ky volumes. The brilliant
Flechier, and the refined St. Evremond, have framed and glazed their
portraits. Every writer then considered his character as necessary as his
preface. The fashion seems to have passed over to our country; Farquhar
has drawn his character in a letter to a lady; and others of our writers
have given us their own miniatures.

There was, as a book in my possession will testify, a certain verse-maker
of the name of Cantenac, who, in 1662, published in the city of Paris a
volume, containing some thousands of verses, which were, as his countrymen
express it, _de sa facon,_ after his own way. He fell so suddenly into the
darkest and deepest pit of oblivion, that not a trace of his memory would
have remained, had he not condescended to give ample information of every
particular relative to himself. He has acquainted us with his size, and
tells us, "that it is rare to see a man smaller than himself. I have that
in common with all dwarfs, that if my head only were seen, I should be
thought a large man." This atom in creation then describes his oval and
full face; his fiery and eloquent eyes: his vermil lips; his robust
constitution, and his effervescent passions. He appears to have been a
most petulant, honest, and diminutive being.

The description of his intellect is the object of our curiosity. "I am as
ambitious as any person can be; but I would not sacrifice my honour to
my ambition. I am so sensible to contempt, that I bear a mortal and
implacable hatred against those who contemn me, and I know I could never
reconcile myself with them; but I spare no attentions for those I love; I
would give them my fortune and my life. I sometimes lie; but generally in
affairs of gallantry, where I voluntarily confirm falsehoods by oaths,
without reflection, for swearing with me is a habit. I am told that my
mind is brilliant, and that I have a certain manner in turning a thought
which is quite my own. I am agreeable in conversation, though I confess I
am often troublesome; for I maintain paradoxes to display my genius, which
savour too much of scholastic subterfuges. I speak too often and too long;
and as I have some reading, and a copious memory, I am fond of showing
whatever I know. My judgment is not so solid as my wit is lively. I am
often melancholy and unhappy; and this sombrous disposition proceeds from
my numerous disappointments in life. My verse is preferred to my prose;
and it has been of some use to me