James Bailly had an idle and light character; whilst young Sylvain from the beginning showed strong reasoning powers, and a passion for study.

The grown man felt in his own element while in noisy gayety.

But the boy loved retirement.

To the father, solitude would have been fatal; for to him life consisted in motion, sallies, witty conversations, free and easy parties, the little gay suppers of those days.

The son, on the contrary, would remain alone and quite silent for whole days.  His mind sufficed to itself; he never sought the fellowship of companions of his own age.  Extreme steadiness was at once his habit and his taste.

The warder of the king’s pictures drew remarkably well, but did not appear to have troubled himself much with the principles of art.

His son Sylvain studied those principles deeply, and to some purpose; he became a theoretic artist of the first class, but he never could either draw or paint even moderately well.

There are few young people who would not, at some time or other, have wished to escape from the scrutinizing eyes of their parents.  The contrary was the case in Bailly’s family, for James used sometimes to say to his friends or to his servants, “Do not mention this peccadillo to my son.  Sylvain is worth more than I am; his morals are very strict.  Under the most respectful exterior, I should perceive in his manner a censure which would grieve me.  I wish to avoid his tacit reproaches, even when he does not say a word.”

The two characters resembled each other only in one point—­in their taste for poetry, or perhaps we ought to say versification, but even here we shall perceive differences.

The father composed songs, little interludes, and farces that were acted at the Italian Comedy; but the son commenced at the age of sixteen by a serious work of time,—­a tragedy.

This tragedy was entitled Clothaire.  The subject, drawn from the early centuries of the French History, had led Bailly by a curious and touching coincidence to relate the tortures inflicted on a Mayor of Paris by a deluded and barbarous multitude.  The work was modestly submitted to the actor Lanoue, who, although he bestowed flattering encouragement on Bailly, dissuaded him frankly from exposing Clothaire to the risk of a public representation.  On the advice of the comedian-author, the young poet took Iphygenia in Tauris for the subject of his second composition.  Such was his ardour, that by the end of three months, he had already written the last line of the fifth act of his new tragedy, and hastened to Passy, to solicit the opinion of the author of Mahomet II.  This time Lanoue thought he perceived that his confiding young friend was not intended by nature for the drama, and he declared it to him without disguise.  Bailly heard the fatal sentence with more resignation than could have been expected from a youth whose budding self-esteem received so violent a shock.  He even threw his two tragedies immediately into the fire.  Under similar circumstances, Fontenelle showed less docility in his youth.  If the tragedy of Aspar also disappeared in the flames, it was not only in consequence of the criticism of a friend; for the author went so far as to call forth the noisy judgment of the pit.