pleasure.  How can I study or think while such a number of beasts—and the worst beasts are men turned into beasts—are howling or roaring or grunting all about me?

Circe.—There may be something in this, but this I know is not all.  You suppress the strongest reason that draws you to Ithaca.  There is another image besides that of your former self, which appears to you in this island, which follows you in your walks, which more particularly interposes itself between you and me, and chides you from my arms.  It is Penelope, Ulysses, I know it is.  Don’t pretend to deny it.  You sigh for Penelope in my bosom itself.  And yet she is not an immortal.  She is not, as I am, endowed by Nature with the gift of unfading youth.  Several years have passed since hers has been faded.  I might say, without vanity, that in her best days she was never so handsome as I.  But what is she now?

Ulysses.—You have told me yourself, in a former conversation, when I inquired of you about her, that she is faithful to my bed, and as fond of me now, after twenty years’ absence, as at the time when I left her to go to Troy.  I left her in the bloom of youth and beauty.  How much must her constancy have been tried since that time!  How meritorious is her fidelity!  Shall I reward her with falsehood?  Shall I forget my Penelope, who can’t forget me, who has no pleasure so dear to her as my remembrance?

Circe.—Her love is preserved by the continual hope of your speedy return.  Take that hope from her.  Let your companions return, and let her know that you have fixed your abode with me, that you have fixed it for ever.  Let her know that she is free to dispose as she pleases of her

heart and her hand.  Send my picture to her, bid her compare it with her own face.  If all this does not cure her of the remains of her passion, if you don’t hear of her marrying Eurymachus in a twelvemonth, I understand nothing of womankind.

Ulysses.—O cruel goddess! why will you force me to tell you truths I desire to conceal?  If by such unmerited, such barbarous usage I could lose her heart it would break mine.  How should I be able to endure the torment of thinking that I had wronged such a wife?  What could make me amends for her being no longer mine, for her being another’s?  Don’t frown, Circe, I must own—since you will have me speak—I must own you could not.  With all your pride of immortal beauty, with all your magical charms to assist those of Nature, you are not so powerful a charmer as she.  You feel desire, and you give it, but you have never felt love, nor can you inspire it.  How can I love one who would have degraded me into a beast?  Penelope raised me into a hero.  Her love ennobled, invigorated, exalted my mind.  She bid me go to the siege of Troy, though the parting with me was worse than death to herself.  She bid me expose myself there to all the perils of war among the foremost heroes of Greece, though her poor heart sunk and trembled at every thought of those perils, and would have given all its own blood to save a drop of mine.  Then there was such a conformity in all our inclinations!  When Minerva was teaching me the lessons of wisdom she delighted to be present.  She heard, she retained, she gave them back to me softened and sweetened with the peculiar graces of her own mind.  When we unbent our thoughts with the charms of poetry, when we read together the poems of Orpheus, Musæus, and Linus, with what taste did she discern every excellence in them!  My feelings were dull compared to hers.  She seemed herself to be the muse who had inspired those verses, and had tuned their lyres to infuse into the hearts of mankind the love of wisdom and virtue and the

fear of the gods.  How beneficent was she, how tender to my people!  What care did she take to instruct them in all the finer arts, to relieve the necessities of the sick and aged, to superintend the education of children, to do my subjects every good office of kind intercession, to lay before me their wants, to mediate for those who were objects of mercy, to sue for those who deserved the favours of the Crown.  And shall I banish myself for ever from such a consort?  Shall I give up her society for the brutal joys of a sensual life, keeping indeed the exterior form of a man, but having lost the human soul, or at least all its noble and godlike powers?  Oh, Circe, it is impossible, I can’t bear the thought.

Circe.—Begone; don’t imagine that I ask you to stay a moment longer.  The daughter of the sun is not so mean-spirited as to solicit a mortal to share her happiness with her.  It is a happiness which I find you cannot enjoy.  I pity and despise you.  All you have said seems to me a jargon of sentiments fitter for a silly woman than a great man.  Go read, and spin too, if you please, with your wife.  I forbid you to remain another day in my island.  You shall have a fair wind to carry you from it.  After that may every storm that Neptune can raise pursue and overwhelm you.  Begone, I say, quit my sight.

Ulysses.—Great goddess, I obey, but remember your oath.

DIALOGUE VI.

Mercury—An English Duellist—A North American Savage.

The Duellist.—Mercury, Charon’s boat is on the other side of the water.  Allow me, before it returns, to have some conversation with the North American savage whom you brought hither with me.  I never before saw one of that species.  He looks very grim.  Pray, sir, what is your name?  I understand you speak English.

Savage.—Yes, I learnt it in my childhood, having been bred for some years among the English of New York.  But before I was a man I returned to my valiant countrymen, the Mohawks; and having been villainously cheated by one of yours in the sale of some rum, I never cared to have anything to do with them afterwards.  Yet I took up the hatchet for them with the rest of my tribe in the late war against France, and was killed while I was out upon a scalping party.  But I died very well satisfied, for my brethren were victorious, and before I was shot I had gloriously scalped seven men and five women and children.  In a former war I had performed still greater exploits.  My name is the Bloody Bear; it was given me to express my fierceness and valour.

Duellist.—Bloody Bear, I respect you, and am much your humble servant.  My name is Tom Pushwell, very well known at Arthur’s.  I am a gentleman by my birth, and by profession a gamester and man of honour.  I have killed men in fair fighting, in honourable single combat, but don’t understand cutting the throats of women and children.

Savage.—Sir, that is our way of making war.  Every nation has its customs.  But, by the grimness of your countenance, and that hole in your breast, I presume you were killed, as I was, in some scalping party.  How happened it that your enemy did not take off your scalp?

Duellist.—Sir, I was killed in a duel.  A friend of mine had lent me a sum of money.  After two or three years, being in great want himself, he asked me to pay him.  I thought his demand, which was somewhat peremptory, an affront to my honour, and sent him a challenge.  We met in Hyde Park.  The fellow could not fence: I was absolutely the adroitest swordsman in England, so I gave him three or four wounds; but at last he ran upon me with such impetuosity, that he put me out of my play, and I could not prevent him from whipping me through the lungs.  I died the next day, as a man of honour should, without any