und for her Cousin's Court, we observe, just now;
and, considering her Cousin's ways and her own turn of mind, it is easy
to fancy she had not a pleasant time there.

Tradition tells us, credibly enough, "She was very like her Mother:
beautiful, much the lady (VON FEINEM TON), and of energetic character;"
and adds, probably on slight foundation, "but very cold and proud
towards the people." [Vehse, xxv. 251.] Many Books will inform you how,
"On first entering Stuttgard, when the reigning Duke and she were met
by a party of congratulatory peasant women dressed in their national
costume, she said to her Duke," being then only sixteen, poor young
soul, and on her marriage-journey, "'WAS WILL DAS GESCHMEISS (Why does
that rabble bore us)!'" This is probably the main foundation. That "her
Ladies, on approaching her, had always to kiss the hem of her gown," lay
in the nature of the case, being then the rule to people of her rank.
Beautiful Unfortunate, adieu:--and be Voltaire thanked, too!--

It is long since we have seen Voltaire before:--a prosperous Lord at
Ferney these dozen years ("the only man in France that lives like a
GRAND SEIGNEUR," says Cardinal Bernis to him once [Their CORRESPONDENCE,
really pretty of its kind, used to circulate as a separate Volume in the
years then subsequent.]); doing great things for the Pays de Gex and
for France, and for Europe; delivering the Calases, the Sirvens and the
Oppressed of various kinds; especially ardent upon the INFAME, as the
real business Heaven has assigned him in his Day, the sunset of
which, and Night wherein no man can work, he feels to be hastening on.
"Couldn't we, the few Faithful, go to Cleve in a body?" thinks he at one
time: "To Cleve; and there, as from a safe place, under the Philosopher
King, shoot out our fiery artilleries with effect?" The Philosopher King
is perfectly willing, "provided you don't involve me in Wars with
my neighbors." Willing enough he; but they the Faithful--alas, the
Patriarch finds that they have none of his own heroic ardor, and that
the thing cannot be done. Upon which, "struck with sorrow," say his
Biographers, "he writes nothing to Friedrich for two years." ["Nov.
1769," recommences (_OEuvres de Frederic,_ xxiii. 140. 139).]

The truth is, he is growing very old; and though a piercing radiance, as
of stars, bursts occasionally from the central part of him, the outworks
are getting decayed and dim; obstruction more and more accumulati