“The immense variety of pictures like the foregoing, which the prince can command at will from the storehouse of his memory, is almost incredible. No one seems to have understood so well as himself that stupendous epoch, the latter half of the eighteenth century, that glorious reign of intellect and reason, when, for the first time in the history of society, genius and talent were admitted to greater consideration than high birth or riches; when every passion—the love of pleasure—the love of power—even the love of the marvellous—had given place to the love of _truth_—sometimes the greatest of all marvels; when the old aristocracy, tottering with decay, seemed to call in weak and puny accents upon its robust successor, the aristocracy of letters, for succour in its hour of need, ‘Help us, or we perish!’ and was answered sturdily, ‘Be of us; or look to yourselves;’ when the high-born and the long-descended sought no more to _honour_ with patronage, but to _flatter_ by imitation, those whom their ancestors would have deemed of scarcely more importance than their lacqueys; when, to be admitted to the circle of Madame Geoffrin, or the _déjeuners_ of the Abbé Morellet, was a distinction more eagerly sought for than the admission into the royal circles had been during the preceding reign. “This short pause before the revolution, which might be compared to the breathing time allowed to combatants, or rather to the cold shiver which precedes the raging fever, has been described by the prince as the most intoxicating period of his life. In this unprecedented mixture of society, he was viewed with favour by each and all. Whether as the nobleman of aristocratic descent, or the man of wit and talent, he was admitted into every circle, and perhaps was thus singular in his perfect acquaintance with them all. He, who has so little enthusiasm in his character, will sometimes grow quite enthusiastic when speaking of that time; and I have heard him exclaim with melancholy pride, ‘Could I, by forfeiting the memory of that brief space of light and glory, add thrice the number of years so spent to my existence _now_, I would not do it. I hold too dear even the privilege which I possess of exclaiming with Ovid, “_Vidi tantùm_,” and often mourn those days in the very words of old Brantôme: “Nothing is left of all that wit and gallantry, that vast expenditure (_folle dépense_) of bravery and chivalry. What good remains to _me_ of all this pomp? None—save _that I have seen it_!”’