The applause was general, for the allusion was to the unbounded
generosity of Orloff. The general's reply struck me as better still, but
it was equally rugged in character. He, too, took a full cup, and turning
to Melissino, said,

"May you never die till I slay you!"

The applause was furious, for he was their host and their general.

The Russian wit is of the energetic kind, devoid of grace; all they care
about is directness and vigour.

Voltaire had just sent the empress his "Philosophy of History," which he
had written for her and dedicated to her. A month after, an edition of
three thousand copies came by sea, and was sold out in a week, for all
the Russians who knew a little French were eager to possess a copy of the
work. The leaders of the Voltaireans were two noblemen, named,
respectively, Stroganoff and Schuvaloff. I have seen verses written by
the former of these as good as Voltaire's own verses, and twenty years
later I saw an ode by the latter of which Voltaire would not have been
ashamed, but the subject was ill chosen; for it treated of the death of
the great philosopher who had so studiously avoided using his pen on
melancholy themes. In those days all Russians with any pretensions to
literature read nothing but Voltaire, and when they had read all his
writings they thought themselves as wise as their master. To me they
seemed pigmies mimicking a giant. I told them that they ought to read all
the books from which Voltaire had drawn his immense learning, and then,
perhaps, they might become as wise as he. I remember the saying of a wise
man at Rome: "Beware of the man of one book." I wonder whether the