_Volt._ Sir, spare your arithmetic. I am not curious. Yet, among these last, There’s surely one who dwelt in Prussia once? He made bad verses, which I mended. Eh? One Frederick? _French._ Called the Great— _Volt._ By little men. The same: Is he always in the saddle now? _French._ We have no horses here. _Volt._ Is ’t so? _N’importe_. A sedan will do for me. Now that I think of it, Where are your ladies? Any of them from France? _Eng._ Shoals, shoals, sir. We’ve larger, lighter batches from that land, Than all the rest o’ the globe. _Volt._ I shall be glad To renew friendship with some few of them. Madame du Châtelet— _French._ She was a friend of yours? _Volt._ I had some strong delusion of that sort. ’Twas when she flattered me. But, tell me, sir, What time do you dine in this agreeable land? I feel no appetite. _Eng._ We do not dine. _Volt._ Not dine! when do you eat? _Eng._ We do not eat. _Volt._ Umph! that is odd. When do you sleep then? _Eng._ Sir, We do not sleep. _Volt._ I’ faith, this jest begins To grow a little serious. I thought I knew Somewhat of most things; but this puzzles me. Lest I should err again, pray what _do_ you here, In this most quiet kingdom—all day long? Nay, day and night? What pastime?— _Eng._ We repose! Sometimes we dream; of times and people gone,— Sometimes of our own country; we retrace Our course in earthly life; our deeds— _Volt._ I have done Some deeds myself. Perhaps, Monsieur, you have seen A dictionary of mine, which made some noise? A fable or two, which told some bitter truths? A famous poem?—mark me.— _Eng._ Your great work, I have read, and much admired. _Volt._ The _Henriade?_ Sir, you have taste. _Eng._ Not so:—a work less large In bulk; yet greater. ’Twas indeed no more Than a small memorial; touch’d wi’ the light of Truth, The strength of Right. Fine Sense and Pity joined, Begat it. It came forth, midst tears, and scorn, And burning anger. These inspired your pen To the argument, when murdered Calas died. _Volt._ You bring me light, sir,—comfort,—almost faith. The dark thoughts that at times have haunted me,— The small ambition to be thought a wit,— The wish to sting my many enemies,— Seem disappearing. Sir, my thanks! I feel A warmth about my bosom, and begin To think that joys dwell not alone on earth, But some survive even in Purgatory. AN AUSTRALIAN PLOUGHMAN’S STORY.