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‘Now, Ixion, are you ready?’ ‘Even so. What says Jove?’ ‘He smiled, but said nothing. He was trying on a new robe. By this time he is seated. Hark! the thunder. Come on!’

They entered a cupolaed hall. Seats of ivory and gold were ranged round a circular table of cedar, inlaid with the campaigns against the Titans, in silver exquisitely worked, a nuptial present of Vulcan. The service of gold plate threw all the ideas of the King of Thessaly as to royal magnificence into the darkest shade. The enormous plateau represented the constellations. Ixion viewed the Father of Gods and men with great interest, who, however, did not notice him. He acknowledged the majesty of that countenance whose nod shook Olympus. Majestically robust and luxuriantly lusty, his tapering waist was evidently immortal, for it defied Time, and his splendid auburn curls, parted on his forehead with celestial precision, descended over cheeks glowing with the purple radiancy of perpetual manhood.

The haughty Juno was seated on his left hand and Ceres on his right. For the rest of the company there was Neptune, Latona, Minerva, and Apollo, and when Mercury and Ixion had taken their places, one seat was still vacant.

‘Where is Diana?’ inquired Jupiter, with a frown.

‘My sister is hunting,’ said Apollo.

‘She is always too late for dinner,’ said Jupiter. ‘No habit is less Goddess-like.’

‘Godlike pursuits cannot be expected to induce Goddess-like manners,’ said Juno, with a sneer.

‘I have no doubt Diana will be here directly,’ said Latona, mildly.

Jupiter seemed pacified, and at that instant the absent guest returned.

‘Good sport, Di?’ inquired Neptune.

‘Very fair, uncle. Mamma,’ continued the sister of Apollo, addressing herself to Juno, whom she ever thus styled when she wished to conciliate her, ‘I have brought you a new peacock.’

Juno was fond of pets, and was conciliated by the present.

‘Bacchus made a great noise about this wine, Mercury,’ said Jupiter,’ but I think with little cause. What think you?’

‘It pleases me, but I am fatigued, and then all wine is agreeable.’

‘You have had a long journey,’ replied the Thunderer. ‘Ixion, I am glad to see you in Heaven.’

‘Your Majesty arrived to-day?’ inquired Minerva, to whom the King of Thessaly sat next.

‘Within this hour.’

‘You must leave off talking 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.’