“‘Ah, I cannot bear it!’ said a voice, and, as he turned away, his brow already clearing, his pain already forgotten, I beheld the august form of Shakespeare.

“Marking my curiosity before it was expressed, he answered the unuttered question.

“‘That is a sight for Pagans,’ he said, ’and may give them pleasure.  But my Paradise were embittered if I had to watch the sorrows of others, and their torments, however well deserved.  The others are gazing on the purgatory of critics and commentators.’

“He passed from me, and I joined the ’Ionian father of the rest’—­Homer, who, with a countenance of unspeakable majesty, was seated on a throne of rock, between the Mantuan Virgil of the laurel crown, Hugo, Sophocles, Milton, Lovelace, Tennyson, and Shelley.

“At their feet I beheld, in a vast and gloomy hall, many an honest critic, many an erudite commentator, an army of reviewers.  Some were condemned to roll logs up insuperable heights, whence they descended thundering to the plain.  Others were set to impositions, and I particularly observed that the Homeric commentators were obliged to write out the ‘Iliad’ and ‘Odyssey’ in their complete shape, and were always driven by fiends to the task when they prayed for the bare charity of being permitted to leave out the ‘interpolations.’  Others, fearful to narrate, were torn into as many fragments as they had made of these immortal epics.  Others, such as Aristarchus, were spitted on their own critical signs of disapproval.  Many reviewers were compelled to read the books which they had criticised without perusal, and it was terrible to watch the agonies of the worthy pressmen who were set to this unwonted task.  ‘May we not be let off with the preface?’ they cried in piteous accents.  ’May we not glance at the table of contents and be done with it?’ But the presiding demons (who had been Examiners in the bodily life) drove them remorseless to their toils.

“Among the condemned I could not but witness, with sympathy, the punishment reserved for translators.  The translators of Virgil, in particular, were a vast and motley assemblage of most respectable men.  Bishops were there, from Gawain Douglas downwards; Judges, in their ermine; professors, clergymen, civil servants, writhing in all the tortures that the blank verse, the anapaestic measure, the metre of the ‘Lay of the Last Minstrel,’ the heroic couplet and similar devices can inflict.  For all these men had loved Virgil, though not wisely:  and now their penance was to hear each other read their own translations.”

“That must have been more than they could bear,” said Lady Violet

“Yes,” said Mr. Witham; “I should know, for down I fell into Tartarus with a crash, and writhed among the Translators.”

“Why?” asked Lady Violet.

“Because I have translated Theocritus!”

“Mr. Witham,” said Lady Violet, “did you meet your ideal woman when you were in the Paradise of Poets?”