ing of Time now,' said Minerva, with a severe
smile. 'Pray is there anything new in Greece?'

'I have not been at all in society lately.'

'No new edition of Homer? I admire him exceedingly.'

'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