‘All about Greece interests me,’ said Apollo, who, although handsome, was a somewhat melancholy lack-a-daisical looking personage, with his shirt collar thrown open, and his long curls theatrically arranged. ‘All about Greece interests me. I always consider Greece my peculiar property. My best poems were written at Delphi. I travelled in Greece when I was young. I envy mankind.’ ‘Indeed!’ said Ixion. ‘Yes: they at least can look forward to a termination of the ennui of existence, but for us Celestials there is no prospect. Say what they like, immortality is a bore.’ ‘You eat nothing, Apollo,’ said Ceres. ‘Nor drink,’ said Neptune. ‘To eat, to drink, what is it but to live; and what is life but death, if death be that which all men deem it, a thing insufferable, and to be shunned. I refresh myself now only with soda-water and biscuits. Ganymede, bring some.’ Now, although the _cuisine_ of Olympus was considered perfect, the forlorn poet had unfortunately fixed upon the only two articles which were not comprised in its cellar or larder. In Heaven, there was neither soda-water nor biscuits. A great confusion consequently ensued; but at length the bard, whose love of fame was only equalled by his horror of getting fat, consoled himself with a swan stuffed with truffles, and a bottle of strong Tenedos wine. ‘What do you think of Homer?’ inquired Minerva of Apollo. ‘Is he not delightful?’ ‘If you think so.’ ‘Nay, I am desirous of your opinion.’ ‘Then you should not have given me yours, for your taste is too fine for me to dare to differ with it.’ ‘I have suspected, for some time, that you are rather a heretic’ ‘Why, the truth is,’ replied Apollo, playing with his rings, ‘I do not think much of Homer. Homer was not esteemed in his own age, and our contemporaries are generally our best judges. The fact is, there are very few people who are qualified to decide upon matters of taste. A certain set, for certain reasons, resolve to cry up a certain writer, and the great mass soon join in. All is cant. And the present admiration of Homer is not less so. They say I have borrowed a great deal from him. The truth is, I never read Homer since I was a child, and I thought of him then what I think of him now, a writer of some wild irregular power, totally deficient in taste. Depend upon it, our contemporaries are our best judges, and his contemporaries decided that Homer was nothing. A great poet cannot be kept down. Look at my case. Marsyas said of my first volume that it was pretty good poetry for a God, and in answer I wrote a satire, and flayed Marsyas alive. But what is poetry, and what is criticism, and what is life? Air. And what is air? Do you know? I don’t. All is mystery, and all is gloom, and ever and anon from out the clouds a star breaks forth, and glitters, and that star is Poetry.’ ‘Splendid!’ exclaimed Minerva. ‘I do not exactly understand you,’ said Neptune. ‘Have you heard from Proserpine, lately?’ inquired Jupiter of Ceres.