When he could be heard he mimicked the speech and manners of public men.
"A Cupid with a knot in his back," said one.
"And if I were to aim an arrow at you," said the dwarf, quickly, "I'm sure you'd have a pain in yours." "My dear," said the gentle-mannered emperor, when the laughter had died away, "I think we shall now give him the crown of folly and let him go." "Between the greatest and the least of Romans," said his daughter, rising and pointing at her father and then at the dwarf, "I am lost in mediocrity." A slave took the little creature in his arms and bore him away as if he had been a pet dog.
"Tell me, young men," said the emperor, "have you no lines to read us--you that have youth and beauty and sweethearts?
How is it with you, good Vergilius ?" The young man shook his head.

"No," said he; "I have youth and a sweetheart, but not the gift of poesy." "No lines! What are we coming to in this Rome of ours?
Are there no more poets?
My dear friends, tell me, in the baths or the forum or the theatre, or wherever the people congregate, do you hear of no youth that has the divine gift of song ?" He paused for a little, but there was no reply.
"Then Rome is in evil days," said the great father, sadly.
"Why ?" It was the question of Gracus.
"Why, young man?
Because in every land there should be those who can cherish the fear of the gods and make honor beautiful and love sacred and valor a thing of imperishable fame.

I assure you, good people, one poet is better," he paused, thoughtfully--"than ten thousand soldiers," he added.

"Who will bring me a poet ?" The gods are indeed helpless, thought Vergilius.

They must have poets to do their work for them?
But he said nothing.
"The streets are full of poets," said Gracus.
"Those old men with long beards and stilted rubbish!" said Augustus, "with tragedies that slay the hero and the hearer! Bring me a poet, and, remember, I shall honor him above all men.