Nothing could exceed the timidity, or, we might rather say, the poltroonery, of the celebrated moralist Nicole; he dreaded travelling, excursions on the water, and to the end of his life he never went into the streets without trembling in incessant fear, lest a tile should fall on his head. He dwelt for a long time in the Faubourg Saint-Marcel, "because," as he said, "the enemies who threatened Paris would enter by the Porte SaintMartin, and would be obliged consequently, to traverse the whole city before they could arrive at his house." In a word, he could sav, as the actor who bungled Racine,

"Je crains tout, cher Abner, et n'ai pas d'autre crainte."

Henry III, who had so decided a passion for little dogs, could not remain in the same room with a cat. The Duke d'Epernon fainted at the sight of a leveret.

Marshal de Brézé (who died in 1650) swooned at the sight of a rabbit, as related by Tallemant.

Marshal d'Albret got ill at a repast where either a sucking pig or a wild boar was served. Erasmus could not even smell fish without getting feverish. Scaliger trembled all over at seeing water cresses. Tycho-Brahe felt his limbs failing when he encountered a hare or a fox. Bacon fell into a fainting fit during an eclipse of the moon. Bayle got convulsions when he heard the sound of water issuing from a spout. Lamothe le Vayer could not endure the sound of any instrument. Favoriti, an Italian poet, who died in 1682, could not bear the odour of the rose.

Many celebrated personages are distinguished by their affection for certain animals. Thus, Alexander cherished Bucephalus; Augustus, a parrot; Commodius, an ape; Heliogabalus, a starling, &c., &c.

Honorius, Emperor of the West, had a profound tenderness for a hen, which, probably, was not reciprocated. Being at Ravenna, and having had the precaution of placing between himself and the Goths the channel of the Adriatic Sea, when after the capture of Rome by Alaric, in 410, the slave having the charge of the imperial aviary came to announce to him that the capital of Italy and of the West was lost. "How is that?" cried the Emperor, dismayed, "How! Rome lost! It was but a moment since she was eating from my hand." Thus it was towards his favorite hen, whom he called Rome, that the thoughts and anxieties of the monarch reverted, and he felt much relieved when assured that it was not his beloved

bird but the capital of his empire that was lost. "Ah !” rejoined he, "I thought it was my hen." So great, adds the Greek historian, Procopius, to whom we are indebted for this anecdote, so great was his stupidity and brutishness.

The celebrated French financier, Samuel Bernard, (who died in 1739), thought his existence was bound up with that of a black hen, who, thanks to this circumstance, experienced much care and tenderness, for God knows how long. They both died about the same time, Bernard having attained his eightyeighth year.

Passeroni, the Italian poet, (who died in 1802,) had a strong affection for a cock, and alluded to it in all his poems.

Saint Evremond and Crébillon were always surrounded by cats and dogs.

Lipsius liked only dogs, and had amongst others, a dog he called Saphir, in whom he surmounted the natural repugnance of animals of this species for wine. Thus, said he, "I have in some manner assimilated Saphir to man, as he is fond of wine, and subject to the gout."

Godefroy Mind, a Bernais painter, (who died in 1814,) had been surnamed le Raphaël des chats, in consequence of having excelled in painting those animals, towards whom he entertained an ardent affection; he had at all times many of them about him. "During his work," writes M. Depping, "his favourite cat was invariably beside him, with whom he kept up a kind of conversation; sometimes she occupied his knees, two or three little cats were perched on his shoulders, and he remained in this attitude for hours together, without stirring, lest he should discompose the companions of his solitude."

It was not alone for one or two species of the animal kingdom, that Denis Rolle, an English member of Parliament, in the eighteenth century, manifested his sympathies, but for all animals without distinction, and he was under the impression that they both knew of, and appreciated his kind intentions.

"I have," wrote he in a pamphlet he composed on the abolition of bull-fights and cock-fights, "I have proved the recognition of wild bears, who, after absence, allowed themselves to be taken by me and led by the snout. I cannot bet

ter exemplify the truth of my axiom than by stating that I have frequently thrust my hand down the throat of a bull dog, and without any particular skill on my part, have been enabled to

render horses, wild in the fields, docile at my approach; the most venomous serpents have not inspired me with the least fear. During some years I have traversed dense forests, without ever being attacked; I have reposed in morasses filled with reptiles and venomous insects: serpents have been in my ears without stinging me. I could also tell of a crane, who ran always after me, following me through the fields; and of a strange dog, who, every time I crossed Waltham, hastened to defend me, and expressed, by his lamentations, the grief he felt in quitting me. I remember also a little cat of Florida, who rushed at some dogs who were barking at me, fearing they were about to attack me. I cannot better explain these proofs of attachment than by supposing that Providence thus wished to reward my feelings of benevolence and humanity towards animals."

