this lower world, are gone all to inorganic powder, no comfortable
or profitable memory to be held of them more; and this poor
Voltaire, without implement except the tongue and brain of him,--he
is still a shining object to all the populations; and they say and
symbol to me, "Tell us of him! He is the man!" Very strange indeed.
Changed times since, for dogs barking at the heels of him, and
lions roaring ahead,--for Asses of Mirepoix, for foul creatures in
high dizenment, and foul creatures who were hungry valets of the
same,--this man could hardly get the highways walked! And indeed
had to keep his eyes well open, and always have covert within
reach,--under pain of being torn to pieces, while he went about in
the flesh, or rather in the bones, poor lean being. Changed times;
within the Century last past! For indeed there was in that man what
far transcends all dizenment, and temporary potency over valets,
over legions, treasure-vaults and dim millions mostly blockhead:
a spark of Heaven's own lucency, a gleam from the Eternities (in
small measure);--which becomes extremely noticeable when the Dance
is over, when your tallow-dips and wax-lights are burnt out, and
the brawl of the night is gone to bed.



Chapter II.

PEEP AT VOLTAIRE AND HIS DIVINE EMILIE (BY CANDLELIGHT)
IN THE TIDE OF EVENTS.

Public European affairs require little remembrance; the War burning
well to leeward of us henceforth. A huge world of smoky chaos; the
special fires of it, if there be anything of fire, are all the more