It is necessary to introduce here a letter, which was written last winter, at Paris, in the name of the king of Prussia.
MY DEAR JOHN JAMES,
You have renounced Geneva, your native soil. You have been driven from Switzerland, a country of which you have made such boast in your writings. In France you are outlawed: come then to me. I admire your talents, and amuse myself with your reveries; on which, however, by the way, you bestow too much time and attention. It is high time to grow prudent and happy; you have made yourself sufficiently talked of for singularities little becoming a truly great man: show your enemies that you have sometimes common sense: this will vex them without hurting you. My dominions afford you a peaceable retreat: I am desirous to do you good, and will do it, if you can but think it such. But if you are determined to refuse my assistance, you may expect that I shall say not a word about it to any one. If you persist in perplexing your brains to find out new misfortunes, choose such as you like best; I am a king, and can make you as miserable as you can wish; at the same time, I will engage to do that which your enemies never will, I will cease to persecute you, when you are no longer vain of persecution.
Your sincere friend, FREDERICK.
This letter was written by Mr Horace Walpole, about three weeks before I left Paris; but though we lodged in the same hotel, and were often together, Mr Walpole, out of regard to me, carefully concealed this piece of pleasantry till after my departure. He then showed it to some friends, who took copies; and those of course presently multiplied; so that this little piece had been spread with rapidity all over Europe, and was in every body's hands when I saw it, for the first time, in London.
I believe every one will allow, who knows any thing of the liberty of this country, that such a piece of raillery could not, even by the utmost influence of kings, lords and commons, by all the authority ecclesiastical, civil and military, be kept from finding its way to the press. It was accordingly published in the St James's Chronicle, and a few days after I was very much surprised to find the following piece in the same paper.
MR ROUSSEAU TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ST JAMES'S CHRONICLE.
Wooton, April 7th, 1766.
SIR,
You have been wanting in that respect which every private person owes to crowned heads, in publickly ascribing to the King of Prussia, a letter full of baseness and extravagance; by which circumstance alone, you might be very well assured he could not be the author. You have even dared to subscribe his name, as if you had seen him write it with his own hand. I inform you, Sir, that this letter was fabricated at Paris, and, what rends and afflicts my heart, that the impostor hath his accomplices in England.
In justice to the King of Prussia, to truth, and to myself, you ought therefore to print the letter I am now writing, and to which I set my name, by way of reparation for a fault, which you would undoubtedly reproach yourself for if you knew of what atrociousness you have been made the instrument. Sir, I make you my sincere salutations.
J. J. R.
I was sorry to see Mr Rousseau display such an excess of sensibility, on account of so simple and unavoidable an incident, as the publication of this pretended letter from the King of Prussia. But I should have accused myself of a most black and malevolent disposition, if I had imagined Mr Rousseau could have suspected me to have been the editor of it, or that he had intentionally directed his resentment against me. He now informs me, however, that this was really the case. Just eight days before, I had received a letter, written in the most amicable terms imaginable.[4] I am, surely, the last man in the world, who, in common sense, ought to be suspected; yet, without even the pretence of the smallest proof or probability, I am, of a sudden, the first man not only suspected, but certainly concluded to be the publisher; I am, without further inquiry or explication, intentionally insulted in a public paper; I am, from the dearest friend, converted into a treacherous and malignant enemy; and all my present and past services are at one stroke very artfully cancelled. Were it not ridiculous to employ reasoning on such a subject, and with such a man, I might ask Mr Rousseau, "Why I am supposed to have any malignity against him?" My actions, in a hundred instances, had sufficiently demonstrated the contrary; and it is not usual for favours conferred to beget ill will in the person who confers them. But supposing I had secretly entertained an animosity towards him, would I run the risk of a discovery, by so silly a vengeance, and by sending this piece to the press, when I knew, from the usual avidity of the news-writers to find articles of intelligence, that it must necessarily in a few days be laid hold of?
[4] That of the 29th of March.
But not imagining that I was the object of so black and ridiculous a suspicion, I pursued my usual train, by serving my friend in the least doubtful manner. I renewed my applications to General Conway, as soon as the state of that gentleman's health permitted it: the General applies again to his Majesty: his Majesty's consent is renewed: the Marquis of Rockingham, first Commissioner of the Treasury, is also applied to: the whole affair is happily finished; and full of joy, I conveyed the intelligence to my friend. On which Mr Conway soon after received the following letter.