Prudhon was born in 1803. He has thin fair hair that is ruffled and ill-combed, with a curl on his fine high brow. He wears spectacles. His gaze is at once troubled, penetrating and steady. There is something of the house-dog in his almost flat nose and of the monkey in his chin-beard. His mouth, the nether lip of which is thick, has an habitual expression of ill-humour. He has a Franc-Comtois accent, he utters the syllables in the middle of words rapidly and drawls the final syllables; he puts a circumflex accent on every “a,” and like Charles Nodier, pronounces: “honorable, remarquable.” He speaks badly and writes well. In the tribune his gesture consists of little feverish pats upon his manuscript with the palm of his hand. Sometimes he becomes irritated, and froths; but it is cold slaver. The principal characteristic of his countenance and physiognomy is mingled embarrassment and assurance.

I write this while he is in the tribune.

Anthony Thouret met Prudhon.

“Things are going badly,” said Prudhon.

“To what cause do you attribute our embarrassments?” queried Anthony Thouret.

“The Socialists are at the bottom of the trouble, of course.

“What! the Socialists? But are you not a Socialist yourself?”

“I a Socialist! Well, I never!” ejaculated Prudhon.

“Well, what in the name of goodness, are you, then?”

“I am a financier.”