a celestial guest in the garden of Eden,
like a second Aurora in mid-day, shaking the plumes of his divine wings,
that filled the air with heavenly fragrance, who recounted to man
the history of heaven, the revolt of Lucifer, clothed in an armor of
diamonds, raised on a car brilliant as the sun, guarded by glittering
cherubim, and marching against the Eternal. But Emmanuel appears on the
living chariot of the Lord; and his two thousand thunderbolts hurled
down to hell, with awful noise, the accursed army confounded.

At this the company arose; and all was interrupted, for religious
scruples became leagued with false taste. Nothing was heard but
exclamations which obliged the mistress of the house to rise also, and
endeavor to conceal them from the author. This was not difficult, for
he was entirely absorbed in the elevation of his thoughts. His genius at
this moment had nothing in common with the earth; and when he once
more opened his eyes on those who surrounded him, he saw near him four
admirers, whose voices were better heard than those of the assembly.

Corneille said to him:

"Listen. If you aim at present glory, do not expect it from so fine a
work. Pure poetry is appreciated by but few souls. For the common run of
men, it must be closely allied with the almost physical interest of the
drama. I had been tempted to make a poem of 'Polyeuctes'; but I shall
cut down this subject, abridge it of the heavens, and it shall be only a
tragedy."

"What matters to me the glory of the moment?" answered Milton. "I
think not of success. I sing because I feel myself a poet. I go whither
inspiration leads me. Its path is ever the right one. If these verses
were not to be read till a century after my death, I should write them
just the same."

"I admire them before they are written," said the young officer. "I see
in them the God whose innate image I have found in my heart."

"Who is it speaks thus kindly to me?" asked the poet.

"I am Rene Descartes," replied the soldier, gently.

"How, sir!" cried De Thou. "Are you so happy as to be related to the
author of the Princeps?"

"I am the author of that work," replied Rene.

"You, sir!--but--still--pardon me--but--are you not a military man?"
stammered out the counsellor, in amazement.

"Well, what has the habit of the body to do with the thought? Yes, I
wear the sword. I was at the siege of Rochelle. I love the profession
of arms because it keeps the soul in a region o