In the Memorials of Whitelock[269], the contemporary of the singer of Paradise Lost, we read of "one Mr. Milton, a blind man, parliamentary secretary for Latin despatches."
Molière[270], the "stage-player," performed his Pourceaugnac in the same way that Shakespeare, the "buffoon," clowned his Falstaff.
Those veiled travellers, who come from time to time to sit at our board, are treated by us as ordinary guests; we remain unaware of their nature until the day of their disappearance. On leaving the earth, they become transfigured, and say to us, as the angel from heaven said to Tobias:
"I am one of the seven who stand before the Lord[271]."
But, though misunderstood by men on their passage, those divinities do not fail to recognise one another. Milton asks:
What needs my Shakespeare, for his honour'd bones,
The labour of an age in piled stones[272]?
Michael Angelo[273], envying Dante's lot and genius, exclaims:
Pur fuss'io tal...
Per l'aspro esilio suo con sua virtute
Darci del mondo più felice stato.
Tasso celebrates Camoëns, as yet almost unknown, and acts as his "Fame." Is there anything more admirable than the society of illustrious people revealing themselves, one to the other, by means of signs, greeting one another and communing with each other in a language understood by themselves alone?