“‘The renowned Laura, if I am not mistaken,’ I ventured to remark, recognising her, indeed, from the miniature in the Laurentian library at Florence.

“She bowed, and I began to ask for her adorer, Petrarch.

“‘Excuse me,’ said Laura, as we glided down a mossy path, under the shade of trees particularly dear to poets, ’excuse me, but the sonneteer of whom you speak is one whose name I cannot bear to mention.  His conduct with Burns’s Clarinda, his heartless infatuation for Stella—­’

“‘You astonish me,’ I said.  ‘In the Paradise of Poets—­’

“‘They are poets still—­incorrigible!’ answered the lady; then slightly raising her voice of silver, as a beautiful appearance in a toga drew near, she cried ‘Catullo mio!’

“The greeting between these accomplished ghosts was too kindly to leave room for doubt as to the ardour of their affections.

“‘Will you, my Catullus,’ murmured Laura, ’explain to this poet from the land of fogs, any matters which, to him, may seem puzzling and unfamiliar in our Paradise?’

“The Veronese, with a charming smile, took my hand, and led me to a shadowy arbour, whence we enjoyed a prospect of many rivers and mountains in the poets’ heaven.  Among these I recognised the triple crest of the Eildons, Grongar Hill, Cithaeron and Etna; while the reed-fringed waters of the Mincius flowed musically between the banks and braes o’ bonny Doon to join the Tweed.  Blithe ghosts were wandering by, in all varieties of apparel, and I distinctly observed Dante’s Beatrice, leaning loving on the arm of Sir Philip Sidney, while Dante was closely engaged in conversation with the lost Lenore, celebrated by Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.

“’In what can my knowledge of the Paradise of Poets be serviceable to you, sir?’ said Catullus, as he flung himself at the feet of Laura, on the velvet grass.

“‘I am disinclined to seem impertinently curious,’ I answered, ’but the ladies in this fair, smiling country—­have the gods made them poetical?’

“‘Not generally,’ replied Catullus.  ’Indeed, if you would be well with them, I may warn you never to mention poetry in their hearing.  They never cared for it while on earth, and in this place it is a topic which the prudent carefully avoid among ladies.  To tell the truth, they have had to listen to far too much poetry, and too many discussions on the caesura.  There are, indeed, a few lady poets—­very few.  Sappho, for example; indeed I cannot recall any other at this moment.  The result is that Phaon, of all the shadows here, is the most distinguished by the fair.  He was not a poet, you know; he got in on account of Sappho, who adored him.  They are estranged now, of course.’

“‘You interest me deeply,’ I answered.  ’And now, will you kindly tell me why these ladies are here, if they were not poets?’

“’The women that were our ideals while we dwelt on earth, the women we loved but never won, or, at all events, never wedded, they for whom we sighed while in the arms of a recognised and legitimate affection, have been chosen by the Olympians to keep us company in Paradise!’