Horace.—­You did not confine your sovereignty to poets; you exercised it, no doubt, over all other writers.

Scaliger.—­I was a poet, a philosopher, a statesman, an orator, an historian, a divine without doing the drudgery of any of these, but only censuring those who did, and showing thereby the superiority of my genius over them all.

Horace.—­A short way, indeed, to universal fame!  And I suppose you were very peremptory in your decisions?

Scaliger.—­Peremptory! ay.  If any man dared to contradict my opinions I called him a dunce, a rascal, a villain, and frightened him out of his wits.

Virgil.—­But what said others to this method of disputation?

Scaliger.—­They generally believed me because of the confidence of my assertions, and thought I could not be so insolent or so angry if I was not absolutely sure of being in the right.  Besides, in my controversies, I had a great help from the language in which I wrote.  For one can scold and call names with a much better grace in Latin than in French or any tame modern tongue.

Horace.—­Have not I heard that you pretended to derive your descent from the princes of Verona?

Scaliger.—­Pretended!  Do you presume to deny it?

Horace.—­Not I, indeed.  Genealogy is not my science.  If you should claim to descend in a direct line from King Midas I would not dispute it.

Virgil.—­I wonder, Scaliger, that you stooped to so low an ambition.  Was it not greater to reign over all Mount Parnassus than over a petty state in Italy?

Scaliger.—­You say well.  I was too condescending to the prejudices of vulgar opinion.  The ignorant multitude imagine that a prince is a greater man than a critic.  Their folly made me desire to claim kindred with the Scalas of Verona.

Horace.—­Pray, Mercury, how do you intend to dispose of this august person?  You can’t think it proper to let him remain with us.  He must be placed with the demigods; he must go to Olympus.

Mercury.—­Be not afraid.  He shall not trouble you long.  I brought him hither to divert you with the sight of an animal you never had seen, and myself with your surprise.  He is the chief of all the modern critics, the most renowned captain of that numerous and dreadful band.  Whatever you may think of him, I can seriously assure you that before he went mad he had good parts and great learning.  But I will now explain to you the original cause of the absurdities he has uttered.  His mind was formed in such a manner that, like some perspective glasses, it either diminished or magnified all objects too much; but, above all others, it magnified the good man to himself.  This made him so proud that it turned his brain.  Now I have had my sport with him, I think it will be charity to restore him to his senses, or rather to bestow what Nature denied him—­a sound judgment.  Come hither, Scaliger.  By this touch of my Caduceus I give thee power to see things as they are, and, among others, thyself.  Look, gentlemen, how his countenance is fallen in a moment!  Hear what he says.  He is talking to himself.