_ BOOK XI. FRIEDRICH TAKES THE REINS IN HAND. JUN.-DEC., 1740
(Chapter III cont.)
FRIEDRICH STRIKES OFF TO THE LEFT, AND HAS A VIEW OF STRASBURG FOR TWO DAYS
Through Wurzburg, Frankfurt-on-Mayn, speeds Friedrich;--Wilhelmina and mankind understand that it is homewards and to Cleve; but at Frankfurt, in deepest privacy, there occurs a sudden whirl southward,--up the Rhine-Valley; direct towards Strasburg, for a sight of France in that quarter! So has Friedrich decided,--not quite suddenly, on new Letters here, or new computations about Cleve; but by forethought taken at Baireuth, as rather appears. From Frankfurt to Strasburg, say 150 miles; from Strasburg home, is not much farther than from Frankfurt home: it can be done, then; husht!
The incognito is to be rigorous: Friedrich becomes COMTE DUFOUR, a Prussian-French gentleman; Prince August Wilhelm is Graf von Schaffgotsch, Algarotti is Graf von Pfuhl, Germans these two; what Leopold, the Young Dessauer, called himself,--still less what the others, or whether the others were there at all, and not shoved on, direct towards Wesel, out of the way as is likelier,--can remain uncertain to readers and me. From Frankfurt, then, on Monday morning, 22d August, 1740, as I compute, through old known Philipsburg Campaign country, and the lines of Ettlingen and Stollhofen; there the Royal Party speeds eagerly (weather very bad, as appears): and it is certain they are at Kehl on Tuesday evening; looking across the long Rhine Bridge, Strasburg and its steeples now close at hand.
This looks to be a romantic fine passage in the History of the young King;--though in truth it is not, and proves but a feeble story either to him or us. Concerning which, however, the reader, especially if he should hear that there exists precise Account of it, Two Accounts indeed, one from the King's own hand, will not fail of a certain craving to become acquainted with details. This craving, foolish rather than wise, we consider it thriftiest to satisfy at once; and shall give the King's NARRATIVE entire, though it is a jingling lean scraggy Piece, partly rhyme, "in the manner of Bachaumont and La Chapelle;" written at the gallop, a few days hence, and despatched to Voltaire:--"You," dear Voltaire, "wish to know what I have been about, since leaving Berlin; annexed you will find a description of it," writes Friedrich. [
OEuvres, xxii. 25 (Wesel, 2d Septemher, 1740).] Out of Voltaire's and other people's waste-baskets, it has at length been fished up, patch by patch, and pasted together by victorious modern Editors; and here it is again entire. The other Narrative, which got into the Newspapers soon after, is likewise of authentic nature,--Fassmann, our poor old friend, confirming it, if that were needful,--and is happily in prose. [Given in
Helden-Geschichte, i. 420-423;--see likewise Fassmann's
Merkwurdigster Regierungs-Antritt (poor old Book on FRIEDRICH'S ACCESSION); Preuss (
Thronbesteigung, pp. 395-400); &c. &c.] Holding these two Pieces well together, and giving the King's faithfully translated, in a complete state, it will be possible to satisfy foolish cravings, and make this Strasburg Adventure luminous enough.
KING FRIEDRICH TO VOLTAIRE (from Wesel, 2d September, 1740), CHIEFLY IN DOGGEREL, CONCERNING THE RUN TO STRASBURG
Part of it, incorrect, in Voltaire,
OEuvres (scandalous Piece now called
Memoires, once
Vie Privee du Roi de Prusse), ii. 24-26; finally, in Preuss,
OEuvres de Frederic, xiv. 156-161, the real and complete affair, as fished up by victorious Preuss and others.
