ly: Steele and Addison left their cards as Captain Sentry
and Sir Roger de Coverley: Swift came in and sat down without speaking a
word, and quitted the room as abruptly: Otway and Chatterton were seen
lingering on the opposite side of the Styx, but could not muster enough
between them to pay Charon his fare: Thomson fell asleep in the boat, and
was rowed back again--and Burns sent a low fellow, one John Barleycorn, an
old companion of his who had conducted him to the other world, to say that
he had during his lifetime been drawn out of his retirement as a show,
only to be made an exciseman of, and that he would rather remain where he
was. He desired, however, to shake hands by his representative--the hand,
thus held out, was in a burning fever, and shook prodigiously.

The room was hung round with several portraits of eminent painters. While
we were debating whether we should demand speech with these masters of
mute eloquence, whose features were so familiar to us, it seemed that all
at once they glided from their frames, and seated themselves at some
little distance from us. There was Leonardo with his majestic beard and
watchful eye, having a bust of Archimedes before him; next him was
Raphael's graceful head turned round to the Fornarina; and on his other
side was Lucretia Borgia, with calm, golden locks; Michael Angelo had
placed the model of St. Peter's on the table before him; Correggio had an
angel at his side; Titian was seated with his Mistress between himself and
Giorgioni; Guido was accompanied by his own Aurora, who took a dice-box
from him; Claude held a mirror in his hand; Rubens patted a beautiful
panther (led in by a satyr) on the head; Vandyke appeared as his own
Paris, and Rembrandt was hid under furs, gold chains and jewels, which Sir
Joshua eyed closely, holding his hand so as to shade his forehead. Not a
word was spoken; and as we rose to do them homage, they still presented
the same surface to the view. Not being _bona-fide_ representations of
living people, we got rid of the splendid apparitions by signs and dumb
show. As soon as they had melted into thin air, there was a loud noise at
the outer door, and we found it was Giotto, Cimabue, and Ghirlandaio, who
had been raised from the dead by their earnest desire to see their
illustrious successors--

"Whose names on earth
In Fame's eternal records live for aye!"

Finding them gone, they had no ambition to be seen after them, and