Men are so constituted that everybody would rather undertake himself what he sees done by others, whether he has aptitude for it or not.  I had soon exhausted the whole range of the French stage; several plays were performed for the third and fourth times; all had passed before my eyes and mind, from the stateliest tragedy to the most frivolous afterpiece; and, as when a child I had presumed to imitate Terence, I did not fail now as a boy, on a much more inciting occasion, to copy the French forms to the best of my ability and want of ability.  There were then performed some half-mythological, half-allegorical pieces in the taste of Piron:  they partook somewhat of the nature of parody, and were much liked.  These representations particularly attracted me:  the little gold wings of a lively Mercury, the thunderbolt of a disguised Jupiter, an amorous Danae, or by whatever name a fair one visited by the gods might be called, if indeed it were not a shepherdess or huntress to whom they descended.  And as elements of this kind, from “Ovid’s Metamorphoses,” or the “Pantheon Mythicum” of Pomey, were humming in swarms about my head, I had soon put together in my imagination a little piece of the kind, of which I can only say that the scene was rural, and that there was no lack in it of king’s daughters, princes, or gods.  Mercury, especially, made so vivid an impression on me, that I could almost be sworn that I had seen him with my own eyes.

I presented my friend Derones with a very neat copy, made by myself; which he accepted with quite a special grace, and with a truly patronizing air, glanced hastily over the manuscript, pointed out a few grammatical blunders, found some speeches too long, and at last promised to examine and judge the work more attentively when he had the requisite leisure.  To my modest question, whether the piece could by any chance be performed, he assured me that it was not altogether impossible.  In the theatre, he said, a great deal went by favor; and he would support me with all his heart:  only the affair must be kept private; for he had himself once on a time surprised the directors with a piece of his own, and it would certainly have been acted if it had not been too soon detected that he was the author.  I promised him all possible silence, and already saw in my mind’s eye the name of my piece posted up in large letters on the corners of the streets and squares.

Light-minded as my friend generally was, the opportunity of playing the master was but too desirable.  He read the piece through with attention, and, while he sat down with me to make some trivial alterations, turned the whole thing, in the course of the conversation, completely topsy-turvy, so that not one stone remained on another.  He struck out, added, took away one character, substituted another,—­in short, went on with the maddest wantonness in the world, so that my hair stood on end.  My previous persuasion that he must surely understand the matter, allowed