ne of his slippers. 'Ah!'
exclaimed the King of Thessaly, 'the very fellows I wanted to see!
Ganymede, bring me some nectar; and, Mercury, run and tell Jove that I
shall not dine at home to-day.'

The messenger and the page exchanged looks of indignant consternation.

'Well! what are you waiting for?' continued Ixion, looking round from
the mirror in which he was arranging his locks. The messenger and the
page disappeared.

'So! this is Heaven,' exclaimed the husband of Dia, flinging himself
upon one of the couches; 'and a very pleasant place too. These worthy
Immortals required their minds to be opened, and I trust I have
effectually performed the necessary operation. They wanted to keep me
down with their dull old-fashioned celestial airs, but I fancy I have
given them change for their talent. To make your way in Heaven you
must command. These exclusives sink under the audacious invention of
an aspiring mind. Jove himself is really a fine old fellow, with some
notions too. I am a prime favourite, and no one is greater authority
with AEgiochus on all subjects, from the character of the fair sex or
the pedigree of a courser, down to the cut of a robe or the flavour of a
dish. Thanks, Ganymede,' continued the Thessalian, as he took the goblet
from his returning attendant.

'I drink to your _bonnes fortunes_. Splendid! This nectar makes me feel
quite immortal. By-the-bye, I hear sweet sounds. Who is in the Hall of
Music?'

'The Goddesses, royal sir, practise a new air of Euterpe, the words by
Apollo. 'Tis pretty, and will doubtless be very popular, for it is all
about moonlight and the misery of existence.'

'I warrant it.'

'You have a taste for poetry yourself?' inquired Ganymede.

'Not the least,' replied Ixion.

'Apollo,' continued the heavenly page, 'is a great genius, though
Marsyas said that he never would be a poet because he was a God, and had
no heart. But do you think, sir, that a poet does indeed need a heart?'

'I really cannot say. I know my wife always said I had a bad heart
and worse head; but what she meant, upon my honour I never could
understand.'

'Minerva will ask you to write in her album.'

'Will she indeed! I am sorry to hear it, for I can scarcely scrawl my
signature. I should think that Jove himself cared little for all this
nonsense.'

'Jove loves an epigram. He does not esteem Apollo's works at all. Jove
is of the classical school, and admires satire, provided there be no
allu