a. H.

ART. III.-Vie Privée de Voltaire et de Madame du Châtelet pendant un séjour de six mois à Cirey; par l'auteur des Lettres Peruviennes, suivie de cinquante lettres inédites, en vers et en prose, de Voltaire. 1 vol. 8vo, Paris, 1820.

THE letters, which compose the greater part of this work, were written by Madame de Graffigny during a visit of six months at the Château of Cirey, the residence of the Marquis and Marchioness du Châtelet, and where Voltaire was also at the same time a guest. The name of the writer is not much known in the literary world, and she published nothing in her life time but the Peruvian Letters,' a work which we have not had the pleasure of inspecting, but which we understand, belongs to the class of sentimental novels, and enjoys a pretty high reputation in the boarding schools. The present series of letters is also a sort of romance, though a narrative of real events; and to our taste even more interesting than the sorrows of the tender Zilia in the novel just mentioned, as far as we can form a conjecture in regard to the latter. The story of this little romance of real life is briefly the following. Madame de Graffigny had long been inflamed with an eager desire to make the acquaintance of Voltaire, under the influence of the common delusion, that the conversation and social habits of a distinguished author must be as agreeable as his writings. Her wishes had long been frustrated by the same cause which now prevents our worthy countryman, Captain Symmes, from exploring the interior of the earth through the opening which he has discovered at the North Pole; the want of disposable means. Chill penury had for a long time repressed her noble rage, for Madame de Graffigny, though rich in sentiment and even familiar in the best society, in regard to funds was poor indeed, as we shall see hereafter. By great good luck, while she was on a visit at the residence of one of her friends, which she pleasantly denominates the Château de l'Ennui, another of the number arrived on a visiț with her own equipage. An opening was thus made for Madame de Grafligny to take her projected journey free of expense, of which she availed herself at once. • The first compliment I made her, says our author, was to ask the loan of her horses, which was granted,' and the next morning she commenced her expedition at sunrise, and proceeded very prosperously till half past one o'clock. Thus far every thing

went well, but at that time, for reasons not sufficiently explained, the coachman refused to go any farther, our sentimental traveller was obliged to resort to the post, and after floundering along dismally over the most detestable roads, and wallowing half the way on foot through the mire to avoid being overset, she arrived at last at Cirey, at two o'clock at night, having spent her last sol upon her horses and postillions. Il ne me restait pas ce qu'on appelle un sol. Two o'clock at night would be rather an unpropitious hour in ordinary cases to arrive at a friend's house in the country upon a visit ; but the inhabitants of Cirey kept no ordinary hours, as we shall see. They were all up and doing. The Nymph and the Idol, as she ingeniously styles Madame du Châtelet and Voltaire, were each hard at study, in their respective cabinets. She first paid her respects to the former and then repaired to her own apartment, where the Idol immediately came up to see her, and received her with great kindness. • Your idol came up a moment after, holding a little candle in his hand, like a monk. He lavished a thousand caresses upon me, and the expressions of his joy at seeing me were quite extravagant. He kissed my hand ten times, and inquired after my health with an air of the most touching interest.'

Such is the opening of the little sentimental drama we are reviewing, all flowers and sunshine. Madame de Graffigny approached the shrine of her Idol, with the same enthusiasm that our young travelling scholars now feel, when they are admitted to an interview with Lord Byron, or Sir Walter Scott; and for eight or ten days, all went on very well. The conversation is delightful, the suppers are divine, and the manuscripts they give her to read irresistible. Voltaire is always charming, always attentive. She sees that he is afraid she shall be ennuyée, but he is much in the wrong. Ennuyée in the same house with Voltaire, impossible! She has not even leisure to remember that there is such a thing as ennui in the world. She is as hearty as the Pont Neuf, and as busy as a mouse, and she sleeps like a child. The Nymph is indeed a little cold, but she soon grows familiar. Our author cannot help laughing in her sleeve, at their ridiculous fanaticism about Newton and geometry, but upon the whole she finds them the most agreeable companions, and Cirey quite an enchanted Castle.

This fine weather lasts unfortunately but a little time, and

it is soon pretty evident from the style of the letters that a storm is gathering. The inmates of Cirey, like most other persons of genius, or in other words of keen sensibility, were humorous and susceptible, and they speedily took mortal offence at a proceeding on the part of Madame de Graffigny, which, taking her own account of it to be true, appears to have been really very innocent. Voltaire employed himself occasionally at this period of his life in writing cantos of a Poem, called the Maid of Orleans, which he used to read in private to his particular friends, but had pretty good reasons for keeping entirely from public view. Madame de Graffigny was treated with a hearing of one of these precious compositions ; and about the same time or soon after intelligence was conveyed to the Idol, that copies of the same canto were in circulation at Luneville, the residence of the correspondent of Madame de Graffigny. For the better understanding of the grounds of this quarrel, it may be proper to observe, that the inmates of Cirey were in the laudable practice of opening all the letters, that passed to and from their guests. Having found in one addressed to Madame de Graffigny, by her correspondent the following phrase, Le chant de Jeanne est charmant, they naturally enough put the two circumstances together, and concluded that she had taken a copy of it by some underhand means and sent it to her correspondent, who, we may remark en passant was Mr. Deveaux, reader to the ExKing of Poland, Stanislaus Leczinski, then resident at Luneville. In her sportive moments she gives him the polite and endearing title of great dog. Madame de Graffigny confidently maintains in her letters her innocence of the charge in question, declaring that she had only made some remarks upon the plan of the canto, and that in the phrase above cited, the word plan should have been used instead of chant. As these letters are private communications to the very persons to whom the canto was supposed to be sent, her justification is certainly plausible. But with all our respect for the delicate feelings of this very sentimental person, we must be permitted to remark that, under all the circumstances, and with the same means of information possessed by the Nymph and Idol, we should hardly have hesitated in drawing the same conclusion; and we are even not without some suspicions that the charge was substantially true.

