Char. Aye, and a modern too who talks of being without a soul!

Mat. But not without a heart, remember that.

Merc. I perceive that you are one of those old-fashioned fellows who bear in mind the homo sum of Terence, and other such pretty maxims.

Mat. You are very right;

Teach me to feel another's woe,

has ever been included in my prayers. It is a sentence that should be imprinted on our memories ;—a sentence never to be erased! and never, at least, shall it be blotted from mine.

Char. It is a lucky circumstance that there are not many like yourself, for in such a case I should be very scant of passengers, I believe.

Mat. Well, but as you find it so very difficult to get your money from them, there would, methinks, be little reason to repine at their scarcity.

Char. True, there is something in that; but, one way or other, I generally contrive to get my fare; sometimes I oblige them to borrow the money;-that is nothing new to a poet, you know, he can do it with a tolerable grace. But come, you were pleased to assert that you are without a soul, and even to affirm that you could easily prove it: we are ready to listen to your argu

ment.

Mat. I have not leisure for it at present; if, however, you will take the trouble of looking into the works of some of our modern and fashionable philosophers, you will presently be convinced that what is usually denominated soul is nothing more than matter;-matter endued with a thinking faculty, but perishable with the animal body,

Merc. Well, but if the soul were mortal and perishable as the body, how would you be able, dead as you now are, to hold discourse with Charon and myself, or even to reason on any subject? Whatever may have

been your sentiments when living, you must surely acknowledge the absurdity of such an opinion now.

Mat. I have so long been accustomed to question the truth of every thing, that you must not look to me for a decisive answer on the matter. You tell me, indeed, that I am dead,—that my body is wholly exanimate; but prithee how do you mean to prove it?

Merc. You are very incredulous and hard to convince. If, however, I shall introduce you to your old acquaintance; those with whom you had been used to live in intimacy when on earth, and whom you may well remember to have seen entombed; assuredly, when you are introduced to these your former associates, you will then acknowledge that you have passed to another world.

Mat. I will: and shall then believe in the existence of that spirit, or soul, which I have heard so much about; till that time, however, you must pardon my incredulity and want of faith.

Char. Well, after all, a Materialist seems to be a very happy fellow; he has never any fears; death is by no means a bug-bear to him.

Mat. None in the least: he repeats, with honest Mr. Shandy, "when I am, death is not; and when death is, I am not." In other words, that there is nothing to be looked for beyond the grave.—

Merc. Come, come, we must hear no more of this language; you will think differently in a little; the boat is ready, so prithee let us get on board.

DIALOGUE IV.

SCENE THE ELYSIAN FIELDS.

M. DE VOLTAIRE and J. J. ROUSSEAU.

Volt. My dear Rousseau, I am heartily glad to see you; here, I hope, we shall be friends.

Rouss. "My dear Rousseau!" Is this the man who employed his pen against me when living ?—who attacked me continually in satires and lampoons ?

Volt. Envy, my dear Sir, mere envy.

Rouss. Indeed! and are you ingenuous enough to acknowledge it?

Volt. Here I can do it cheerfully: on earth, indeed, I should never have been brought to such a confession. Rouss. Envy is a very hateful passion; * I do not remember to have had a particle of it in my composition.

Volt. Rather extraordinary that. Il n'y a pas d'auteur qui aime son frère, is a kind of proverb with the French.

Rouss. Yes, and with almost every other people; † not but that there are examples of candour in literary men: nay, I have sometimes met with an author who has proved another Mæcenas to his competitor for fame.

Volt. Such a man is, in truth, an honour to his profession, and to the age in which he lives. But here, as I have already intimated, we divest ourselves of all ungenerous sentiments; we set aside all paltry distinctions; we are united in the bonds of friendship, and live in harmony and perfect peace.

Rouss. A very desirable state indeed.

* Quinctilian, speaking of envy, says it is Vitium eorum qui nec cedere volunt, nec possunt contendere. But this definition does not sufficiently mark the malignity of the passion. Envy (without emulation, without a power to contend) deals largely in falsehood and scurrility; it decries the merit it is unable to cope with.

No author ever loved a brother :

Wits are game cocks to one another.-GAY.

Volt. But you surprise me greatly by saying that you were totally free from envy ;-I always thought you had a considerable portion of it.

Rouss. Never; but I had a pretty tolerable share of pride. Volt. In that particular I have nothing to reproach myself with; pride was ever a stranger to my breast. Rouss. I fear me, you have forgotten yourself.

Volt. Nay, I still assert that we were unacquainted. Rouss. How little does a man know himself! Wholly a stranger to pride do you say? have you not boasted of the notice and friendship of kings? have you not been long a resident at their courts?

Volt. Certainly but I am speaking of literary pride; I was never ambitious of any particular distinction as an author.

Rouss. Indeed! how happened it, then, at the representations of any of your tragedies, and when called upon by the audience to be invested with the laurel crown, that there were such evident marks of satisfaction to be seen on your countenance?

Volt. As to the custom you speak of, you may remember that it has been practised towards every dramatic writer of eminence from time immemorial.

Rouss. Well, but if you really were so indifferent to the voice of praise, what could be your motive for visiting the theatre at the age of ninety, after you had long been tottering on the brink of the grave?

Volt. Why, Sir, my motive? the motive-but it is no sort of matter. Vanity is certainly out of the question. Rouss. Are you perfectly sure of that?

Volt. I am. My reputation had been too long established for me to stand in need of any petty aid or support. The acclamations of a multitude were nothing to me.

Rouss. The arguments you make use of, to show that you were totally exempt from pride, prove, on the contrary, that she was really the inmate of your breast. The royal philosopher of Sans-Souci was not more remarkable for vain-glory.

Volt. Hold, hold; talk not thus irreverently. Have you no respect for kings? The sacred majesty of kings? God's vicegerents upon earth?

Rouss. Sacred majesty of kings! God's vicegerents upon earth! A great deal of virtue, I find, in a name. Volt. Not so, neither. But they who serve to secure to us our temporal blessings and conveniences, are surely entitled to our respect.

Rouss. And are not those men entitled to our thanks who lay down maxims and rules of conduct for these your lesser divinities, these your delegates of heaven?

Volt. Undoubtedly. But you were once attacked, I think, by a king: you were, no doubt, infinitely more proud of it than if he had declared himself your friend.

Rouss. O, Stanislaus, you mean. Poor fellow! he had an ambition to be distinguished as an author, and thought to effect it by a pamphlet, and even to raise his consequence by being sometimes named with me.

Volt. You treated him rather cavalierly, I think.

Rouss. And rightly. He thought to pass for an extraordinary genius-Cedite Romani scriptores, cedite Graii!-and piqued himself upon writing a philosophical essay in the space of three days.

Volt. He was then considerably advanced in years. But he was pleased to employ his pen against the unbelievers had he taken the other side of the question he might possibly have acquired a name, as I have done. His performance, however, is not contemptible.

Rouss. He certainly spoke according to his feelings; and, as he believed in an omniscient and omnipotent Being, he was of opinion that in advancing that belief, he discharged his duty to God and man.

Volt. Very dull and unprofitable to a man of talents! Such a writer can only expect to be admired by women and children. "L'homme n'a ni bien à espérer ni mal à craindre après la mort," said Aristotle of old; and I have said the same.