nis was a clever man, and said the same thing of your Pope. Madame
de Sevigne was a clever woman, but she thought Racine would never be
very famous. Milton saw nothing in the first efforts of Dryden that made
him consider Dryden better than a rhymester. Aristophanes was a good
judge of poetry, yet how ill he judged of Euripides! But all this is
commonplace, and yet you bring arguments that a commonplace answers in
evidence against yourself."

"But it is unpleasant not to answer attacks--not to retaliate on
enemies."

"Then answer attacks, and retaliate on enemies."

"But would that be wise?"

"If it give you pleasure--it would not please _me_."

"Come, De Montaigne, you are reasoning Socratically. I will ask you
plainly and bluntly, would you advise an author to wage war on his
literary assailants, or to despise them?"

"Both; let him attack but few, and those rarely. But it is his policy to
show that he is one whom it is better not to provoke too far. The author
always has the world on his side against the critics, if he choose
his opportunity. And he must always recollect that he is 'A STATE' in
himself, which must sometimes go to war in order to procure peace. The
time for war or for peace must be left to the State's own diplomacy and
wisdom."

"You would make us political machines."

"It would make every man's conduct more or less mechanical; for system
is the triumph of mind over matter; the just equilibrium of all the
powers and passions may seem like machinery. Be it so. Nature meant the
world--the creation--man himself, for machines."

"And one must even be in a passion mechanically, according to your
theories."

"A man is a poor creature who is not in a passion sometimes; but a very
unjust, or a very foolish one, if he be in a passion with the wrong
person, and in the wrong place and time. But enough of this, it is
growing late."

"And when will Madame visit England?"

"Oh, not yet, I fear. But you will meet Cesarini in London this year
or the next. He is persuaded that you did not see justice done to his
poems, and is coming here as soon as his indolence will let him, to
proclaim your treachery in a biting preface to some toothless satire."

"Satire!"

"Yes; more than one of your poets made their way by a satire, and
Cesarini is persuaded he shall do the same. Castruccio is not as
far-sighted as his namesake, the Prince of Lucca. Good night, my dear
Ernest."

CHAPTER VI.

"When with