conversation. I do not think I ever encountered a man so brilliantly,
yet so easily, witty. He had but little of the studied allusion, the
antithetical point, the classic metaphor, which chiefly characterize the
wits of my day. On the contrary, it was an exceeding and naive
simplicity, which gave such unrivalled charm and piquancy to his
conversation. And while I have not scrupled to stamp on my pages some
faint imitation of the peculiar dialogue of other eminent characters, I
must confess myself utterly unable to convey the smallest idea of his
method of making words irresistible. Contenting my efforts, therefore,
with describing his personal appearance,--interesting, because that of
the most striking literary character it has been my lot to meet,--I
shall omit his share in the remainder of the conversation I am
rehearsing, and beg the reader to recall that passage in Tacitus in
which the great historian says that, in the funeral of Junia, "the
images of Brutus and Cassius outshone all the rest, from the very
circumstance of their being the sole ones excluded from the rite."

The countenance, then, of Marie Francois Arouet (since so celebrated
under the name of Voltaire) was plain in feature, but singularly
striking in effect; its vivacity was the very perfection of what Steele
once happily called "physiognomical eloquence." His eyes were blue,
fiery rather than bright, and so restless that they never dwelt in the
same place for a moment:* his mouth was at once the worst and the most
peculiar feature of his face; it betokened humour, it is true; but it
also betrayed malignancy, nor did it ever smile without sarcasm. Though
flattering to those present, his words against the absent, uttered by
that bitter and curling lip, mingled with your pleasure at their wit a
little fear at their causticity. I believe no one, be he as bold, as
callous, or as faultless as human nature can be, could be one hour with
that man and not feel apprehension. Ridicule, so lavish, yet so true to