of any good new poems, they regarded such a poetic dearth as a public misfortune.
They used at such times to put on their worst clothes, to sprinkle ashes on their heads; and, assembling in crowds in the public squares, to shed tears and bitterly to upbraid the muse who had deserted them.
On one such inauspicious day, the young poet Junius came into a square, thronged with the grieving populace.
With rapid steps he ascended a forum constructed for this purpose, and made signs that he wished to recite a poem.
The lictors at once brandished their fasces. 'Silence! attention!' they shouted loudly, and the crowd was hushed in expectation.
'Friends! Comrades!' began Junius, in a loud but not quite steady voice:—
'Friends! Comrades! Lovers of the Muse!
Ye worshippers of beauty and of grace!
Let not a moment's gloom dismay your souls,
Your heart's desire is nigh, and light shall banish darkness.'
Junius ceased . . . and in answer to him, from every part of the square, rose a hubbub of hissing and laughter.
Every face, turned to him, glowed with indignation, every eye sparkled with anger, every arm was raised and shook a menacing fist!
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