ars hence, in a very different phasis of his life! The empty,
noisy, quasi-tragic fellow;--sounds throughout quasi-tragically, like an
empty barrel; well-built, longing to be FILLED. And it is scandalously
false, what loud Trenck insinuates, what stupid Thiebault (always
stupid, incorrect, and the prey of stupidities) confirms, as to this
matter,--fit only for the Nurseries, till it cease altogether.

VOLTAIRE, AT PARIS, IS MADE IMMORTAL BY A KISS.

Voltaire and the divine Emilie are home to Cirey again; that of
Brussels, with the Royal Aachen Excursion, has been only an interlude.
They returned, by slow stages, visit after visit, in October last,--some
slake occurring, I suppose, in that interminable Honsbruck Lawsuit; and
much business, not to speak of ennui, urging them back. They are now
latterly in Paris itself, safe in their own "little palace (PETIT
PALAIS) at the point of the Isle;" little jewel of a house on the Isle
St. Louis, which they are warming again, after long absence in Brussels
and the barbarous countries. They have returned hither, on sufferance,
on good behavior; multitudes of small interests, small to us, great to
them,--death of old Fleury, hopeful changes of Ministry, not to speak of
theatricals and the like,--giving opportunity and invitation. Madame,
we observe, is marrying her Daughter: the happy man a Duke of Montenero,
ill-built Neapolitan, complexion rhubarb, and face consisting much of
nose. [Letter of Voltaire, in _ OEuvres,_ lxxiii 24.] Madame never wants
for business; business enough, were it only in the way of shopping,
visiting, consulting lawyers, doing the Pure Sciences.

As to Voltaire, he has, as usual, Plays to get acted,--if he can.
MAHOMET, no; MORT DE CESAR, yes OR no; for the Authorities are shy,
in spite of the Public. One Play Voltaire did get acted, with a
success,--think of it, reader! The exquisite Tragedy MEROPE, perhaps now
hardly known to you; of which you shall hear anon.

But Plays are not all. Old Pleury being dead, there is again a Vacancy
in the Academy; place among the sacred Forty,--vacant for Voltaire,
if he can get it. Voltaire attaches endless importance to this place;
beautiful as a feather in one's cap; useful also to the solitary
Ishmael of Literature, who will now in a certain sense have Thirty-nine
Comrades, and at least one fixed House-of-Call in this world. In fine,
nothing can be more ardent than the wish of M. de Voltaire for these
supreme