d Petronius from that moment
forth. But he did not care for their love. He remembered that that crowd
of people had loved also Britannicus, poisoned by Nero; and Agrippina,
killed at his command; and Octavia, smothered in hot steam at the
Pandataria, after her veins had been opened previously; and Rubelius
Plautus, who had been banished; and Thrasea, to whom any morning might
bring a death sentence. The love of the mob might be considered rather
of ill omen; and the sceptical Petronius was superstitious also. He had
a twofold contempt for the multitude,--as an aristocrat and an aesthetic
person. Men with the odor of roast beans, which they carried in their
bosoms, and who besides were eternally hoarse and sweating from playing
mora on the street-corners and peristyles, did not in his eyes deserve
the term "human." Hence he gave no answer whatever to the applause,
or the kisses sent from lips here and there to him. He was relating to
Marcus the case of Pedanius, reviling meanwhile the fickleness of that
rabble which, next morning after the terrible butchery, applauded Nero
on his way to the temple of Jupiter Stator. But he gave command to
halt before the book-shop of Avirnus, and, descending from the litter,
purchased an ornamented manuscript, which he gave to Vinicius.

"Here is a gift for thee," said he.

"Thanks!" answered Vinicius. Then, looking at the title, he inquired,
"'Satyricon'? Is this something new? Whose is it?"

"Mine. But I do not wish to go in the road of Rufinus, whose history I
was to tell thee, nor of Fabricius Veiento; hence no one knows of this,
and do thou mention it to no man."

"Thou hast said that thou art no writer of verses," said Vinicius,
looking at the middle of the manuscript; "but here I see prose thickly
interwoven with them."

"When thou art reading, turn attention to Trimalchion's feast. As to
verses, they have disgusted me, since Nero is writing an epic. Vitelius,
when he wishes to relieve himself, uses ivory fingers to thrust down his
throat; others serve themselves with flamingo feathers steeped in olive
oil or in a decoction of wild thyme. I read Nero's poetry, and the
result is immediate. Straightway I am able to praise it, if not with a
clear conscience, at least with a clear stomach."

When he had said this, he stopped the litter again before the shop of
Idomeneus the goldsmith, and, having settled the affair of the gems,
gave command to bear the litter directly to Aulus's