We have no hesitation in saying that thepoorest author of that time in London, sleeping on a bulk, diningin a cellar, with a cravat of paper, and a skewer for a shirt-pin, was a happier man than any of the literary inmates ofFrederic's Court.But of all who entered the enchanted garden in the inebriation ofdelight, and quitted it in agonies of rage and shame, the mostremarkable was Voltaire.