ciety, invited the chiefs of the two parties to sup with him. He is one of the best companions that we have. His humor is gentle and lively; his gayety is not noisy; he is open, frank, and easy. He has not that sort of wit which seems to aim at stifling that of others. The authority which he conciliates to himself is due to nothing but his graceful manner, to his moderation, and to a round, good-natured face, which is quite persuasive. He could have brought to sup cheerfully together a Corsican and a Genoese—a representative of Geneva and a negative man—the mufti and an archbishop. He managed so dextrously as to make the first stroke that the disputants of both parties aimed at each other fall to the ground, by turning off the discourse and by telling a very diverting tale, which pleased equally the damning and the damned. In short, when they had got a little good-humored and elevated with wine, he made them sign an agreement that the soul of Marcus Antoninus should remain in statu quo—that is to say, nobody knows where—till the day of final judgment.
The souls of the doctors of divinity returned quietly to their limbos after supper, and all was calm. This adjustment of the quarrel did great honor to the Man of Forty Crowns; and, since then, whenever any very peevish virulent dispute arose among men of letters, or among men not of letters, the advice given was, "Gentlemen, go and sup at Master Andrew's!"
