DEAR ROBERTSON,--Among other agreeable circumstances which
attend me at Paris, I must mention that of having a lady for a
translator; a woman of merit, the widow of an advocate.[176:2]
She was, before, very poor, and known but to few; but this
work has got her reputation, and procured her a pension from
the court, which sets her at ease. She tells me that she has
got a habit of industry; and would continue, if I could point
out to her any other English book she could undertake, without
running the risk of being anticipated by any other translator.
Your "History of Scotland" is translated, and is in the press;
but I recommended to her your "History of Charles V.," and
promised to write to you, in order to know when it would be
printed, and to desire you to send over the sheets from
London, as they come from the press; I should put them into
her hands, and she would, by that means, have the start of
every other translator.[177:1] My two volumes last published,
are, at present, in the press. She has a very easy natural
style: sometimes she mistakes the sense; but I now correct her
manuscript, and should be happy to render you the same
service, if my leisure permit me, as I hope it will.
Do you ask me about my course of life? I can only say, that I
eat nothing but ambrosia, drink nothing but nectar, breathe
nothing but incense, and tread on nothing but flowers! Every
man I meet, and, still more, every lady, would think they were
wanting in the most indispensable duty, if they did not make a
long and elaborate harangue in my praise. What happened last
week, when I had the honour of being presented to the D----n's
children, at Versailles, is one of the most curious scenes I
have yet passed through. The Duc de B., the eldest, a boy of
ten years old, stepped forth, and told me how many friends
and admirers I had in this country, and that he reckoned
himself in the number, from the pleasure he had received from
the reading of many passages in my works. When he had
finished, his brother, the Count de P., who is two years
younger, began his discourse, and informed me, that I had been
long and impatiently expected in France; and that he himself
expected soon to have great satisfaction from the reading of
my fine History. But what is more curious; when I was carried
thence to the Count D'A., who is but four years of age, I
heard him mumble something which, though he had forgot in the
way, I conjectured, from some scattered words, to have been
also a panegyric dictated to him. Nothing could more surprise
my friends, the Parisian philosophers, than this incident.
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