Be that as it may, the discovery of this offence, real or

pretended, was followed by a terrible explosion; and from this moment the face of things at the castle changes entirely for Madame de Graffigny; no more charming conversations, no more divine suppers, no more delicious manuscripts. Her eyes grow dim with weeping; she is attacked by the vapours; and this residence, where the name of Ennui was never heard of before, is now the dullest spot in the world. C'est l'endroit du monde le moins divertissant. The very resource of her ordinary friendly and confidential correspondence with Great Dog fails her; since she finds that her letters are regularly opened. But how to get away without a sol in her pocket? This last difficulty aggravates all the rest. She worries along in blank sadness and continual tears two or three months, till at length an intimate friend, having, it would seem, some pretensions to a nearer title, makes his appearance, ostensibly to relieve the distressed damsel from ber tedious thraldom. His presence revives her hopes, restores her health and eyes, drives off the vapours, and gives the castle and her correspondence all its former gaiety. But this is only a prelude to the last and that the unkindest cut of all. The correspon

dance terminates abruptly by a short letter, in which the broken hearted fair-one informs her friend, that the supposed lover had made her the tender avowal of his complete indifference, and we are even left entirely in the dark about the manner, in which she found her way back to Paris. Thither however she went, and not long after published the Peruvian letters. It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good. The Editor intimates that the disastrous catastrophe we have just mentioned suggested the plan of this, we doubt not, very instructive work; the writer having depicted her own feelings in those of the tender and desolate Zilia, and represented her cruel and perfidious lover under the character of the false hearted Aza; with what success we must leave it to the fair readers of their history to judge.

Such, if we may be allowed to moralize a little on a subject of this importance, is the ordinary course of things on a small scale, as well as on a great one. When delusive dreams and exaggerated hopes lead the van, disappointment early and complete is pretty sure to bring up the rear. But we confess that

we have hardly seen, within so small a compass of time, place and action, so entire a change of views upon the same subject; and we have derived no small amusement from comparing New Series, No. 5.

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the opposite judgments that are delivered at different periods, according to the prevailing disposition of the writer, upon the character of Voltaire. This is sufficiently illustrated in what we have already said of the rapid change in the opinions which Madame de Graffigny entertains and expresses, in the course of a few letters; and will still farther appear from the extracts, which we shall lay before our readers in the course of this article. The most valuable part however of the work is the notices it contains of the manners and pursuits of the principal personages.

The following description of Voltaire's apartments and mode of life at Cirey will perhaps afford amusement to our readers.

I wrote you yesterday till supper; I was called to supper and conducted to an apartment which I recognized immediately for that of Voltaire. He came to receive me; nobody else had arrived, and yet I had no time even to cast a glance around, for we went immediately to table. Here I was quite happy; but I should not have been as much so as I ought, if I had not compared this supper with that of the preceding evening. What a thing life is! Yesterday in the darkness and mud, and to-day on enchanted ground! So that I seasoned my supper both with what was within me and without me. But of what did we talk? Of poetry, sciences and arts, and all in a tone of badinage and good breeding. I would fain transmit to you this charming, this enchanting conversation, but that is beyond me. The supper was not abundant, but well chosen, neat and delicate, with a great service of plate. Opposite to me there were five globes, and an apparatus for natural philosophy, for we supped in the little gallery. Voltaire was at my side as polite and attentive as he is amiable and learned. M. du Châtelet was on the other side of me; this is my regular place, in virtue of which my left ear is sweetly charmed, while the right is ennuyée very slightly, for he speaks little and retires when the meal is finished. With the desert are introduced perfumes, and a conversation as agreeable as instructive ensues. They talked volumes, as you may suppose. There was mention made of Rousseau [Jean Baptiste.] It is there that he shows himself but man after all. He is capable of being irreconcilably offended with any one who should praise Rousseau. At last they talked of poems of all sorts. "As for that," said the lady, "I cannot bear odes." "Fie," said the Idol," what is an ode? It is the smallest merit in the world to make one. Galimatias, rhapsodies, and above all, this in the marotic style, the most detestable thing in the world. I cannot conceive how decent people can read such things,'

Voltaire is always so charming and so devoted to my amuse