Bavius and Maevius were there,
still complaining of 'cliques,' railing at Horace for a mere rhymer of
society, and at Virgil as a plagiarist, 'Take away his cribs from Homer
and Apollonius Rhodius,' quoth honest Maevius, 'and what is there left of
him?' I also met a society of gentlemen, in Greek costume, of various
ages, from a half-naked minstrel with a tortoiseshell lyre in his hand to
an elegant of the age of Pericles. They all consorted together, talking
various dialects of Aeolic, Ionian, Attic Greek, and so forth, which were
plainly not intelligible to each other. I ventured to ask one of the
company who he was, but he, with a sweep of his hand, said, 'We are
Homer!' When I expressed my regret and surprise that the Golden Gate had
not yet opened for so distinguished, though collective, an artist, my
friend answered that, according to Fick, Peppmuller, and many other
learned men, they were Homer. 'But an impostor from Chios has got in
somehow,' he said; 'they don't pay the least attention to the Germans in
the Paradise of Poets.'
"At this moment the Golden Gates were thrown apart, and a fair lady, in
an early Italian costume, carrying a laurel in her hand, appeared at the
entrance. All the Shadows looked up with an air of weary expectation,
like people waiting for their turn in a doctor's consulting-room. She
beckoned to me, however, and I made haste to follow her.
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