me and my countryman, Dr. Swift, we beg leave—

Mercury.—Dr. Swift, I rejoice to see you.  How does my old lad?  How does honest Lemuel Gulliver?  Have you been in Lilliput lately, or in the Flying Island, or with your good nurse Glumdalclitch?  Pray when did you eat a crust with Lord Peter?  Is Jack as mad still as ever?  I hear that since you published the history of his case the poor fellow, by more gentle usage, is almost got well.  If he had but more food he would be as much in his senses as Brother Martin himself; but Martin, they tell me, has lately spawned a strange brood of Methodists, Moravians, Hutchinsonians, who are madder than ever Jack was in his worst days.  It is a great pity you are not alive again to make a new edition of your “Tale of the Tub” for the use of these fellows.  Mr. Addison, I beg your pardon; I should have spoken to you sooner, but I was so struck with the sight of my old friend the doctor, that I forgot for a time the respects due to you.

Swift.—Addison, I think our dispute is decided before the judge has heard the cause.

Addison.—I own it is in your favour, but—

Mercury.—Don’t be discouraged, friend Addison.  Apollo perhaps would have given a different judgment.  I am a wit, and a rogue, and a foe to all dignity.  Swift and I naturally like one another.  He worships me more than

Jupiter, and I honour him more than Homer; but yet, I assure you, I have a great value for you.  Sir Roger de Coverley, Will Honeycomb, Will Wimble, the Country Gentleman in the Freeholder, and twenty more characters, drawn with the finest strokes of unaffected wit and humour in your admirable writings, have obtained for you a high place in the class of my authors, though not quite so high a one as the Dean of St. Patrick’s.  Perhaps you might have got before him if the decency of your nature and the cautiousness of your judgment would have given you leave.  But, allowing that in the force and spirit of his wit he has really the advantage, how much does he yield to you in all the elegant graces, in the fine touches of delicate sentiment, in developing the secret springs of the soul, in showing the mild lights and shades of a character, in distinctly marking each line, and every soft gradation of tints, which would escape the common eye?  Who ever painted like you the beautiful parts of human nature, and brought them out from under the shade even of the greatest simplicity, or the most ridiculous weaknesses; so that we are forced to admire and feel that we venerate, even while we are laughing?  Swift was able to do nothing that approaches to this.  He could draw an ill face, or caricature a good one, with a masterly hand; but there was all his power, and, if I am to speak as a god, a worthless power it is.  Yours is divine.  It tends to exalt human nature.

Swift.—Pray, good Mercury (if I may have liberty to say a word for myself) do you think that my talent was not highly beneficial to correct human nature?  Is whipping of no use to mend naughty boys?

Mercury.—Men are generally not so patient of whipping as boys, and a rough satirist is seldom known to mend them.  Satire, like antimony, if it be used as a medicine, must be rendered less corrosive.  Yours is often rank poison.  But I will allow that you have done some good in your way, though not half so much as Addison did in his.

Addison.—Mercury, I am satisfied.  It matters little what rank you assign me as a wit, if you give me the precedence as a friend and benefactor to mankind.

Mercury.—I pass sentence on the writers, not the men, and my decree is this:—When any hero is brought hither who wants to be humbled, let the talk of lowering his arrogance be assigned to Swift.  The same good office may be done to a philosopher vain of his wisdom and virtue, or to a bigot puffed up with spiritual pride.  The doctor’s discipline will soon convince the first, that with all his boasted morality, he is but a Yahoo; and the latter, that to be holy he must necessarily be humble.  I would also have him apply his anticosmetic wash to the painted face of female vanity, and his rod, which draws blood at every stroke, to the hard back of insolent folly or petulant wit.  But Addison should be employed to comfort those whose delicate minds are dejected with too painful a sense of some infirmities in their nature.  To them he should hold his fair and charitable mirror, which would bring to their sight their hidden excellences, and put them in a temper fit for Elysium.—Adieu.  Continue to esteem and love each other, as you did in the other world, though you were of opposite parties, and, what is still more wonderful, rival wits.  This alone is sufficient to entitle you both to Elysium.

DIALOGUE V.

Ulysses—Circe.—In Circe’s Island.

Circe.—You will go then, Ulysses, but tell me, without reserve, what carries you from me?

Ulysses.—Pardon, goddess, the weakness of human nature.  My heart will sigh for my country.  It is an attachment which all my admiration of you cannot entirely overcome.

Circe.—This is not all.  I perceive you are afraid to declare your whole mind.  But what, Ulysses, do you fear? 

My terrors are gone.  The proudest goddess on earth, when she has favoured a mortal as I have favoured you, has laid her divinity and power at his feet.

Ulysses.—It may be so while there still remains in her heart the tenderness of love, or in her mind the fear of shame.  But you, Circe, are above those vulgar sensations.

Circe.—I understand your caution; it belongs to your character, and therefore, to remove all diffidence from you, I swear by Styx I will do no manner of harm, either to you or your friends, for anything which you say, however offensive it may be to my love or my pride, but will send you away from my island with all marks of my friendship.  Tell me now, truly, what pleasures you hope to enjoy in the barren rock of Ithaca, which can compensate for those you leave in this paradise, exempt from all cares and overflowing with all delights?

Ulysses.—The pleasures of virtue; the supreme happiness of doing good.  Here I do nothing.  My mind is in a palsy; all its faculties are benumbed.  I long to return into action, that I may worthily employ those talents which I have cultivated from the earliest days of my youth.  Toils and cares fright not me; they are the exercise of my soul; they keep it in health and in vigour.  Give me again the fields of Troy, rather than these vacant groves.  There I could reap the bright harvest of glory; here I am hid like a coward from the eyes of mankind, and begin to appear comtemptible in my own.  The image of my former self haunts and seems to upbraid me wheresoever I go.  I meet it under the gloom of every shade; it even intrudes itself into your presence and chides me from your arms.  O goddess, unless you have power to lay that spirit, unless you can make me forget myself, I cannot be happy here, I shall every day be more wretched.

Circe.—May not a wise and good man, who has spent all his youth in active life and honourable danger, when he

begins to decline, be permitted to retire and enjoy the rest of his days in quiet and pleasure?

Ulysses.—No retreat can be honourable to a wise and good man but in company with the muses.  Here I am deprived of that sacred society.  The muses will not inhabit the abodes of voluptuousness and sensual