on: Voltaire tried for the Montpellier; but could not.
[Wrote to Friedrich about it (one of his first Letters after the
Explosion), applying to Friedrich "for a Passport" or Letter of
Protection; which Friedrich answers by De Prades, openly laughing at
it (--OEuvres,--xxiii. 6).] Wilhelmina wintered at Montpellier,
without Voltaire "Thank your stars!' writes Friedrich to her. The
Friedrich-Wilhelmina LETTERS are at their best during this Journey; here
unfortunately very few). [--OEuvres de Frederic,--xxvii. iii. 248-273
(September, 1754, and onwards).] Winter done, Wilhelmina went still
South, to Italy, to Naples, back by Venice:--at Naples, undergoing the
Grotto del Cane and neighborhood, Wilhelmina plucked a Sprig of Laurel
from Virgil's Grave, and sent it to her Brother in the prettiest
manner;--is home at Baireuth, new Palace ready, August, 1755."

These points, hurriedly put down, careful readers will mark, and perhaps
try to keep in mind. Wilhelmina's Tourings are not without interest to
her friends. Of her Voltaire acquaintanceship, especially, we shall hear
again. With Voltaire, Friedrich himself had no farther Correspondence,
or as good as none, for four years and more. What Voltaire writes to
him (with Gifts of Books and the like, in the tenderest regretful
pathetically COOING tone, enough to mollify rocks), Friedrich usually
answers by De Prades, if at all,--in a quite discouraging manner. In the
end of 1757, on what hint we shall see, the Correspondence recommenced,
and did not cease again so long as they both lived.

Voltaire at Potsdam is a failure, then. Nothing to be made of that. Law
is reformed; Embden has its Shipping Companies; Industry flourishes: but
as to the Trismegistus of the Muses coming to our Hearth--! Some Eight
of Friedrich's years were filled by these Three grand Heads of Effort;
perfect Peace in all his borders: and in 1753 we see how the celestial
one of them has gone to wreck. "Understand at last, your Majesty, that
there is no Muses'-Heaven possible on Telluric terms; and cast that
notion out of your head!"

Friedrich does cast it out, more and more, henceforth,--"ACH, MEIN
LIEBER SULZER, what was your knowledge, then, of that damned race?"
Casts it out, we perceive,--and in a handsome silently stoical way.
Cherishing no wrath in his heart against any poor devil; still, in some
sort, loving this and the other of them; Chasot, Algarotti, Voltaire
even, who have gone from him, too we