scribed as a man living almost on the alms of the Europeans, and generally to be seen with a bible under his arm, negligent of his person, housed in a hovel, and going, even then, by the sobriquet of the Prophet.
At the time I am now speaking of, the bare mention of politics or catastrophes was sure to set him wandering on the prophetic writings, and then common sense was at an end. But I had known him for twenty years, when his lucid intervals were only occasionally interrupted by these hallucinations; and I had seldom met with a man who had such an independent character, such naturally noble sentiments couched in such appropriate language, and such an intuitive discernment of what was suitable in unlooked-for emergencies. He was bold as a lion; and, when in anger, had the physiognomy and expression of that noble animal. He had never served in diplomatic situations before his elevation, had never studied political economy, moral philosophy, literature, or anything else, that I could find; and yet, in all these, the innate dictates of his mind responded at once to the call, and he could see the right and wrong, the utile et decorum, the expediency and the evil, the loveliness and the ugliness of every subject presented to him. He had a strong memory, and retained many of the passages of the best French authors by heart.