"I have just finished a Journey, intermingled with singular adventures, sometimes pleasant, sometimes the reverse. You know I had set out for Baireuth,"--BRUXELLES the beautiful French Editor wrote, which makes Egyptian darkness of the Piece!--"to see a Sister whom I love no less than esteem. On the road [thither or thence; or likeliest, THERE], Algarotti and I consulted the map, to settle our route for returning by Wesel. Frankfurt-on-Mayn comes always as a principal stage;--Strasburg was no great roundabout: we chose that route in preference. The INCOGNITO was decided, names pitched upon [Comte Dufour, and the others]; story we were to tell: in fine, all was arranged and concerted to a nicety as well as possible. We fancied we should get to Strasburg in three days [from Baireuth].
But Heaven, which disposes of all things,
Differently regulated this thing.
With lank-sided coursers,
Lineal descendants from Rosinante,
With ploughmen in the dress of postilions,
Blockheads of impertinent nature;
Our carriages sticking fast a hundred times in the road,
We went along with gravity at a leisurely pace,
Knocking against the crags.
The atmosphere in uproar with loud thunder,
The rain-torrents streaming over the Earth
Threatened mankind with the Day of Judgment [VERY BAD WEATHER],
And in spite of our impatience,
Four good days are, in penance,
Lost forever in these jumblings.
Mais le ciel, qui de tout dispose,
Regla differemment la chose.
Avec de coursiers efflanques,
En ligne droites issus de Rosinante,
Et des paysans en postillons masques,
Dutors de race impertinente,
Notre carrosse en cent lieux accroche,
Nous allions gravement, d'une allure indolente,
Gravitant contre les rochers.
Les airs emus par le bruyant tonnerre,
Les torrents d'eau repandus sur la terre,
Du dernier jour menacaient les humains;
Et malgre notre impatience,
Quatre bons jours en penitence
Sont pour jamais perdus dans les charrains.
"Had all our fatalities been limited to stoppages of speed on the journey, we should have taken patience; but, after frightful roads, we found lodgings still frightfuler.
For greedy landlords
Seeing us pressed by hunger
Did, in a more than frugal manner,
In their infernal hovels,
Poisoning instead of feeding,
Steal from us our crowns.
O age different [in good cheer] from that of Lucullus!
Car des hotes interesses,
De la faim nous voyant presses,
D'une facon plus que frugale,
Dans une chaumiere infernale,
En nous empoisonnant,
Nous volaient nos ecus.
O siecle different des temps de Lucullus!
"Frightful roads; short of victual, short of drink: nor was that all. We had to undergo a variety of accidents; and certainly our equipage must have had a singular air, for in every new place we came to, they took us for something different.
Some took us for Kings,
Some for pickpockets well disguised;
Others for old acquaintances.
At times the people crowded out,
Looked us in the eyes,
Like clowns impertinently curious.
Our lively Italian [Algarotti] swore;
For myself I took patience;
The young Count [my gay younger Brother, eighteen at present]
quizzed and frolicked;
The big Count [Heir-apparent of Dessau] silently swung his head,
Wishing this fine Journey to France,
In the bottom of his heart, most christianly at the Devil.
Les uns nous prenaient pour des rois,
D'autres pour des filous courtois,
D'autrespour gens de connaissance;
Parfois le peuple s'attroupait,
Entre les yeux nous regardait
En badauds curieux, remplis d'impertinence.
Notre vif Italien jurait,
Pour moi je prenais patience,
Le jeune Comte folatrait,
Le grand Comte se dandinait,
Et ce beau vogage de France
Dans le fond de son coeur chretiennement damnait.
"We failed not, however, to struggle gradually along; at last we arrived in that Stronghold, where [as preface to the War of 1734, known to some of us]--
Where the garrison, too supple,
Surrendered so piteously
After the first blurt of explosion
From the cannon of the French.
Ou a garrison, troupe flasque,
Se rendit si piteusement
Apres la premiere bourasque
Du canon francais foudroyant.
