is shown by its being frequently quoted by the English churchman John of Salisbury, the pupil of Abelard and friend and biographer of Becket (the Saint, not the boxer), who died (as Bishop of Chartres) in the year 1180. We may suppose that John took a copy of the Satyricon home with him from Paris, as undergraduates do to-day from Oxford and Cambridge. Two and a half centuries later, in 1423 (I owe this display of erudition to Mr. Gaselee's collotype reproduction of the Trau manuscript), Poggio writes to Niccolò Niccoli that he has received from Cologne a copy recently ordered by him, of the fifteenth book of Petronius, and asks his friend to return the extract from Petronius "which I sent you from Britain." This last, Mr. Gaselee spiritedly assumes, was the part known as Cena Trimalchionis (pages 41 to 118 in this volume) from which John of Salisbury makes three separate quotations, but which is not otherwise on record before the discovery of what may have been Poggio's own manuscript (for it also is dated 1423) at Trau in Dalmatia, in the middle of the seventeenth century.

This manuscript is described as "Fragments from the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Books of the Satire of Petronius Arbiter"; we may assume, therefore, that the whole Satire was immensely long, a life-work, like Marcel Proust's A la Recherche du Temps Perdu, and like that work, perhaps, fatal to its author. Indeed, since Proust's death last year the two have frequently been compared, and on more than the mere alliterative ground that is in their names. Of Petronius we are told "illi dies per somnum, nox officiis et oblectamentis vitae transigebatur; utque alios industria, ita hunc ignavia ad famam protulerat, habebaturque non ganeo et profligator, ut plerique sua haurientium, sed erudito luxu. Ac dicta factaque eius quanto solutiora et quandam sui negligentiam praeferentia, tanto gratius in speciem simplicitatis accipiebantur." So far, this describes Proust also, and the similarity extends to their work. In connexion with Proust's, one of our youngest critics, your contemporary rather than mine, raises the question: "how this titanic fragment can be trundled from age to age," and answers himself with: "A la Recherche du Temps Perdu is not one of those things which are replaced, like the novel of the moment, but exactly what part of it is most likely to be saved the present cannot decide." The better answer is, surely, that, of Proust as of his fore-runner Petronius, people will keep the things they like best. There are many pages now in Proust that are boring—but even now a selected edition for schools and colleges is (I am told) in the press: there is nothing in the surviving Satyricon that need bring a yawn to the lips of adolescence.

If, as I may suppose, you have planned to translate some at least of the Greek and Latin classics, you can choose no more handy model than Mr. Burnaby. He is later, it is true, than the richest and best examples, but so much the nearer to you in speech. He is not always scholarly—you can safely leave scholarship to others—but he uses an excellent colloquial English with a common sense in interpretation which carries him over the many gaps in the story without any palpable difference in texture. How fragmentary the latter part of the Satyricon is you will see if you turn to the edition published last year in the Loeb Classical Library. The reading of fragments has a fascination for the curious mind: you also, I think, must have devoured those casual sheets of forgotten masterpieces in which book-sellers envelop their parcels, and have dignified the whole with an importance which it can never when in circulation have enjoyed. Balzac, you remember, plays on this weakness, which he must have shared, in La Muse du Département, where the great Lousteau exasperates a provincial audience, assembled to hear him talk, by reading to them the inconsequent pages of Olympia, ou les Vengeances romaines; it is rich comedy, but the fragment carries us away, and at the beginning of page 209: "robe frôla dans le silence. Tout à coup le cardinal Borborigano parut aux yeux de la duchesse————" we exclaim, don't we, with Bianchon: "Le cardinal Borborigano! Par les clefs du pape, si vous ne m'accordez pas qu'il se trouve une magnifique création seulement dans le nom, si vous ne voyez pas à ces mots: robe frôla dans le silence! toute la poësie du rôle de Schedomi inventé par madame Radcliffe dans le Confessional des Pénitents noirs, vous êtes indigne de lire des romans . . ." And these are fragments that have been deliberately chosen for preservation.

Since it is still safe to assume things, I will go on to suggest to you that the Satyricon was planned, on the Homeric model, in twenty-four books, and will leave you to—in the striking words used recently by The Times of the Japanese earthquake—"grope for analogies" between the text which follows and the fifteenth and sixteenth books of the Odyssey, which you have, doubtless, by heart. But, if I know you at all, you are more likely to be groping for analogies between the characters in Petronius and those you will come across in the first months of your new London life. Quartilla you will hardly escape, or Tryphœna either; Fortunata will pester you with her invitations, and, if you visit the National Gallery (though I hear they intend, now, to close it) or the Turkish Baths, you must beware of Eumolpus: while if the others cross your path by night you will do well to bear in mind the warning given to an earlier poet by a greater Roman even than Petronius:

Questi non hanno speranza di morte,
E la lor cieca vita e tanto bassa,
Che invidiosi son d'ogni altra sorte.
Fama di loro il mondo esser non lassa,
Misericordia e giustizia gli sdegna:
Non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda e passa.

On which high note I shall leave you to enjoy the Satyricon, and shall hope to hear from you, presently, what your opinion of it is.

C. K. Scott Moncrieff.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY EARL OF RUMNEY

Master-General of Their Majesties Ordinance, and of Their Majesties most Honourable Privy-Council, Constable of Dover-Castle, and Lord Warden of the Cinque-Ports.

My Lord,