“Ah, what hypocrites,” said the devil; “it would have been better for them, if they had delivered themselves openly to those pleasures, they concealed under the appearances which deceive the vulgar.”
In another part they were praying after this fashion:—“Lord, let my father soon taste the joys of Paradise, that I may take possession of his estate.”—“Lord, take speedily my uncle to thy bosom, that I may have his benefice.”—“Great saint, make me fortunate at play; disdain not my prayer; grant that my children may contract opulent marriages, and prosper in the world.”—“Let my daughter espouse the noble Spaniard.”—They uttered other supplications fully as extravagant, and added promises and vows.—“I will give a hundred crowns to the poor, ornaments to my church, a dowry to six unhappy orphans, two wax tapers, and a chaplet of flowers to our lady.”—“I will wear a dark coloured habit,” said one girl; “and I a white,” said another. The first replies, “I am brunette, the violet suits my complexion;” the second, “I am red, the white becomes me best.”
Next to this apartment was that of women and girls who had been lovers, and whose number was very considerable. As the history of their folly was similar, I felt unwilling to listen to it, but traversed their chamber without stopping, and entered into the quarter of the poets, to have the satisfaction of beholding the great geniuses of antiquity. There I was much surprised to find Homer, sitting in the midst of the Grecian poets, and reading his own Iliad, he who had been so blind during his life. I was tempted to ask him some questions respecting his works, and had an idea he would reply in verse. With this view I walked round the circle that was formed, and spoke in these terms to the prince of poets:—“O, illustrious Homer! light of the universe! author of the most sublime fictions! the beauty and price of thy writings surpass the grandeur of the king of Spain, the wisdom of Charlemagne, the abundance of Ceres, the girdle of the Graces, the tenderness of Venus, the delicacies of Bacchus, the brightness of Aurora, the height of heaven, the depth of hell, the vastidity of the ocean, and the variety of the world, a Spaniard who wants neither spirit nor courage, of Quevedo, demands of thee if the victory thou hast attributed to the Greeks before Troy truly belongs to them; and if Paris, that tender lover, actually in vain took so much trouble to carry off their chaste Helen.”
Homer, rubbing his eyes, answered me thus:—“Here there must needs be sincerity and truth; for we pay dearly for the boldness and obloquy, that weak mortals admire: our torments are eternal. I never was in Ionia: I passed my life in Greece; to honour this nation I sacked Troy; a city strong, rich, fortunate, and always victorious, and that was finally destroyed by an earthquake. Helen, to whom I have accorded the honours of fidelity, was the least scrupulous of all our frail damsels. Leave me to relent over what hath charmed all the poets of the world. Go from this place, and tell mortals you found me reading, against my inclination, those works that have attained the universal suffrage.”
His discourse affected me. I pitied this old man, who wept upon reading his poems; but I reflected that he had invented all those fabulous incidents, to which both pagans and Christians are equally attached. Homer, this genius who knew how to assume so many changes, had he need to endow with heavenly powers, those brave men whom he sent to the siege of Troy? he might have created heroes, without making them gods: to be sure, it is always permitted to poets to feign and magnify their subjects; or, in other words, the subjects thus aggrandised and exalted to heaven have no sublimity but in poesy and upon paper, like the figures that painters trace on canvass, or sculptors upon marble. How could the Greeks mistake and worship gods who had such an origin? however the thing has happened, Homer is the cause, and now mourns over his poetry and himself; he has for companions in misery, his disciples and imitators. Ought this not to serve as a lesson to living poets, who, abusing their talents, compose and read seductive works, causing those who think themselves in a condition to do the like, to lose their time, and often corrupting the heart in recreating the mind.
From this chamber I passed into that of the Latin poets. Ovid and Virgil there disputed the throne. Horace chafed that he was not admitted into the contest, and Martial revenged himself upon them by a piquant epigram. Horace protested against the whole proceeding of the two first; he demanded arbitrators, and nominated on his own behalf Scaliger, who has declared that he would rather have been the author of the ninth ode, than the possessor of the crown of Arragon; but they would not notice him. The other poets espoused the party that suited them best: many declared for Seneca the tragedian, for Terence, and Plautus. These last, read in a corner of the chamber the finest passages of their compositions. They now began to talk of settling the dispute with blows: fearing, therefore, that I might get an unlucky hit in the mêlée, I left the place, and passed hastily into the chambers of the Spaniards, Italians, French, English, Turkish, Chinese, and Persian. I noticed the ancient Gaulish poets, crowned with misletoe of the oak, making processions, and singing the histories of their first kings.
“Here, upon this side,” said Curiosity to me, “is a chamber of perfumers; they have fine scents for the gratification of the damned; but you would hardly be able to bear them.”
“I will take,” said I, “a pinch of snuff.”
I drew forth my box, helped myself, and offered it to my devil; he filled his nose, but from the titilation he felt in his olfactories, he withdrew his fingers, when he began to sneeze in such a manner, and with such a noise, that hell itself seemed sinking under us, he belched forth fire from his nose, as lightning flashes from a cloud; he put his fore-finger to it, and there issued forth a rivulet of liquid sulphur, which uniting with his saliva, formed a torrent of boiling water, that flowed across the chamber, and passed through the doors and windows; without that I believe I should have been drowned. These waters fell upon people underneath, who began to call for help, thinking a river of melted sulphur and pitch fell upon them. The devil laughed heartily at this disorder, and told me my snuff was excellent: he asked for another pinch; I did not dare to refuse him, because he was in his own house; and such a refusal might, perhaps, have made him regard me as impolite. But this time, when I put my fingers into the box, the powder took fire as if it had been saltpetre, and burnt in my hands, at which accident I was not sorry, being apprehensive of another disorder, similar to the first.
We then entered the chamber of the perfumers: they were occupied in extracting essences of intolerable odours, which are as agreeable to them as jessamine, tuberose, orange, and others in use among the men and women of our world: they made these essences from the oil of the box tree, from wax, jet, and yellow amber. Their pomatums were composed of galbanum, assafœtida, rosin, pitch, and turpentine. I was informed that these were for the use of the ladies of hell, who were served by the perfumers, and who were, at the same time, obliged to use their compounds, in obedience to the laws of Lucifer.