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-VOLTAIRE
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BY
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PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.




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CONTENTS.


THE YOUTH OF VOLTAIRE.
CHAP.                                      PAGE
1. HIS BOYHOOD,...         1
II. HE STARTS IN LIFE,....    9
III. UNDER THE REGENCY,....   13
IV. HIS FIRST' TRAGEDY,....    20
V. EARLY SOCIAL AND LITERARY LIFE,..   24
VI. IN EXILE,.......    28
VII. THE HENRIADE,......    36


HIS MIDDLE AGE.
VIII. ADRIENNE LE COUVREUR,.
IX. THE DEATH OF CAESAR,
X. ZAIRE,..
XI. LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH,.
XII. MADAME DU CHATELET,


63
70
75
89
98




.


vi


CONTENTS.


XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.


PHILOSOPHY OF HISTORY,.
A DIDACTIC POEM,
FIRST VISITS TO FREDERICK,
HE TRIES COURTIERSHIP,.
LA PUCELLE,.
ZADIG,
END OF THE CIREY EPOCH,


102
113..   119..   124
128
134
141


HIS OLD AGE.
XX. LAST VISIT TO FREDERICK,...   145
XXI. HISTORY,.......   160
XXII. GOLDSMITH AND VOLTAIRE,...  164
XXIII. POEM ON THE EARTHQUAKE, AND CANDIDE,  168
XXIV. THE ENCYCLOPEDIA,.....   178
XXV. LIFE AT LAUSANNE AND FERNEY,..  184
XXVI. HIS LAST YEARS,....   193
THE translations here given, prose and verse, are by
the writer of the present Volume.




-foagtn Classic foar (ngItisr  aburs
EDITED BY
MRS OLIPHANT




PROSPECTUS.


L'HE cordial reception given by the public to the Series
of "Ancient Classics for English Readers" has
confirmed the intention of the Publishers to carry out a
kindred Series, which it is believed will not be less
useful or less welcome, and in which an attempt will be
made to introduce the great writers of Europe in a similar
manner to the many readers who probably have a perfect
acquaintance with their names, without much knowledge
of their works, or their place in the literature of the
modern world. The Classics of Italy, France, Germany,
and Spain are nearer to us in time, and less separated in
sentiment, than the still more famous Classics of antiquity; and if foreign travel is, as everybody allows, a
great means of enlarging the mind, and dispersing its
prejudices, an acquaintance with those works in which
the great nations who are our neighbours have expressed
their highest life, and by which their manners of thinking
have been formed, cannot but possess equal advantages.
A man who would profess to know England without
knowing something of Shakespeare, Bacon, Milton, and
the great writers who have followed them, could form but
an imperfect idea of the national mind and its capabilities: and so no amount of travel can make us acquainted




3
with Italy, while Dante, Tasso, and her great historians
remain unknown to us; nor can the upheavings of French
Society and the mental characteristics of the nation be
comprehended without Voltaire, Moliere, Rousseau, and
other great names beside. Neither is Germany herself
without Goethe and Schiller: nor Spain recognisable
deprived of that noble figure of Cervantes, in whom lives
the very genius of the nation. This great band it is our
design to give such an account of as may bring them
within the acquaintance of the English reader, whose zeal
may not carry him the length of the often thankless study
of translations, and whose readings in a foreign language
are not easy enough to be pleasant. We are aware that
there are difficulties in our way in this attempt which did
not lie in the path of the former Series, since in the
section of the world for which we write there are many
more readers of French and German than of Greek and
Latin; but, on the other hand, there is no educated class
supremely devoted to the study of Continental Classics,
as is the case in respect to the Ancient; and even the
greatest authority in the learned matter of a Greek text
might be puzzled by Jean Paul Richter, or lose himself
in the mysteries of Dante's 'Paradiso.' The audience to
which we aspire is, therefore, at once wider and narrower
than that to which the great treasures of Hellenic and
Roman literature are unfamiliar; and our effort will be
to present the great Italian, the great Frenchman, the
famous German, to the reader, so as to make it plain to
him what and how they wrote, something of how they
lived, and more or less of their position and influence
upon the literature of their country.




Thie following volumes are in preparation for the Series of
Foreign Classics for English Readers, and will be published at short intervals:VOLTAIRE, BY COL. E. B. HAMLEY, C.B.
PASCAL, BY REV. PRINCIPAL TULLOCH.
GOETHE, BY A. HAYWARD, ESQ., Q.C.
PETRARCH, BY H. REEVE, ESQ., C.B.
CERVANTES, BY THE EDITOR.
MONTAIGNE, BY THE REV. W. LUCAS COLLINS, M.A.




