[Footnote 4: See _Lettres Philosophiques_: let. 11.] _DIALOGUE BETWEEN TASSO AND HIS FAMILIAR SPIRIT_[1] _Spirit_. Ah, Torquato. How are you? _Tasso_. As well as it is possible to be, when in prison, and up to the neck in misfortunes. _Spirit_. Courage! After supper is not the time to be sorrowful. Cheer up, and let us laugh at your griefs. _Tasso_. I am little inclined for that. But somehow your presence and conversation always do me good. Come and sit down by me. _Spirit_. How can I sit? Such a thing is not easy for a spirit. But what does it matter? Consider that I am seated. _Tasso_. Oh, that I could see my Leonora again! Whenever I think of her, I feel a thrill of joy that reaches from the crown of my head to the extremity of my feet, and all my nerves and veins are pervaded with it. My mind, too, becomes inflamed with certain imaginings and longings that seem for the time to transform me. I cannot think that I am the Torquato who has experienced so much misfortune, and I often mourn for myself as though I were dead. Truly, it would seem that worldly friction and suffering are wont to overwhelm and lethargise our first nature within each of us. This from time to time awakens for a brief space, but less frequently as we grow older, when it always withdraws, and falls into an increasingly sound sleep. Finally, it dies, although our life still continues. In short, I marvel how the thought of a woman should have sufficient power to rejuvenate the mind, and make it forget so many troubles. Had I not lost all hope of seeing Leonora again, I could almost believe I might still succeed in being happy. _Spirit_. Which do you consider the more delightful, to see the dear woman, or to think of her? _Tasso_. I do not know. It is true when near me she seemed only a woman; at a distance, however, she was like a goddess. _Spirit_. These goddesses are so amiable that when one approaches you, she instantaneously puts off her divinity, and pockets her halo of greatness for fear of dazzling the mortal to whom she appears. _Tasso_. There is only too much truth in what you say. But do you not think it is a great failing in women that they prove really to be so very different from what we imagine? _Spirit_. I scarcely think it is their fault that they are, like us, made of flesh and blood, instead of ambrosia and nectar. What in the world has a thousandth part of the perfection with which your fancy endows women? It surprises me that you are not astonished to find that men are men, that is, creatures of little merit and amiability, since you cannot understand why women are not really angels. _Tasso_. In spite of all this, I am dying to see her again.