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malice not to relish such delicious pleasantry. In truth, even at this
time of day, it is not easy for any person who has the least perception
of the ridiculous to read the jokes on the Latin city, the Patagonians,
and the hole to the centre of the earth, without laughing till he cries.
But though Frederic was diverted by this charming pasquinade, he was
unwilling that it should get abroad. His self-love was interested. He
had selected Maupertuis to fill the chair of his Academy. If all Europe
were taught to laugh at Maupertuis, would not the reputation of the
Academy, would not even the dignity of its royal patron, be in some
degree compromised? The King, therefore, begged Voltaire to suppress
this performance. Voltaire promised to do so, and broke his word. The
Diatribe was published, and received with shouts of merriment and
applause by all who could read the French language. The King stormed.
Voltaire, with his usual disregard of truth, asserted his innocence,
and made up some lie about a printer or an amanuensis. The King was not
to be so imposed upon. He ordered the pamphlet to be burned by the
common hangman, and insisted upon having an apology from Voltaire,
couched in the most abject terms. Voltaire sent back to the King his
cross, his key, and the patent of his pension. After this burst of rage,
the strange pair began to be ashamed of their violence, and went through
the forms of reconciliation. But the breach was irreparable; and
Voltaire took his leave of Frederic forever. They parted with cold
civility; but their hearts were big with resentment. Voltaire had in his
keeping a volume of the King's poetry, and forgot to return it. This
was, we believe, merely one of the oversights which men setting out upon
a journey often commit. That Voltaire could have meditated plagiarism is
quite incredible. He would not, we are confident, for the half of
Frederic's kingdom have consented to father Frederic's verses. The King,
however, who rated his own writings much above their value, and who was
inclined to see all Voltaire's actions in the worst light, was enraged
to think that his favorite compositions were in the hands of an enemy,
as thievish as a daw and as mischievous as a monkey. In the anger
excited by this thought, he lost sight of reason and decency, and
determined on committing an outrage at once odious and ridiculous.

Voltaire had reached Frankfort. His niece, Madame Denis, came thither to
meet him. He co