Her accent is foreign, however ; but her language is remarkably ready.

He then spoke of Voltaire, and talked a little of his works, concluding with this strong condemnation of their tendency:—­

“I,” cried he, “think him a monster, I own it fairly.”

Nobody answered.  Mrs. Delany did not quite hear him, and I knew too little of his works to have courage to say anything about them.

He next named Rousseau, whom he seemed to think of with more favour, though by no means with approbation, Here, too, I had read too little to talk at all, though his majesty frequently applied to me.  Mrs. Delany told several anecdotes which had come to her immediate knowledge of him while he was in England, at which time he had spent some days with her brother, Mr. Granville, at Calwich.  The king, too, told others, which had come to his own ears, all charging him with savage pride and Insolent ingratitude.

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Here, however, I ventured to interfere ; for, as I knew he had had a pension from the king, I could not but wish his majesty should be informed he was grateful to him.  And as you, my dear father, were my authority, I thought it but common justice to the memory of poor Rousseau to acquaint the king of his personal respect for him.

“Some gratitude, sir,” said I, “he was not without.  When my father was in Paris, which was after Rousseau had been in England, he visited him in his garret, and the first thing he showed him was your majesty’s portrait over his chimney.”

The king paused a little while upon this ; but nothing more was said of Rousseau.

George iii.  On plays and players.

Some time afterwards, the king said he found by the newspapers, that Mrs. Clive(198) was dead.

Do you read the newspapers? thought I. O, king! you must then have the most unvexing temper in the world, not to run wild.

This led on to more players.  He was sorry, he said, for Henderson,(199) and the more as Mrs. Siddons had wished to have him play at the same house with herself.  Then Mrs. Siddons took her turn, and with the warmest praise.

“I am an enthusiast for her,” cried the king, “quite an enthusiast, I think there was never any player in my time so excellent—­not Garrick himself—­I own it!”

Then, coming close to me, who was silent, he said,—­“What? what?”—­meaning, what say you?  But I still said nothing; I could not concur where I thought so differently, and to enter into an argument was quite impossible; for every little thing I said, the king listened to with an eagerness that made me always ashamed of its insignificancy.  And, indeed, but for that I should have talked to him with much greater fluency, as well as ease.

>From players he went to plays, and complained of the great

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want of good modern comedies, and of the extreme immorality of most of the old ones.