e study of the world is amusing. Horace, whom I
know by heart, is my guide-book."

"Algarotti, too, is very fond of Horace. Of course you are fond of
poetry?"

"It is my passion."

"Have you made many sonnets?"

"Ten or twelve I like, and two or three thousand which in all probability
I have not read twice."

"The Italians are mad after sonnets."

"Yes; if one can call it a madness to desire to put thought into measured
harmony. The sonnet is difficult because the thought has to be fitted
exactly into the fourteen lines."

"It is Procrustes' bed, and that's the reason you have so few good ones.
As for us, we have not one; but that is the fault of our language."

"And of the French genius, which considers that a thought when extended
loses all its force."

"And you do not think so?"

"Pardon me, it depends on the kind of thought. A witty saying, for
example, will not make a sonnet; in French or Italian it belongs to the
domain of epigram."

"What Italian poet do you like best?"

"Ariosto; but I cannot say I love him better than the others, for he is
my only love."

"You know the others, though?"

"I think I have read them all, but all their lights pale before
Ariosto's. Fifteen years ago I read all you have written against him, and
I said that you, would retract when you had read his works."

"I am obliged to you for thinking that I had not read them. As a matter
of fact I had done so, but I was young. I knew Italian very imperfectly,
and being prejudiced by the learned Italians who adore Tasso I was
unfortunate enough to publish a criticism of Ariosto which I thought my
own, while it was only the echo of those who had prejudiced me. I adore
your Ariosto!"

"Ah! M. de Voltaire, I breathe again. But be good enough to have the work
in which you turned this great man into ridicule excommunicated."

"What use would that be? All my books are excommunicated; but I will
give you a good proof of my retractation."

I was astonished! The great man began to recite the two fine passages
from the thirty-fourth and thirty-fifth cantos, in which the divine poet
speaks of the conversation of Astolpho with St. John and he did it
without missing a single life or committing the slightest fault against
the laws of prosody. He then pointed out the beauties of the passages
with his natural insight and with a great man's genius. I could not have
had anything better from the lips of the most skilled commentators in
Ita