ittle, on behalf of the
distressed French Ministry. That, very privately indeed, is Voltaire's
errand at present; and great hopes hang by it for Voltaire, if he prove
adroit enough.

Poor man, it had turned out he could not get his Academy Diploma, after
all,--owing again to intricacies and heterodoxies. King Louis was
at first willing, indifferent; nay the Chateauroux was willing: but
orthodox parties persuaded his Majesty; wicked Maurepas (the same who
lasted till the Revolution time) set his face against it; Maurepas, and
ANC. de Mirepoix (whom they wittily call "ANE" or Ass of Mirepoix, that
sour opaque creature, lately monk), were industrious exceedingly; and
put veto on Voltaire. A stupid Bishop was preferred to him for filling
up the Forty. Two Bishops magnanimously refused; but one was found with
ambitious stupidity enough: Voltaire, for the third time, failed in this
small matter, to him great. Nay, in spite of that kiss in MEROPE, he
could not get his MORT DE CESAR acted; cabals rising; ANCIEN de Mirepoix
rising; Orthodoxy, sour Opacity prevailing again. To Madame and him
(though finely caressed in the Parisian circles) these were provoking
months;--enough to make a man forswear Literature, and try some other
Jacob's-Ladder in this world. Which Voltaire had actual thoughts of, now
and then. We may ask, Are these things of a nature to create love of the
Hierarchy in M. de Voltaire? "Your Academy is going to be a Seminary
of Priests," says Friedrich. The lynx-eyed animal,--anxiously asking
itself, "Whitherward, then, out of such a mess?"--walks warily about,
with its paws of velvet; but has, IN POSSE, claws under them, for
certain individuals and fraternities.

Nor, alas, is the Du Chatelet relation itself so celestial as it once
was. Madame has discovered, think only with what feelings, that this
great man does not love her as formerly! The great man denies, ready to
deny on the Gospels, to her and to himself; and yet, at bottom, if we
read with the microscope, there are symptoms, and it is not deniable.
How should it? Leafy May, hot June, by degrees comes October, sere,
yellow; and at last, a quite leafless condition,--not Favonius, but gray
Northeast, with its hail-storms (jealousies, barren cankered gusts),
your main wind blowing. "EMILIE FAIT DE L'ALGEBRE," sneers he once, in
an inadvertent moment, to some Lady-friend: "Emilie doing? Emilie is
doing Algebra; that is Emilie's employment,--which will be of g