Friedrich came handsomely forward on this grave occasion, though
Dryasdust has not the grace to give me the least information.--
"Frederic Baron Trenck," loud-sounding Phantasm once famous in the
world, now gone to the Nurseries as mythical, was of this Carnival
1742-43; and of the next, and NOT of the next again! A tall
actuality in that time; swaggering about in sumptuous Life-guard
uniform, in his mess-rooms and assembly-rooms; much in love with
himself, the fool. And I rather think, in spite of his dog
insinuations, neither Princess had heard of him till twenty years
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