“Ah, Monsieur Philosophe, so I meet you again! What are you after here among idlers? Do you likewise lose your time in peg-pushing? (Thus he denominated chess and draughts.)

“I.—No, but when I have nothing else to do, it is a momentary diversion to see whether they move aright.

“He.—A singular diversion, indeed. Leave out Philidor and LÉgal—the others know nothing.

“I.—And Monsieur de Bussi; what say you to him?

“He.—As chess-player, that he is what Mlle. Clairon is as actress; both know as much of their play as one can learn.

“I.—You are hard to please. I observe that none but preËminent men meet your approbation.

“He.—Ay, at chess and draughts, poetry, eloquence, music, and such like trumperies. Who wants mediocrity in these cases?

“I.—I almost agree with you. But many must attempt these arts in order that the man of genius may overtop them. Thenceforth he is one among many. But I have not seen you for an age. I never think of you but when I see you. Yet I am rejoiced whenever I recover you. What have you been about?

“He.—That which you and the others are about—good, bad, and naught. I have moreover, hungered and eaten if occasion served. Then I was sometimes athirst, and often drank; yes, and my beard grew and I was shaved.

“I.—There you were wrong; for the beard is all you lack in order to be a sage.

“He.—Quite so! My brow is large and wrinkled, my eye flashes, my nose is high, my cheek is broad, my eyebrows brown and heavy, the mouth well-disclosed, lips well-turned, and the face square. Take notice, this huge chin, if covered by a long beard, would look well in brass or marble.

“I.—Beside CÆsar, Marcus Aurelius, Socrates?

“He.—No! I would rather stand betwixt Diogenes and Phryne. I am as shameless as one, and would gladly visit the other.

“I.—You are always in good case?

“He.—Yes, usually; but not particularly so to-day.

“I.—What! with this rotundity of Silenus, and a countenance—

“He.—A countenance that— Do you consider that the bitter humor which shrivels up the uncle, makes the nephew fat?

“I.—Apropos! Your uncle. Do you see him often?

“He.—Yes, often passing in the street.

“I.—Does he render you no service?

“He.—If he serves any body, it is without knowing it. He is a philosophe in his way; he thinks only of himself, and the rest of the world he regards as his bellows-hand. His wife and daughter may die for all that he cares, provided the bells that toll them to their grave ring in just twelfths and seventeenths. A lucky man is he! and I know how to reckon this quality in your men of genius, that they are good at one thing, and over and above this nothing. Nothing know they of being citizens, fathers, mothers, kinsmen or friends. Inter nos, one would crave to be like them; only wishing that the growth should not become too common. We must have men—not men of genius. No, surely no! These are they who turn the world upside down, and the folly of individuals runs so high at present that one can’t repress them without manoeuvre.—No! the monk’s wisdom, in Rabelais, is the true wisdom for our peace, and the peace of others. To do duty, as far as may be, to speak well of the prior, and to let the world wag as it will. And things go right well, for the mass is content with this. If I knew history, I would prove to you, that all the ills on earth come of your men of genius; but history I know none, because I know nothing. Confound me if I ever learnt any thing, and I find myself none the worse off. One day I was at the table of a royal minister, who had mind enough for a dozen. He proved, as plain as two and two make four, that nothing is more useful to nations than lies, and nothing more hurtful than truth. I can’t recall his argument, but it followed as clear as a sunbeam, that men of genius are utterly abominable, and that if a man discerns in his child a token of this perilous gift of nature, he should strangle or drown him.

“I.—And yet the people who deem thus of genius all think they possess it.”

Such is an introduction to this odd creation, on which the merry Frenchman dwells for a hundred and fifty pages. Some of the passages which my host gave with energy, between the gusts of his meerschaum, are altogether untranslatable. And yet am I tempted to essay one of the vagaries of the mad satirist.

“I.—There is some reason in all that you say. [He had been enlarging on the French music of that period.]

“He.—Reason? So much the better. That comes seasonably. Think you I am like the musician in the cul-de-sac, as my uncle showed himself? For my part, I make a hit. A collier ’prentice shall talk better of his trade, than an academy and all the Duhamels on earth.