You recognize Kehl in this description. It was in that fine Fortress,--where, by the way, the breaches are still lying unrepaired [Reich being a slow corpus in regard to such things],--that the Postmaster, a man of more foresight than we, asked If we had got passports?
No, said I to him; of passports
We never had the whim.
Strong ones I believe it would need
To recall, to our side of the limit,
Subjects of Pluto King of the Dead:
But, from the Germanic Empire
Into the gallant and cynical abode
Of Messieurs your pretty Frenchmen,--A jolly and beaming air,
Rubicund faces, not ignorant of wine,
These are the passports which, legible if you look on us,
Our troop produces to you for that end.
Non, lui dis-je, des passe-ports
Nous n'eumes jamais la folie.
Il en faudrait, je crois, de forts
Pour ressusciter a la vie
De chez Pluton le roi des morts;
Mais de l'empire germanique
Au sejour galant et cynique
De Messieurs vos jolis Francais,
Un air rebondissant et frais,
Une face rouge et bachique,
Sont les passe-ports qu'en nos traits
Vous produit ici notre clique.
"No, Messieurs, said the provident Master of Passports; no salvation without passport. Seeing then that Necessity had got us in the dilemma of either manufacturing passports ourselves or not entering Strasburg, we took the former branch of the alternative and manufactured one;--in which feat, the Prussian arms, which I had on my seal, were marvellously furthersome."
This is a fact, as the old Newspapers and confirmatory Fassmann more directly apprise us. "The Landlord [or Postmaster] at Kehl, having signified that there was no crossing without Passport," Friedrich, at first, somewhat taken aback, bethought him of his watch-seal with the Royal Arms on it; and soon manufactured the necessary Passport, signeted in due form;--which, however, gave a suspicion to the Innkeeper as to the quality of his Guest. After which, Tuesday evening, 23d August, "they at once got across to Strasburg," says my Newspaper Friend, "and put up at the SIGN OF THE RAVEN, there." Or in Friedrich's own jingle:--
"We arrived at Strasburg; and the Custom-house corsair, with his inspectors, seemed content with our evidences.
These scoundrels spied us,
With one eye reading our passport,
With the other ogling our purse.
Gold, which was always a resource,
Which brought, Jove to the enjoyment
Of Danae whom he caressed;
Gold, by which Caesar governed
The world happy under his sway;
Gold, more a divinity than Mars or Love;
Wonder-working Gold introduced us
That evening, within the walls of Strasburg."
[Given thus far, with several slight errors, in Voltaire, ii. 24-26;--the remainder, long unknown, had to be fished up, patch by patch (Preuss,
OEuvres de Frederic, xiv. 159-161).]
Ces scelerats nous epiaient,
D'un oeil le passe-port lisaient,
De l'autre lorgnaient notre bourse.
L'or, qui toujours fut de ressource,
Par lequel Jupin jouissait
De Danae, qu'il caressait;
L'or, par qui Cesar gouvernait
Le monde heureux sous son empire;
L'or, plus dieu que Mars et l'Amour,
Le soir, dans les murs de Strasbourg.
Sad doggerel; permissible perhaps as a sample of the Friedrich manufacture, surely not otherwise! There remains yet more than half of it; readers see what their foolish craving has brought upon them! Doggerel out of which no clear story, such story as there is, can be had; though, except the exaggeration and contortion, there is nothing of fiction in it. We fly to the Newspaper, happily at least a prose composition, which begins at this point; and shall use the Doggerel henceforth as illustration only or as repetition in the Friedrich-mirror, of a thing OTHERWISE made clear to us:--
Having got into Strasburg and the RAVEN HOTEL; Friedrich now on French ground at last, or at least on Half-French, German-French, is intent to make the most of circumstances. The Landlord, with one of Friedrich's servants, is straightway despatched into the proper coffee-houses to raise a supper-party of Officers; politely asks any likely Officer, "If he will not do a foreign Gentleman [seemingly of some distinction, signifies Boniface] the honor to sup with him at the Raven?"--"No, by Jupiter!" answer the most, in their various dialects: "who is he that we should sup with him?" Three, struck by the singularity of the thing, undertake; and with these we must be content. Friedrich--or call him M. le Comte Dufour, with Pfuhl, Schaffgotsch and such escort as we see--politely apologizes on the entrance of these officers: "Many pardons, gentlemen, and many thanks. Knowing nobody; desirous of acquaintance:--since you are so good, how happy, by a little informality, to have brought brave Officers to keep me company, whom I value beyond other kinds of men!"
