“Recline again, my friends,” said he. “I have come from the house of Flavillus, the timber merchant on the _stagna_; his wife’s mother has endured that which is human. She sleeps, and her spirit is with the Lord. I have been delayed. I was doing the work of my Master. One, a stranger to the faith, questioned me, and I tarried to converse with him, and disclose to his dark mind some ray of light. If the supper be ended, I will offer thanks.” Then, standing at one of the tables, he made prayer to God, and thanked Him who had caused the corn to spring out of the earth, and had gathered the many grains into one bread; who had watered the vine from heaven, and had flushed the several grapes with generous juice, uniting the many into one bunch. The thanksgiving ended, lights were introduced in considerable numbers. There is no twilight in southern climes; when night falls, it falls darkly. Now all who had eaten went to the _impluvium_, dipped their hands, and washed their lips, then wiped them on towels held by the deaconesses. The tables were quickly removed, and the benches ranged in the _triclinium_, so as to accommodate all. No sooner was the whole congregation assembled, than the president, Castor, invited all such as had a psalm, an interpretation, a vision, or an edifying narrative, to relate or recite it. Then up started a little man, who held a lyre. “Sir,” said he, “I have composed a poem in honor of Andeolus, the martyr of Gentibus.” He struck a chord on his instrument, and sang. The composition was devoid of poetry, the meter halting, the Latin full of provincialisms, and the place of poetic imagery was filled with extravagances of expression. When he had concluded, he perhaps inadvertently wound up with the words, “Generous audience, grant me your applause!”—the usual method of conclusion on the stage. And the request met with favor—hands were clapped. Then Bishop Castor rose, and with a grave face, said: “We have listened to Lartius Garrulus with interest and with edification. It is well to glorify the memories of the holy ones who have witnessed a good confession, who have fought the fight, and have shed their blood as a testimony. But a poet in treating of such subjects, should restrain his too exuberant fancy, and not assert as facts matters of mere conjecture, nor should he use expressions that, though perhaps endurable in poetry, cannot be addressed to the martyrs in sober prose. The ignorant are too ready to employ words without considering their meaning with nicety, and to quote poets as licensing them to do that which their pastors would forbid.” “But,” said the deacon Marcianus, “what if this be uttered by inspiration?”