“Here he paced up and down, murmuring airs out of the Ile des Fous, the Peintre amoureux de son modÈle, the MarÉchal ferrant, the Plaideuse—while ever and anon he would stretch hands and eyes and cry, ‘Is that fine? Heavens, is that fine! Can a man have two ears on his head and ask such a question?’ Upon which he would become sentimental again, sing softly, and then elevate his voice as he grew more passionate. Then came grimaces, twists of visage, and contortions of body. Said I to myself, ‘Well, he is losing his wits, and some new scene is coming.’ And in fact he burst out afresh, singing, Je suis un pauvre miserable—Aspettar e non venire, etc. etc. He collected and confounded thirty airs, Italian, French, tragic, comic, of every sort and character. Now, with a deep basso he would sink down to the shades; then, contracting his throat, he would rend the heights of air with a pipe-like note, imitating with gait, pose, and motions, different musical personages, by turns raving, melted, beseeching and derisive. Now he is a little maid, weeping, and he represents all her petty blandishments. Then he is a priest, a king, a tyrant; he threatens, prays or rages—again, he is a hearkening slave. He grows tender, he despairs, he bewails and laughs, always in tune, in time, in full sense of the words, character and action.

“All the chess-players had left their boards and gathered around him; the windows of the cafÉ were besieged outside by passers-by attracted by the noise. The laughter was a peal which threatened the roof. But he perceived nothing, but ran on, carried away by such an alienation of mind and an enthusiasm akin to mania, that it is doubtful whether he would have come to himself, or have to be thrown into a hackney coach and carried to a mad-house singing a snatch from the lamentations of Jomelli.

“Anon, with the utmost precision, truth and incredible warmth, he repeated the finest passages of that portion; the beautiful obligato recitative, where the prophet depicts the desolation of Jerusalem, till he drew a flood of tears; there was not a dry eye. There was nothing more to be desired in tenderness of singing, or force of expression and of grief. He dwelt especially on the places where the artist most evinced himself the great maestro. He abandoned the vocal part, flew to the instrument, and then returned in an instant to singing, so hurrying this transition, that the connection and unity of the whole were maintained. Was I astonished at him? Yes, I was astonished. Was I moved to sympathy? I was, indeed, so moved, but with a dash of the comic mingling with the emotion and modifying its nature.

“But you would have broken into laughter at the way in which he imitated the different instruments. With swoln, out-puffed cheeks, and a rough, obtuse tone, he represented horns and bassoons; with a crying, nasal tone the oboes; with incredible quickness he hurried his voice to mimic stringed-instruments, trying most exactly to give their respective sounds; piping for the piccolos, cooing for the flutes, screaming, chanting with the looks of a maniac, and representing solo the danseurs and danseuses, the men-singers and women-singers, a whole orchestra, a whole opera-house, splitting himself into twenty different roles, hastening, retarding, with the mien of one ’rapt, with eyes winking and mouth in a foam.

“The heat was overpowering, and the moisture, following the furrows of his brow and the length of his cheeks, mingled with his hair-powder, and drizzled the upper part of his coat in gutters. What did he not attempt? He cried, he laughed, he sighed, he gave looks of tenderness, quiet and rage. Now it was a woman, sinking in wo, a wretch yielding to despair, a lofty temple, or birds losing themselves in the silence of eve. Then it was brooks of water, gurgling in some cool and lonesome place; or a torrent dashing down from mountains; a tempest; the wailing of dying men, mingled with the whistling of the wind; the roar of thunder; then night with its darkness, stillness and shade—he even represented silence by sounds. He was entirely beside himself. Exhausted by effort, like a man awakened from sleep or a long swoon, he remained motionless, heavy and stunned. He cast glances around, like one bewildered who tries to recognize the place in which he comes to himself. Awaiting the return of his forces and his senses, he mechanically dries his face. Like one who, awaking, finds his bed surrounded by a great number of persons, in utter forgetfulness and deeply unconscious of all he has been doing, he exclaims at the first moment—‘Now, Messieurs, what is this? Why this mirth? What are you wondering at? What is the matter?’ ... Then he adds, ‘This is what they call being a musician! But, indeed, some of Lulli’s songs are not to be despised. The scene J’attendrai l’aurore can’t be bettered, unless you alter the words. I challenge any man. No man shall condemn certain passages of Campra, his military marches, the violin-pieces of my uncle, his gavottes, his priestly and opera parts, PÂles flambeaux, Nuits plus affreuses que les tÉnÈbres.... Dieu du Tartare, Dieu de l’oubli.’ ... (Here he strengthened his voice and sustained the tone with power. Neighbors thrust their heads through the windows; we put our fingers in our ears.) ‘For this,’ said he, ‘one must have lungs, a great organ, and plenty of air. But Ascension is arrived, Lent and the Three Kings are over, and yet they do not know what to set to music, nor consequently what benefits the composer. Lyric poesy is yet unborn; but they already approach it, if they give head enough to Pergolesi, to the Saxon, the Terradeglids, Traetta and others; and if they only read Metastasio often enough, they have already attained it.’”

——