confronted with a portrait of Voltaire, and compared face to face, was a trial for which our mimic was not prepared, and his courage nearly forsook him, yet he kept up appearances, only coughing more, and ranting on the high-sounding lines of his _Empro-Giro_. The Hungarian, not undeceived by this close examination, replaced the snuff-box in his pocket, declaring it to be the best likeness he had ever seen. He rose at last, thanked his friend Voltaire, kissed his hand respectfully, and went away, distributing to the servants he met on the stairs liberal tokens of his satisfaction. These servants were the intimate friends and companions of the chief actor, and one of them, his brother, unwilling to carry the joke to the length of pocketing the money of their dupe, they contrived to give him a dinner at a tavern, where he was made to tell the story of his visit to Voltaire, and express his admiration of the great man. The latter heard of this, was much amused, and desired to see his double, told him he would make a bargain with him--half his fame for half the tiresome visitors it procured him. The poet lived like a prince, but kept his accounts like a citizen; knowing to a sous where his money went: a good deal of it was bestowed charitably, for he was munificent, and certainly much loved in his neighbourhood. One night, when _Tancrede_ was acting, and the court of the chateau was full of carriages and servants, there arrived, as ill luck would have it, a cask of the best chambertin that ever came from Burgundy; his own people could not attend to it, and the cask remained at his cellar door; the servants contrived to get at it, and while their masters and mistresses were shedding tears at the tragedy, they sipped the poet's wine. There was generally a supper after the play, where more than once two hundred people sat down, and Voltaire had something to say to every one of his guests. As the gates of the town are shut at night, many of them usually remained in the _château_, poorly accommodated with beds. One night as M. de B----, was groping in the dark, for a place where he might lie down to sleep, he accidently put his finger into the mouth of M. de Florian, who bit it. Voltaire kept company only with the aristocracy of Geneva; neither his liberality nor his wit secured him the good-will of the patriots placed out of the sphere of his influence; they only saw him a sham philosopher, without principles and solidity; a courtier, the slave of rank and fashion; the corrupter of their country, of which he made a jest. _Quand je secoue ma perruque,_ he used to say, _je poudre toute la republique!_