VOLTAIRE.
THE   YOUTH     OF VOLTAIRE.
CHAPTER I.
HIS BOYHOOD.
IN his own time, the idea of Voltaire which had possession of the English mind was formed chiefly from
the attacks that he directed against religion. He was
regarded as a malignant spirit, subversive and destructive; a mocker at things sacred, things serious, and
generally all things good. Johnson, in a conversation
with Boswell, probably did not much exaggerate the
prejudice against him. "Rousseau, sir, is a very bad
man. I would sooner sign a sentence for his transportation than that of any felon who has gone from the
Old Bailey these many years. Yes, I should like to
have him work in the plantations." "Sir, do you think
him as bad a man as Voltaire?" inquired Boswell.
"Why, sir," returned the Doctor, " it is difficult to settle
F.C. —II.                             A




2


VOLTAIRE.


the proportion of iniquity between them." Sir Joshua,
in an allegorical portrait of Dr Beattie, introduced Voltaire as the personification of Sophistry. He was the
helot of innumerable homilies, and served to point
innumerable morals.  When the Revolution came, Voltaire-considered as having been a main cause of the
state of public feeiing in France wvvlch produced that infinite convulsion-was also, though then many years in
his grave, held responsible for its excesses and its crimes.
Thus it is that what memory of him was left among
us till within this last generation, was the reflection of
the fleering, shallow scoffer, the literary Mephistopheles,
whom our fathers had learned to detest.
But all this time his reputation in his own country
(except with his enemies the clergy) was of a kind altogether different.  The works which first made him
famous were, if not orthodox, far from irreligious; and
any signs of hostility to the authority either of Church
or State which might be found in them, were such as
Englishmen might be expected to sympathise with, for
the objects of that hostility were superstition, fanaticism,
and tyranny. The state of things, however, against
which he contended, did not exist in England.   With
the degree of freedom of thought to which we had then
attained, and which contented the nation, we, all through
George III.'s reign, feared tyranny less than licence,
and superstition less than free-thinking.  Deism was
in disgrace: it threw  a dark shadow   on the repute
of writers of the highest rank, such as Hume and Gibbon; and to lesser men the imputation of it was extinction. In these days opinion, far more tolerant, would
probably not be very severe on Voltaire; for while his




HIS FAME IN FRANCE.


3


theistic views in some measure anticipated those of Mr
Mill, he went by no means so far as that philosopher in
doubt and denial. But as time went on, and his hostility to the priesthood became more and more strongly
pronounced, his mode of impressing and reiterating his
opinions was such as to render them specially obnoxious;
and in this country he was, and has continued to be,
chiefly a name of evil import.
The prejudice thus created extended to all the works
of Voltaire. Few of his multifarious writings have been
translated into English; and none of these, as a translation,
has become much known among us. But in France lie
was famous not only as the most extraordinary man of
letters that the nation could boast, of a versatility absolutely unbounded, a miracle of productiveness, and unrivalled in expression; beyond all this, he was regarded,
with a gratitude which cast a reflected lustre on his
writings, as the champion of freedom of thought. That
thought had come to need a liberator was owing to the
peculiar conditions of the French monarchy. With the
accession of Louis XIV., the disputes between Crown
and Parliament, and the power of that assembly, had
come to an end. The young king did not forget the
humiliations and privations to which it had compelled
him to submit in the days of the Fronde.  On the first
occasion when, after his consecration, the Parliament
attempted to discuss some of his edicts, he appeared
before it in hunting-dress with a whip in his hand,
and ordered the debate to cease. Henceforward the
business of the Parliament was to register his decrees.
He was absolute-the liberty and lives of the highest
dignitaries of the kingdom were at his disposal; it was




4


VOLTAIRE.


