present, they would be the
very acme of propriety.

"The figures," says Gonzala de Salas, "formerly placed at fountains, and
from which water took exit either from the mouth or from some other part,
took their forms from the several species of Satyrs. The learned
Wouweren has commented long and learnedly upon this passage, and his
emendation 'veretriculis' caused me to laugh heartily. And as a matter
of fact, I affirm that such a meaning is easily possible." Professor E.
P. Crowell, the first American scholar to edit Petronius, gravely states
in his preface that "the object of this edition is to provide for
class-room use an expurgated text," and I note that he has tactfully
omitted the "wineskins" from his edition.

In this connection the last sentence in the remarks of Wouweren, alluded
to above, is strangely to the point. After stating his emendation of
"veretriculis or veretellis" for "utriculis," he says: "Unless someone
proves that images of Marsyas were fashioned in the likeness of
bag-pipers," a fine instance of clarity of vision for so dark an age.

CHAPTER 40. "Drawing his hunting-knife, he plunged it fiercely into the
boar's side, and some thrushes flew out of the gash."

In the winter of 1895 a dinner was given in a New York studio. This
dinner, locally known as the "Girl in the Pie Dinner," was based upon
Petronius, Martial, and the thirteenth book of Athenaeus. In the summer
of 1919, I had the questionable pleasure of interviewing the chef-caterer
who got it up, and he was, at the time, engaged in trying to work out
another masterpiece to be given in California. The studio, one of the
most luxurious in the world, was transformed for the occasion into a
veritable rose grotto, the statuary was Pompeian, and here and there
artistic posters were seen which were nothing if not reminiscent of
Boulevard Clichy and Montmartre in the palmiest days. Four negro banjo
players and as many jubilee singers titillated the jaded senses of the
guests in a manner achieved by the infamous saxophone syncopating jazz of
the Barbary Coast of our times. The dinner was over. The four and one
half bottles of champagne allotted to each Silenus had been consumed, and
a well-defined atmosphere of bored satiety had begun to settle down when
suddenly the old-fashioned lullaby "Four and Twenty Blackbirds" broke
forth from the banjoists and singers. Four waiters came in bearing a
surprisingly monstrous object, someth