The Officers found their host a most engaging gentleman: his supper was superb, plenty of wine, "and one red kind they had never tasted before, and liked extremely;"--of which he sent some bottles to their lodging next day. The conversation turned on military matters, and was enlivened with the due sallies. This foreign Count speaks French wonderfully; a brilliant man, whom the others rather fear: perhaps something more than a Count? The Officers, loath to go, remembered that their two battalions had to parade next morning, that it was time to be in bed: "I will go to your review," said the Stranger Count: the delighted Officers undertake to come and fetch him, they settle with him time and method; how happy!
On the morrow, accordingly, they call and fetch him; he looks at the review; review done, they ask him to supper for this evening: "With pleasure!" and "walks with them about the Esplanade, to see the guard march by." Before parting, he takes their names, writes them in his tablets; says, with a smile, "He is too much obliged ever to forget them." This is Wednesday, the 24th of August, 1740; Field-Marshal Broglio is Commandant in Strasburg, and these obliging Officers are "of the regiment Piedmont,"--their names on the King's tablets I never heard mentioned by anybody (or never till the King's Doggerel was fished up again). Field-Marshal Broglio my readers have transiently seen, afar off;--"galloping with only one boot," some say "almost in his shirt," at the Ford of Secchia, in those Italian campaigns, five years ago, the Austrians having stolen across upon him:--he had a furious gallop, with no end of ridicule, on that occasion; is now Commandant here; and we shall have a great deal more to do with him within the next year or two.
"This same day, 24th, while I [the Newspaper volunteer Reporter or Own Correspondent, seemingly a person of some standing, whose words carry credibility in the tone of them] was with Field-Marshal Broglio our Governor here, there came two gentlemen to be presented to him; 'German Cavaliers' they were called; who, I now find, must have been the Prince of Prussia and Algarotti. The Field-Marshal,"--a rather high-stalking white-headed old military gentleman, bordering on seventy, of Piedmontese air and breed, apt to be sudden and make flounderings, but the soul of honor, "was very polite to the two Cavaliers, and kept them to dinner. After dinner there came a so-styled 'Silesian Nobleman,' who likewise was presented to the Field-Marshal, and affected not to know the other two: him I now find to have been the Prince of Anhalt."
Of his Majesty's supper with the Officers that Wednesday, we are left to think how brilliant it was: his Majesty, we hear farther, went to the Opera that night,--the Polichinello or whatever the "Italian COMODIE" was;--"and a little girl came to his box with two lottery-tickets fifteen pence each, begging the foreign Gentleman for the love of Heaven to buy them of her; which he did, tearing them up at once, and giving the poor creature four ducats," equivalent to two guineas, or say in effect even five pounds of the present British currency. The fame of this foreign Count and his party at The Raven is becoming very loud over Strasburg, especially in military circles. Our volunteer Own Correspondent proceeds (whom we mean to contrast with the Royal Doggerel by and by):--
"Next morning," Thursday, 25th August, "as the Marshal with above two hundred Officers was out walking on the Esplanade, there came a soldier of the Regiment Luxemburg, who, after some stiff fugling motions, of the nature of salutation partly, and partly demand for privacy, intimated to the Marshal surprising news: That the Stranger in The Raven was the King of Prussia in person; he, the soldier, at present of the Regiment Luxemburg, had in other days, before he deserted, been of the Prussian Crown-Prince's regiment; had consequently seen him in Berlin, Potsdam and elsewhere a thousand times and more, and even stood sentry where he was: the fact is beyond dispute, your Excellency! said this soldier."--Whew!
