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Trimalchio and Agamemnon might have spoken for Petronius, and the nephew Rameau and the parson Papin for Diderot, in every condition and on every occasion inexhaustibly, out of their own nature; just so the purest and noblest souls, whose kind was, after all, not entirely extinct in their day.
It was anciently used as anathema and that use is still in force to this day. Let the incredulous critic spit in some one's face if he doubts my word. But sputum had also a place in the Greek and Roman rituals. Trimalchio spits and throws wine under the table when he hears a cock crowing unseasonably. This, in the first century.
The tables were massy silver, the earthen ware double gilt, and a conduit running with wine; when, quoth Trimalchio, "This day, my friends, a servant of mine opened a barber's shop; he's well to pass, a thrifty fellow, and a favourite of mine: Come, let the floor have a drink as well as our selves; and for our part, we'll sit to it till day-light."
Trimalchio thus kept under for a while, commanded a bumper to be fill'd and given round to the waiters, with this further, that whosoever refused it should have it poured down his collar. Thus one while we were grave, and other while merry.
We drank and admired every thing, when in came a servant with a silver puppet, so jointed and put together that it turned every way; and being more than once thrown upon the table, cast it self into several figures; on which Trimalchio came out with his poetry: Unhappy mortals, on how fine a thread Our lives depend! How like this puppet man, Shall we alas! be all when we are dead!
How Trimalchio sneered at your absurd attempt to give a feast; and Harpagon cried out at your extravagance and ostentation!
While the question is under discussion Encolpius is interrupted and carried off through a variety of adventures, of which suffice it to say that they are best left in obscurity, being neither humorous nor moral. Another day, he is invited to dine with the rich freedman Trimalchio, under whom, doubtless, some court favourite of Nero is shadowed forth.
We Were in the midst of these delicacies when, to the sound of music, Trimalchio himself was carried in and bolstered up in a nest of small cushions, which forced a snicker from the less wary. A shaven poll protruded from a scarlet mantle, and around his neck, already muffled with heavy clothing, he had tucked a napkin having a broad purple stripe and a fringe that hung down all around.
Some glass bottles carefully sealed with gypsum were brought in at that instant; a label bearing this inscription was fastened to the neck of each one: OPIMIAN FALERNIAN ONE HUNDRED YEARS OLD. While we were studying the labels, Trimalchio clapped his hands and cried, "Ah me! To think that wine lives longer than poor little man. Let's fill 'em up!
This epigram led up to a discussion of the poets, and for a long time, the greatest praise was bestowed upon Mopsus the Thracian, until Trimalchio broke in with: "Professor, I wish you'd tell me how you'd compare Cicero and Publilius. I'm of the opinion that the first was the more eloquent, but that the last moralizes more beautifully, for what can excel these lines?
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