The adventures which the author met on his first entrance
into Elysium.
We pursued our way through a delicious grove of orange-trees, where I
saw infinite numbers of spirits, every one of whom I knew, and was known
by them (for spirits here know one another by intuition). I presently
met a little daughter whom I had lost several years before. Good gods!
what words can describe the raptures, the melting passionate tenderness,
with which we kissed each other, continuing in our embrace, with the
most ecstatic joy, a space which, if time had been measured here as on
earth, could not be less than half a year.
The first spirit with whom I entered into discourse was the famous
Leonidas of Sparta. I acquainted him with the honors which had been done
him by a celebrated poet of our nation; to which he answered he was very
much obliged to him. We were presently afterwards entertained with the
most delicious voice I had ever heard, accompanied by a violin, equal to
Signior Piantinida. I presently discovered the musician and songster to
be Orpheus and Sappho.
Old Homer was present at this concert (if I may so call it), and Madam
Dacier sat in his lap. He asked much after Mr. Pope, and said he was
very desirous of seeing him; for that he had read his Iliad in his
translation with almost as much delight as he believed he had given
others in the original. I had the curiosity to inquire whether he had
really writ that poem in detached pieces, and sung it about as ballads
all over Greece, according to the report which went of him. He smiled at
my question, and asked me whether there appeared any connection in
the poem; for if there did he thought I might answer myself. I then
importuned him to acquaint me in which of the cities which contended for
the honor of his birth he was really born? To which he answered, “Upon
my soul I can’t tell.”
Virgil then came up to me, with Mr. Addison under his arm. “Well, sir,”
said he, “how many translations have these few last years produced of
my Aeneid?” I told him I believed several, but I could not possibly
remember; for that I had never read any but Dr. Trapp’s. “Ay,” said
he, “that is a curious piece indeed!” I then acquainted him with the
discovery made by Mr. Warburton of the Elusinian mysteries couched in
his sixth book. “What mysteries?” said Mr. Addison. “The Elusinian,”
answered Virgil, “which I have disclosed in my sixth book.” “How!”
replied Addison. “You never mentioned a word of any such mysteries to
me in all our acquaintance.” “I thought it was unnecessary,” cried the
other, “to a man of your infinite learning: besides, you always told
me you perfectly understood my meaning.” Upon this I thought the critic
looked a little out of countenance, and turned aside to a very merry
spirit, one Dick Steele, who embraced him, and told him he had been the
greatest man upon earth; that he readily resigned up all the merit of
his own works to him. Upon which Addison gave him a gracious smile, and,
clapping him on the back with much solemnity, cried out, “Well said,
Dick!”
I then observed Shakespeare standing between Betterton and Booth, and
deciding a difference between those two great actors concerning the
placing an accent in one of his lines: this was disputed on both sides
with a warmth which surprised me in Elysium, till I discovered by
intuition that every soul retained its principal characteristic, being,
indeed, its very essence. The line was that celebrated one in Othello--
PUT OUT THE LIGHT, AND THEN PUT OUT THE LIGHT. according to Betterton.
Mr. Booth contended to have it thus:--
Put out the light, and then put out THE light. I could not help offering
my conjecture on this occasion, and suggested it might perhaps be--
Put out the light, and then put out THY light. Another hinted a reading
very sophisticated in my opinion--
Put out the light, and then put out THEE, light, making light to be the
vocative case. Another would have altered the last word, and read--
PUT OUT THY LIGHT, AND THEN PUT OUT THY SIGHT. But Betterton said, if
the text was to be disturbed, he saw no reason why a word might not be
changed as well as a letter, and, instead of “put out thy light,” you
may read “put out thy eyes.” At last it was agreed on all sides to refer
the matter to the decision of Shakespeare himself, who delivered his
sentiments as follows: “Faith, gentlemen, it is so long since I wrote
the line, I have forgot my meaning. This I know, could I have dreamed
so much nonsense would have been talked and writ about it, I would
have blotted it out of my works; for I am sure, if any of these be my
meaning, it doth me very little honor.”
He was then interrogated concerning some other ambiguous passages in his
works; but he declined any satisfactory answer; saying, if Mr. Theobald
had not writ about it sufficiently, there were three or four more new
editions of his plays coming out, which he hoped would satisfy every
one: concluding, “I marvel nothing so much as that men will gird
themselves at discovering obscure beauties in an author. Certes the
greatest and most pregnant beauties are ever the plainest and most
evidently striking; and when two meanings of a passage can in the
least balance our judgments which to prefer, I hold it matter of
unquestionable certainty that neither of them is worth a farthing.”
From his works our conversation turned on his monument; upon which,
Shakespeare, shaking his sides, and addressing himself to Milton, cried
out, “On my word, brother Milton, they have brought a noble set of poets
together; they would have been hanged erst have [ere they had] convened
such a company at their tables when alive.” “True, brother,” answered
Milton, “unless we had been as incapable of eating then as we are now.”