Whereupon a certain Colonel, Marquis de Loigle, with or without a hint from Broglio, makes off for The Raven; introduces himself, as was easy; contrives to get invited to stay dinner, which also was easy. During dinner the foreign Gentleman expressed some wish to see their fortress. Colonel Loigle sends word to Broglio; Broglio despatches straightway an Officer and fine carriage: "Will the foreign Gentleman do me the honor?" The foreign Gentleman, still struggling for incognito, declines the uppermost seat of honor in the carriage; the two Officers, Loigle and this new one, insist on taking the inferior place. Alas, the incognito is pretty much out. Calling at some coffee-house or the like on the road, a certain female, "Madame de Fienne," named the foreign Gentleman "Sire,"--which so startled him that, though he utterly declined such title, the two Officers saw well how it was.
"After survey of the works, the two attendant Officers had returned to the Field-Marshal; and about 4 P.M. the high Stranger made appearance there. But the thing had now got wind, 'King of Prussia here incognito!' The place was full of Officers, who came crowding about him: he escaped deftly into the Marechal's own Cabinet; sat there, an hour, talking to the Marechal [little admiring the Marechal's talk, as we shall find], still insisting on the incognito,"--to which Broglio, put out in his high paces by this sudden thing, and apt to flounder, as I have heard, was not polite enough to conform altogether. "What shall I do, in this sudden case?" poor Broglio is thinking to himself: "must write to Court; perhaps try to detain--?" Friedrioh's chief thought naturally is, One cannot be away out of this too soon. "Sha'n't we go to the Play, then, Monsieur le Marechal? Play-hour is come!"--Own Correspondent of the Newspaper proceeds:--
"The Marechal then went to the Play, and all his Officers with him; thinking their royal prize was close at their heels. Marechal and Officers fairly ahead, coast once clear, their royal prize hastened back to The Raven, paid his bill; hastily summoning Schaffgotsch and the others within hearing; shot off like lightning; and was seen in Strasburg no more. Algarotti, who was in the box with Broglio, heard the news in the house; regretful rumor among the Officers, 'He is gone!' In about a quarter of an hour Algarotti too slipped out; and vanished by extra post"--straight towards Wesel; but could not overtake the King (whose road, in the latter part of it, went zigzag, on business as is likely), nor see him again till they met in that Town. [From
Helden-Geschichte (i. 420-424), &c.]
This is the Prose Truth of those fifty or eight-and-forty hours in Strasburg, which were so mythic and romantic at that time. Shall we now apply to the Royal Doggerel again, where we left off, and see the other side of the picture? Once settled in The Raven, within Strasburg's walls, the Doggerel continues:--
"You fancy well that there was now something to exercise my curiosity; and what desire I had to know the French Nation in France itself.
There I saw at length those French,
Of whom you have sung the glories;
A people despised by the English,
Whom their sad rationality fills with black bile;
Those French, whom our Germans
Reckon all to be destitute of sense;
Those French, whose History consists of Love-stories,
I mean the wandering kind of Love, not the constant;
Foolish this People, headlong, high-going,
Which sings beyond endurance;
Lofty in its good fortune, crawling in its bad;
Of an unpitying extent of babble,
To hide the vacancy of its ignorant mind.
Of the Trifling it is a tender lover;
The Trifling alone takes possession of its brain.
People flighty, indiscreet, imprudent,
Turning like the weathercock to every wind.
Of the ages of the Caesars those of the Louises are the shadow;
Paris is the ghost, of Rome, take it how you will.
No, of those vile French you are not one:
You think; they do not think at all.