"They relate that Demosthenes," writes Gellius, "was exceedingly spruce in his dress, and that he carried this care of his person to the most delicate and fastidious refinement. This called forth all the railleries of his rivals and adversaries on his coquettish mantle, on his effeminate tunic. Thence also sprung those injurious and obscene discourses, representing him as effeminate, and accusing him of the most infamous crimes. The same account has been given of Hortensius, the most celebrated orator of his time, (after Cicero,) a gentleman always studiously elaborate, whose dress was arranged with art, whose frequent gestures, and studied and theatrical action, drew on him a crowd of sarcastic and outrageous apostrophes."

The English poet, Gray, made himself remarkable by the foppishness of his manners and dress; a foppishness which he carried almost to folly.

Cavendish, the English philosopher, who left in dying, the largest fortune ever known to be possessed by a Savant, (£1,500,000) was always dressed in grey cloth, and had his clothes made precisely as of the same date. He collected a magnificent library, which was at the command of all the learned, but that it should not be put out of order, he had it placed twelve miles from his dwelling. Whenever he wanted a book he sent a written order for it, and returned it again with the greatest punctuality.

Another philosopher, Desmarets, (who died in 1815,) never changed the form of his dress, and up to the end of his life, his wig and dress would recal one to the modes in use under Cardinal Fleury.

The great English chemist, Davy, clothed himself entirely in green, to go fish, and in red to hunt; he pretended that, dressed in this manner, he frightened the fish and game less.

Towards the end of the last century some individuals adopted the kind of nourishment recommended by Pythagoras. We will mention amongst others, Ritson whose only food was legumes, and who published, in 1803, an essay on total abstinence from all animal food.

Another English author, Wakefield, (who died in 1801,) abstained from wine, as well as from animal food. He only followed the example of the philanthropist, Anthony Benezet, (who died in 1784.)

In the seventeenth century, the German enthusiast, Hoyer, (who died in 1656,) never ate anything but fish which had died naturally.

Spinosa spent between five and six sous a day for his food. Buttner, a German naturalist and philologist, of the eighteenth century, made but one single repast in the day, which cost him but three sous.

Everybody knows that the astronomer, Lalande, affected to eat with delight spiders and caterpillars, of which he carried a stock in his bonbonnière.

C. Gracchus, said Gellius, "made use of a flute to modulate the intonations of his voice, when in the tribune. It is not true, as several suppose, that a musician playing the flute was placed behind the back of Gracchus whilst he spoke, and by his various notes moderated and excited by turns the movements and action of the orator. What absurdity to fancy that a flute could mark for Gracchus, haranguing in public, the measure, the rhythm and the different cadences according to the same rule as you would arrange the pace of a buffoon on the stage! The authors better instructed on this fact relate only that a man was concealed near at hand who was engaged to moderate the intonations of the voice, when becoming too vociferous, by drawing a slow and solemn note on a flute. That was all. Nor do I believe that the naturally impassioned genius of Gracchus required external excitement whilst in the tribune. However, Cicero thought he employed this flute player for a double purpose, and that according as his notes were lively or calm, he enlivened his tone of voice if too slow, and moderated its impetuosity if too boisterous." This is the passage from

"

Cicero: “ Thus as Licinius, a well informed man, formerly his secretary and now his client, has told Catullus, that this same Gracchus had in his service an intelligent man, who concealed himself near the tribune with an ivory flute, giving rapidity to the sound which was necessary to excite when his action was too slow, and softening the notes to a calm when he was too rapid."

"Eschylus," relates Athnæus, "was always a little excited by wine whilst composing his tragedies. We know that Alcman, the lyric poet and Aristophanes the comic, wrote their poems in a state of inebriety"

Madame dela Suze, the humanist Lefèvre in the seventeenth century, and Buffon in the eighteenth, could not work without being dressed with the greatest elegance; nothing, not even a sword, was wanting in the toilet of the latter.

Bacon, Milton, Warburton, Alfieri, required music to enable them to work; and it is related that Bourdaloue always executed an air on the violin before preparing himself to write a serion.

Thomson, author of The Seasons, passed entire days in his bed, and when asked why he did not rise, he replied, "I see no motive for my rising."

Thomas remained every day until twelve o'clock in bed, the curtains closely drawn. There it was he composed the works which he afterwards wrote "off hand," when he arose. It was thus that during all his life he only aspired to the production of what Voltaire called du galithomas.

Casti, the lively author of the Animaux Parlants, composed his pretty verses whilst playing cards all alone on his bed.

Corneille, Malebranch and Hobbes composed most frequently in the dark, whilst Mézeray on the contrary never worked but with candle-light both by night and day, and never failed even at mid-day to reconduct, light in hand, into the middle of the street those who visited him.

Goethe composed whilst walking; Descartes on the contrary practised like Leibnitz the méditation horizontale.

Gluck caused his harpsichord to be transported into the middle of a meadow; a vast space, the open sky, the heat of the sun and some bottles of champagne, gave him inspiration to compose two divine songs, Iphigénie and D'Orphée. On the contrary, Sarti could not work but in a spacious room, with an arch roof and obscurely dim. The silence of night, the sombre glimmer of a lamp suspended from the ceiling, were