gather and tread them, and their ankles are stained with purple all the year round: the wine-presses and the vats are made of scented wood: the season never changes: there is no night, no death, no rich and poor. Glaucus. Glorious, Bacchus, glorious! But it seems to me that we three may now fitly discuss my mythological rank. Silenus. We may, good codling. Let us see. There was a god some five decades ago who lost caste abominably--no, it is longer; because during the last score centuries we Bacchanalians have been out of hearing of the faintest mundane murmur, beyond cry of Olympus, conquering the realms of space, and now visit the earth solely for Ariadne's pleasure: she had a desire to see once more her bower in Naxos. Glaucus. To whom might I appeal, then? Is there no register of gods? Scaramouch. None but Lemprière. Silenus. It matters not: if you feel confident that you are a god you must be one. Glaucus. But any one might be a god at that rate. Silenus. Surely, surely; confidence makes gods and goddesses of the merest mortality. Scaramouch. Mars and martyrdom! I shall be a god too. Silenus. Do, good Scrub, do: be a god: be the god of gulls.--I have it! Drink again. [All drink.] By-the-bye, what has your name been hitherto? Glaucus. Glaucus. Silenus. Then, Glaucus, know that thou art not Glaucus, but my squire, Silenus. I am right glad to see thee, old one. Thou hast been a wanderer long. Glaucus. I thank thee, Bacchus. But I have no memory of my name or character. If thou---- Silenus. Nay, thou must not 'thee' and 'thou' me. I am thy superior, and in my familiarity and my cups so address thee, showing my pleasure in thy return. Use respectable pronouns, Silenus. I am not angry with thee: in coming to thyself thou wilt doubtless make many mistakes, which I without resentment shall promptly correct. Glaucus. Ah! great Bacchus, I seem, now, to remember with what reverence I regarded your godliness: it is the first hint my consciousness supplies of my identity. Will your great highness tell me more of myself? Silenus. I will, Silenus. Thou art one of those whom the bulk of gods and men pity: but thou art not truly pitiable. It is certain that thou art not a respectable immortal, for thou keepest late hours, and dost allow thy company to choose itself. I hear that thou art, or would'st be, perennially drunk: thou seemest to have as many stomachs as a cow, and art as bald as a vulture; and after thy godliness thy most indubitable attribute is certainly not thy cleanliness. No; thou art not respectable, therefore art thou pitied; but thou dost not pity thyself, wherefore I love thee. I respect the unsubduable temper of thy soul, which, in the perdition of all that mortality and immortality consider barely necessary for the mere toleration of existence, still retains its diamond edge, flashing from the worn-out scabbard, keen and serviceable for offence or defence.