La je vis enfin ces Francais
Dont vous avez chante la gloire;
Peuple meprise' des Anglais,
Que leur triste raison remplit de bile noire;
Ces Francais, que nos Allemands
Pensent tous prives de bon sens;
Ces Francais, do nt l'amour pourrait dicter l'histoire,
Je dis l'amour volage, et non l'amour constant;
Ce peuple fou, brusque et galant,
Chansonnier insupportable,
Superbe en sa fortune, en son malheur rampant,
D'un bavardage impitoyable,
Pour cacher le creux d'un esprit ignorant,
Tendre amant de la bagatelle,
Elle entre seule en sa cervelle;
Leger, indiscret, imprudent,
Comme ume girouette il revire a tout vent.
Des siecles des Cesars ceux des Louis sont l'ombre;
Rome efface Paris en tout sens, en tout point.
Non, des vils Francais vous n'etes pas du nombre;
Vous pensez, ils ne pensent point.
"Pardon, dear Voltaire, this definition of the French; at worst, it is only of those in Strasburg I speak. To scrape acquaintance, I had to invite some Officers on our arrival, whom of course I did not know.
Three of them came at once,
Gayer, more content than Kings;
Singing with rusty voice.
In verse, their amorous exploits,
Set to a hornpipe.
Trois d'eux s'en vinrent a la fois,
Plus gais, plus contents que des rois,
Chantant d'une voix enrouee,
En vers, leurs amoureux exploits,
Ajustes sur une bourree.
"M. de la Crochardiere and M. Malosa [two names from the tablets, third wanting] had just come from a dinner where the wine had not been spared.
Of their hot friendship I saw the flame grow,
The Universe would have taken us for perfect friends:
But the instant of good-night blew out the business;
Friendship disappeared without regrets,
With the games, the wine, the table and the viands.
De leur chaude amitie je vis croitre le flamme,
L'univers nous eut pris pour des amis parfaits;
Mais l'instant des adieux en detruisit la trame,
L'amitie disparut, ssns causer des regrets,
Avec le jeu, le vin, et la table, et les mets.
"Next day, Monsieur the Gouverneur of the Town and Province, Marechal of France, Chevalier of the Orders of the King, &c. &c.,--Marechal Duc de Broglio, in fact," who was surprised at Secchia in the late War,--
This General always surprised.
Whom with regret, young Louis [your King]
Saw without breeches in Italy
["With only one boot," was the milder rumor; which we adopted (supra, vol. vi. p. 472), but this sadder one, too, was current; and "Broglio's breeches," or the vain aspiration after them, like a vanished ghost of breeches, often enough turn up in the old Pamphlets.]
Galloping to hide away his life
From the Germans, unpolite fighters;--
Ce general toujours surpris,
Qu'a regret le jeune Louis
Vit sans culottes en Italie,
Courir pour derober sa vie
Aux Germains, guerriers impolis.
this General wished to investigate your Comte Dufour,--foreign Count, who the instant he arrives sets about inviting people to supper that are perfect strangers. He took the poor Count for a sharper; and prudently advised M. de la Crochardiere not to be duped by him. It was unluckily the good Marechal that proved to be duped.
He was born for surprise.
His white hair, his gray beard,
Formed a reverend exterior.
Outsides are often deceptive:
He that, by the binding, judges
Of a Book and its Author
May, after a page of reading,
Chance to recognize his mistake.
Il etait ne pour la surprise.
Ses cheveux blancs, sa barbe grise,
Formaient un sage exterieur.
Le dehors est souvent trompeur;
Qui juge par la reliure
D'un ouvrage et de son auteur
Dans une page de lecture
Peut reconnaitre son erreur.
"That was my own experience; for of wisdom I could find nothing except in his gray hair and decrepit appearance. His first opening betrayed him; no great well of wit this Marechal,
Who, drunk with his own grandeur,
Informs you of his name and his titles,
And authority as good as unlimited.
