duty
of warming his old carcase at night.

Villars was governor of Provence, and had his back eaten up with cancer.
In the course of nature he should have been buried ten years ago, but
Tronchin kept him alive with his regimen and by feeding the wounds on
slices of veal. Without this the cancer would have killed him. His life
might well be called an artificial one.

I accompanied M. de Voltaire to his bedroom, where he changed his wig and
put on another cap, for he always wore one on account of the rheumatism
to which he was subject. I saw on the table the Summa of St. Thomas, and
among other Italian poets the 'Secchia Rapita' of Tassoni.

"This," said Voltaire, "is the only tragicomic poem which Italy has.
Tassoni was a monk, a wit and a genius as well as a poet."

"I will grant his poetical ability but not his learning, for he ridiculed
the system of Copernicus, and said that if his theories were followed
astronomers would not be able to calculate lunations or eclipses."

"Where does he make that ridiculous remark?"

"In his academical discourses."

"I have not read them, but I will get them."

He took a pen and noted the name down, and said,--

"But Tassoni has criticised Petrarch very ingeniously."

"Yes, but he has dishonoured taste and literature, like Muratori."

"Here he is. You must allow that his learning is immense."

"Est ubi peccat."

Voltaire opened a door, and I saw a hundred great files full of papers.

"That's my correspondence," said he. "You see before you nearly fifty
thousand letters, to which I have replied."

"Have you a copy of your answers?"

"Of a good many of them. That's the business of a servant of mine, who
has nothing else to do."

"I know plenty of booksellers who would give a good deal to get hold of
your answers.

"Yes; but look out for the booksellers when you publish anything, if you
have not yet begun; they are greater robbers than Barabbas."

"I shall not have anything to do with these gentlemen till I am an old
man."

"Then they will be the scourge of your old age."

Thereupon I quoted a Macaronic verse by Merlin Coccaeus.

"Where's that from?"

"It's a line from a celebrated poem in twenty-four cantos."

"Celebrated?"

"Yes; and, what is more, worthy of being celebrated; but to appreciate it
one must understand the Mantuan dialect."

"I could make it out, if you could get me a copy."

"I shall have the honour of presenting you with one to-morrow."