no idle boast when he said, "The State!-I am the
State." For a long time his autocracy went on amidst
the applause of the nation. He began his reign with
the advantage of succeeding, as a native prince, to a
foreign queen who was governed by a foreign minister.
His magnificence delighted the Parisians-his successes
in war gratified the people-he carried the art of royalty
to an extreme of elaboration never reached before or
since; while, to give solidity to these elements of popularity, he possessed a talent for public business, for
choosing able ministers and generals, for conferring
favours with majestic benignity, and for giving splendid
encouragement to literature and art. All these circumstances combined to hedge him with a divinity beyond
that of an ordinary king. The loyalty which had been
evinced for his illustrious grandfather by such men
as Sully, Mornay, and Crillon, became for him the most
abject servility. The French Academy submitted for his
approval as the subject of its prize essay, " Which of all
the king's virtues is the one that deserves the preference 1"
The greatest nobles of the kingdom intrigued and quarrelled for the honour of attending his going to bed and
his rising, of handing the royal shirt and the royal periwig.
The sultana of the period was an enormous power in the
State. The most eloquent preachers suspended for him
their code of morality. Thus it was not only without
opposition, but with abject acquiescence, that the nation
looked on while he set up and pulled down ministers of
state, made war and conducted foreign relations for his
personal objects, taxed the people for his magnificent expenses, and disposed at will of the public revenues.
Up to a certain period of his reign he and his people




DECLINE OF LOUIS'S POPULARITY.


5


remained in this perfect accord. They liked a strong
master-they liked to see him  magnificent, imperious,
patronising arts and letters, and successful in war. But
there came a time when, in ceasing to be magnificent and
successful, he ceased also to be popular. He fell under
the influence of a female devotee and of the priests. His
armies were beaten, his conquests were lost, his Court became a scene of fanaticism, hypocrisy, and gloom. The
king was getting old; he wished to make peace with
heaven, probably for the same reason which induced him
to wish to make peace on earth, because he found a
difficulty in carrying on the war any longer. His repentance was to a great extent of that vicarious kind which
exacts a rigid respect for religion from other people; he
became very particular respecting the orthodoxy of his
subjects, especially of those about his person-a requirement which by no means tended to render either gaiety
or sincerity a distinguishing feature of society at Versailles. Relying much on the faith of others, he trusted
to himself for good works, and commenced a system of
religious persecution.  His minister, Louvois, issued
orders for the infliction of "the last rigours" on those
who were not "of his Majesty's religion."  These were
faithfully executed. Fifty thousand Protestant families
were driven from France, taking with them much of its
prosperity. The Jesuits, under the influence of Madame
de Maintenon and of the king's confessors, were allpowerful; and the suppression of heresy, and with it of
all freedom of thought, became a chief business of the
Government. This state of things was not, of course,
pleasing to the French, who, indeed, were in the lowest
stage of misery from the enormous taxes, which were the




6


VOLTAIRE.


result of constant extravagance and war; but so powerful was the habit of submission, acquired in l   reign
already of unusual length, and so imposing the authority
and the personal bearing of the old monarch, that, though
the people manifested a natural if somewhat indecent
joy when he died in 1715, he remained to the last every
inch a king.
It was in this priest-ridden phase of his reign that
Voltaire's boyhood was passed. He was born in 1694,
the second son of MI. Fran9ois Arouet, "who," says St
Simon, the famous chronicler of the time, " was notary
to my father, to whom I have often seen him bring
papers to sign."  AI. Arouet lived in Paris, with a
country house at Chatenay, a few miles from the
capital. When Francois Arouet (Voltaire) was about ten
he was sent to the College (now Lycee) Louis le Grand,
in the Rue St Jacques, where he was educated for the
law. The boarders, of whom he was one, numbered
among them youths of the best families in the country,
and he formed friendships here which proved constant
and serviceable.  Although the Jesuits took extreme
care to select the best men that the Order could produce
to conduct the educational course of this the chief of
their colleges, yet the training did not satisfy Voltaire,
who long afterwards, when the Jesuits were suppressed
in France, gave a satirical account of it in the dialogue
between an ex-Jesuit and a former pupil. Much more
than the needful time was, he says, taken up in learning
the classics, because the method was so faulty. Mathematics, history, geography, philosophy, were altogether
neglected. Nevertheless, he was taught the classics well;
and he omits, in the satirical dialogue, to mention the




VOLTAIRE AND NINON.


