eople's happiness. My heart will rank itself among your
subjects; your glory will ever be dear to me. I shall wish, May you
always be like yourself, and may other Kings be like you!--I am, with
profound respect, your Royal Highness's most humble

"VOLTAIRE."

[_OEuvres de Frederic,_ xxi. 10.]

The Correspondence, once kindled, went on apace; and soon burst forth,
finding nourishment all round, into a shining little household fire,
pleasant to the hands and hearts of both parties. Consent of opinions on
important matters is not wanting; nor is emphasis in declaring the same.
The mutual admiration, which is high,--high and intrinsic on Friedrich's
side; and on Voltaire's, high if in part extrinsic,--by no means wants
for emphasis of statement: superlatives, tempered by the best art,
pass and repass. Friedrich, reading Voltaire's immortal Manuscripts,
confesses with a blush, before long, that he himself is a poor
Apprentice that way. Voltaire, at sight of the Princely Productions,
is full of admiration, of encouragement; does a little in correcting,
solecisms of grammar chiefly; a little, by no means much. But it is a
growing branch of employment; now and henceforth almost the one
reality of function Voltaire can find for himself in this beautiful
Correspondence. For, "Oh what a Crown-Prince, ripening forward to be the
delight of human nature, and realize the dream of sages, Philosophy upon
the Throne!" And on the other side, "Oh what a Phoebus Apollo, mounting
the eastern sky, chasing the Nightmares,--sowing the Earth with Orient
pearl, to begin with!"--In which fine duet, it must be said, the Prince
is perceptibly the truer singer; singing within compass, and from the
heart; while the Phoebus shows himself acquainted with art, and warbles
in seductive quavers, now and then beyond the pitch of his voice. We
must own also, Friedrich proves little seducible; shows himself laudably
indifferent to such siren-singing;--perhaps more used to flattery, and
knowing by experience how little meal is to be made of chaff. Voltaire,
in an ungrateful France, naturally plumes himself a good deal on such
recognition by a Foreign Rising Sun; and, of the two, though so many
years the elder, is much more like losing head a little.

Elegant gifts are despatched to Cirey; gold-amber trinkets for Madame,
perhaps an amber inkholder for Monsieur: priceless at Cirey as the gifts
of the very gods. By and by, a messenger goes express: the witty