Here, the cleverest of our
caricaturists, with mischievous eyes and bitter tongue, lay in wait
for epigrams to translate into pencil strokes; there, stood the young
and audacious writer, who distilled the quintessence of political
ideas better than any other man, or compressed the work of some
prolific writer as he held him up to ridicule; he was talking with the
poet whose works would have eclipsed all the writings of the time if
his ability had been as strenuous as his hatreds. Both were trying not
to say the truth while they kept clear of lies, as they exchanged
flattering speeches. A famous musician administered soothing
consolation in a rallying fashion, to a young politician who had just
fallen quite unhurt, from his rostrum. Young writers who lacked style
stood beside other young writers who lacked ideas, and authors of
poetical prose by prosaic poets.
At the sight of all these incomplete beings, a simple Saint Simonian,
ingenuous enough to believe in his own doctrine, charitably paired
them off, designing, no doubt, to convert them into monks of his
order. A few men of science mingled in the conversation, like nitrogen
in the atmosphere, and several _vaudevillistes_ shed rays like the
sparking diamonds that give neither light nor heat.
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