The companions jumped up from their couches; a light laugh was heard. The cedar portal was flung open, and Ixion lounged in, habited in a loose morning robe, and kicking before him one 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 Ægiochus 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?’