“But Virgil is more polished and refined.”
Gellert shook his head violently. Now that the old writers were being discussed, the German sage overcame his timidity.
“We are entirely too widely separated from Virgil to be able to judge of his language and style. I trust to Quintilian, who gives Homer the preference.”
“But we must not be slaves to the judgment of the ancients,” said the king, aroused.
“I am not, sire; I only adopt their views when distance prevents my judging for myself.”
“You are certainly right in this,” said the king, kindly. “Altogether you appear to be a wise and reasonable man. I understand that you have greatly improved the German language.”
“Ah, yes, sire, but unfortunately it has been in vain.”
“Why is this?” said the king. “You all wish me to interest myself in German, but it is such a barbarous language, that I often have quires of writing sent me, of which I do not understand a word. Why is it not otherwise?”
“If your majesty cannot reform this, I certainly cannot,” said Gellert, smiling; “I can only advise, but you can command.”
“But your poems are not written in this stiff, pompous German. Do you not know one of your fables by heart?”