d forward with my
lovely companion, and, embracing her with vast eagerness, but spiritual
innocence, she returned my embrace in the same manner, and we both
congratulated ourselves on our arrival in this happy region, whose
beauty no painting of the imagination can describe.

CHAPTER VIII

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 i