He cited to me all the records
Where his name is registered,
Babbled about his immense power,
About his valor, his talents
So salutary to France;--He forgot that, three years ago
[Six to a nearness,--"15th September, 1734," if your Majesty will be exact.]
Men did not praise his prudence.
Qui, de sa grandeur enivre;
Decline son nom et ses titres,
Et son pouvoir a rien borne.
Il me cita tous les registres
Ou son nom est enregistre;
Bavard de son pouvoir immense,
De sa valeur, de ces talents
Si salutaires a la France:
Il oubliait, passe trois ans,
Qu'on ne louait pas sa prudence.
"Not satisfied with seeing the Marechal, I saw the guard mounted
By these Frenchmen, burning with glory,
Who, on four sous a day,
Will make of Kings and of Heroes the memory flourish:
Slaves crowned by the hands of Victory,
Unlucky herds whom the Court
Tinkles hither and thither by the sound of fife and drum.
A ces Francais brulants de gloire,
Dotes de quatre sous par jour,
Qui des rois, des heros font fleurir la memoire,
Esclaves couronnes des mains de la victoire,
Troupeaux malheureux que la cour
Dirige au seul bruit du tambour.
"That was my fated term. A deserter from our troops got eye on me, recognised me and denounced me.
This wretched gallows-bird got eye on me;
Such is the lot of all earthly things;
And so of our fine mystery
The whole secret came to light."
Ce malheureux pendard me vit,
C'est le sort de toutes les choses;
Ainsi de motre pot aux roses
Tout le secret se decouvrit.
Well; we must take this glimpse, such as it is, into the interior of the young man,--fine buoyant, pungent German spirit, roadways for it very bad, and universal rain-torrents falling, yet with coruscations from a higher quarter;--and you can forget, if need be, the "Literature" of this young Majesty, as you would a staccato on the flute by him! In after months, on new occasion rising, "there was no end to his gibings and bitter pleasantries on the ridiculous reception Broglio had given him at Strasburg," says Valori, [
Memoires, i. 88.]--of which this Doggerel itself offers specimen.
"Probably the weakest Piece I ever translated?" exclaims one, who has translated several such. Nevertheless there is a straggle of pungent sense in it,--like the outskirts of lightning, seen in that dismally wet weather, which the Royal Party had. Its wit is very copious, but slashy, bantery, and proceeds mainly by exaggeration and turning topsy-turvy; a rather barren species of wit. Of humor, in the fine poetic sense, no vestige. But there is surprising veracity,--truthfulness unimpeachable, if you will read well. What promptitude, too;--what funds for conversation, when needed! This scraggy Piece, which is better than the things people often talk to one another, was evidently written as fast as the pen could go.--"It is done, if such a Hand could have DONE it, in the manner of Bachaumont and La Chapelle," says Voltaire scornfully, in that scandalous VIE PRIVEE;--of which phrase this is the commentary, if readers need one:--
"Some seventy or eighty years before that date, a M. Bachaumont and a M. la Chapelle, his intimate, published, in Prose skipping off into dancings of Verse every now and then, 'a charming RELATION of a certain VOYAGE or Home Tour' (whence or whither, or correctly when, this Editor forgets), ["First printed in 1665," say the Bibliographies; "but known to La Fontaine some time before." Good!--Bachaumont, practically an important and distinguished person, not literary by trade, or indeed otherwise than by ennui, was he that had given (some fifteen years before) the Nickname FRONDE (Bickering of Schoolboys) to the wretched Historical Object which is still so designated in French annals.] which they had made in partnership. 'RELATION' capable still of being read, if one were tolerably idle;--it was found then to be charming, by all the world; and gave rise to a new fashion in writing; which Voltaire often adopts, and is supremely good at; and in which Friedrich, who is also fond of it, by no means succeeds so well."
Enough, Friedrich got to Wesel, back to his business, in a day or two; and had done, as we forever have, with the Strasburg Escapade and its Doggerel. _