Note 52 — LETTER XL.
Reading edition
The Origin of the Fable is this. Mehemed Ben Aschen, or the Son of Aschen, Admiral of Sale, was deputed from the King of Morocco, but I know not in what Year, to the Court of France. When this Corsair was at Paris, he heard great Talk of the Princess of Conti’s Beauty, and of the particular Affection which the King had for her: In order to ingratiate himself with the French, he gave out, that the Emperor his Master having seen the Picture of that Princess among other Effects which belong’d to a Christian who was taken into Slavery, he thought her the most beautiful of her Sex; and that his Moorish Majesty said, That if he had such a Lady in his Seraglio, he should never desire any other. Mehemed’s Story was presently carried far and near, but it was told quite different from the Truth; for it was reported in a very little time, that he was come to demand the Princess in Marriage for Muley Ismael his Master. As there seem’d to be something mysterious in the Picture, a Messenger was sent in all Haste to the Ambassador’s Lodgings, to know the Name of the Slave from whom it was taken; but his Mahometan Excellency so prevaricated, that his Answer was far from being satisfactory. Nevertheless, his pretended Demand of this Princess was so much the Subject of Conversation among the French for several Months, that according to the Custom of this People, they at length made a Sonnet upon it, which follows.
To the Tune of Je ne suis né ni Roi ni Prince.
Votre beauté, grande Princesse, Porte les traits dont l’Amour blesse, Jusques aux plus sauvages dieux: L’Afrique avec vous capitule, Et les conquétes de vos yeux Vont plus loin que celles d’Hercule. S’il est bien vrai qu’il vous adore, Que je plains ce pauvre Roi Maure, D’être sensible à vos appas! En vain envers vous il s’explique; La France ne donnera pas Son Ange au Diable de l’Afrique.
Which may be thus English’d,
Your Beauty, Great Princess, Carries Love’s killing Shafts To Nations the most savage; Afric with you capitulates, And the Conquests of your Eyes Even those of Hercules surmount. If it be true that he adores you, How do I pity the poor Negro King, Who is so smitten with your Charms! In vain he makes his Passion known to you; For sure France will never give Her Angel to the Devil of Africa.