he siege of Jerusalem compared with the new man Shakspere, who
had recently loomed up into the dramatic sky.

William winked at me in a kind of _sotto voce_ way, and with that natural
exuberance or intellectual "gall" that never fails to strike the "bull's
eye," I bluntly said that Garnier's philosophy and composition were as
different from Shakspere's as the earth from the heaven!

The Frenchman arose and made an extended bow when his "girl" friends yelled
like the "rebels" at Shiloh and kicked off the tall hat of the noted French
dramatist! Great sport!

Extra wine was ordered, and then an improvised ballet girl jumped into the
middle of the wine room, with circus antics, champagne glasses in hand,
singing the praises of the great and only Garnier! Poor devil, he did not
know that my criticism was a double ender. Just as well.

I cannot exactly remember how I got to the hotel, but when William aroused
my latent energies the next morning, I felt as if I had been put through a
Kentucky corn sheller, or caught up in a Texas blizzard and blown into the
middle of Kansas.

William was, as usual, calm, polite, sober and dignified, and while he
touched the wine cup for sociability, in search of human hearts, I never
saw him intoxicated. He had a marvelous capacity of body and brain, and
like an earthly Jupiter he shone over the variegated satellites around him
with the force and brilliancy of the morning sun. He was so far above other
thinkers and writers that no one who knew him felt a pang of jealousy, for
they saw it was impossible to even twinkle in the heaven of his philosophy.

The day before leaving Paris we visited Versailles and wandered through its
pictured palaces, drinking in the historical milestones of the past. Here
lords, kings, queens, farmers, mechanics, shop keepers, sailors, soldiers,
robbers, murderers and beggars had appropriated in turn these royal halls
and stately gardens.

Riot and revolution swept over these memorials like a winter storm, and the
thunder and lightning strokes of civil and foreign troops had desolated the
works of art, genius and royalty.

Nations rise and fall like individuals, and a thousand or ten thousand
years of time are only a "tick" in the clock of destiny.

Early on the morning of the seventh of May, 1598, we went on board a light
double-oared galley, swung into the sparkling waters of the Seine, and
proceeded on our way to Rouen and Havre.

The morning sun sparkli