 into Troy. The priests were the
soldiers in its belly, and the heathen superstition the city to be destroyed by
them. This poem was written in Latin. I remember some of the lines: -«
 
Mundanos scandit fatalis machina muros,
Farta sacerdotum turmis: exinde per alvum
Visi exire omnes, magno cum murmure olentes.
Non aliter quàm cum humanis furibundus ab antris
It sonus et nares simul aura invadit hiantes.
Mille scatent et mille alii; trepidare timore
Ethnica gens coepit: falsi per inane volantes
Effugere Dei - Desertaque templa relinquunt.
Jam magnum crepitavit equus, mox orbis et alti
Ingemuere poli: tunc tu pater, ultimus omnium
Maxime Alexander, ventrem maturus equinum
Deseris, heu proles meliori digne parente.
 
I believe Julian, had I not stopt him, would have gone through the whole poem
(for, as I observed in most of the characters he related, the affections he had
enjoyed while he personated them on earth still made some impression on him);
but I begged him to omit the sequel of the poem, and proceed with his history.
He then recollected himself, and, smiling at the observation which by intuition
he perceived I had made, continued his narration as follows: -
    »I confess to you,« says he, »that the delight in repeating our own works is
so predominant in a poet, that I find nothing can totally root it out of the
soul. Happy would it be for those persons if their hearers could be delighted in
the same manner: but alas! hence that ingens solitudo complained of by Horace:
for the vanity of mankind is so much greedier and more general than their
avarice, that no beggar is so ill received by them as he who solicits their
praise.«
    »This I sufficiently experienced in the character of a poet; for my company
was shunned (I believe on this account chiefly) by my whole house: nay, there
were few who would submit to hearing me read my poetry, even at the price of
sharing in my provisions. The only person who gave me audience was a brother
poet; he indeed fed me with commendation very liberally: but, as I was forced to
hear and commend in my turn, I perhaps bought his attention dear enough.«
    »Well, sir, if my expectations of the reward I hoped from my first poem had
baulked me, I had now still greater reason to complain; for, instead of being
preferred or commended for the second, I was enjoined a very severe penance by
my superior, for ludicrously comparing the pope to a f-t. My poetry was now the
jest