7


important fact (which he has recorded elsewhere) that he
received a thorough grounding in his own language from
the man, of all others, the best qualified to impart it.
This was the Abbe d'Olivet, to whose praise he devoted
a paragraph of his 'Age of Louis XIV.' He was a
member of the French Academy, and its historian.
"We owe him," says Voltaire, "the most elegant and
faithful translations of Cicero's works, enriched with judicious remarks. He spoke his own tongue with the
same purity as Cicero spoke his, and did good service
to French grammar by the most refined and accurate
comments."   Frangois's own tastes in composition at
this time led him to make verses, some of which, written
at about the age of twelve, were notable enough to be
talked of in the drawing-room of the famous Ninon de
Lenclos, whose perennial charms had then been worshipped by many generations of lovers.  Francois's godfather was the Abbe de Chateauneuf, who had long been
the intimate friend of Ninon: it was he who brought
the youthful poet to make his bow to the venerable fair
one, then ninety, and her charms, presumably, a little on
the wane.  She was so pleased with the boy (who possibly made love to her), that, dying soon after, she left
him two thousand francs to buy books.
He remained altogether seven years at the college, and
in the later period of his residence came under another
instructor, Father Poree, whom he considered worthy of
a niche in history.  " He was," says the notice of him
in the 'Age of Louis XIV.,' "one of the few professors
who have had repute amongst men of the world-eloquent in the style of Seneca, a poet, and of a very
fine intellect.  His greatest merit was that he made




8                    VOLTAIRE.
his disciples love both literature and virtue." "The
hours of his lessons," he says elsewhere, "were for us
delicious hours; and I could have wished that it had
been the custom in Paris, as in Athens, for those of all
ages to share such lessons.  I should have returned often
to hear him." Whatever it may have afterwards pleased
Voltaire to say about the college, it is clear that he was
exceptionally fortunate in the instructors whom it gave
to him. Contact with such minds must have been invaluable to an intellect so eager and so assimilative as
his. He left the college at seventeen with a high reputation, especially for his poetic gifts.




9


CHAPTER      II.
HE STARTS IN LIFE.
His father destined him for the bar, and with that
prospect he was set for three years to study law. He
found the subject, or the mode of teaching it, entirely
distasteful.  " What most strengthened his inclination
for poetry was his disgust at the mode in which jurisprudence was taught in the law schools, to which, on
leaving college, he was sent by his father, then treasurer
of the Chamber of Accounts.    This alone sufficed to
turn him aside to the study of the belles lettres.  Young
as he was, he was admitted into the society of the Marquis de la Fare, the Duc de Sully, the Abbe Courtin,... and his father thought him lost because he mixed
with good society and wrote verses." So he says in the
'Commentaire Historique,' an autobiographical production of his old age.  He certainly possessed the most
remarkable qualifications for social success. His readiness in the use of his singular mental endowments, his
wit, aptitude of expression, confidence, animation, and
good-humoured malice, were all prefaced for success by
the charm of his manner. Madame de Genlis (no friendly
critic) allows that he alone of the men of his century
I




10


VOLTAIRE.


possessed the lost art of talking to women as women
love to be talked to. A portrait painted by Largilliere
when Voltaire was about twenty-four, shows him, says
his eulogist Houssaye, " full of grace and spirit, with a
mocking mouth, refined profile, the air of a gentleman, a
luminous forehead, a fine hand in a fine ruffle."  The
print in the quarto edition of his works, from a later
portrait, confirms this descripti(oi: there is extraordinary
spirit and animation in the eyes and semi-cynical yet
bright and good-humoured smile.  His rather tall figure
was uncommonly thin.    The I)uchess of Berry called
him " that wicked mummy;" but then the Duchess had
reasons for taking an unfriendly view of him.   But
despite his meagreness, no young man of that day was
so qualified to give what was specially demanded by the
society of the salons. The social success of the notary's
son was remarkable. " We are all princes and poets
here," he observed one day at table; yet amid such
enjoyments and distractions he found time for the acquisition of uncommonly varied knowledge, and for
planning works which made him famous.
The pieces of verse which he wrote at this time are all
distinguished by his peculiar grace, and are still read
with pleasure. He addresses one of these epistles to the
Comtesse de Fontaine; another to Madame de MontbrunVillefranche; another to the Due de la Feuillade, so
dreadfully caustic that he can hardly be supposed to
have confided it to that nobleman, especially as we afterwards find the satirist a visitor at his chateau. Prince
Eugene, George I., and Cardinal Dubois are all, at this
time, the objects of his poetical addresses.  What is
very notable is the number and the character of the




HIS CLERICAL ASSOCIATES.


11


clergymen with whom he associated while almost a boy.
The Abbe Servien, ulcle of the Duke of Sully, is described by St Simon as one of the most agreeable of
men, but so dissolute that nobody of repute would have
anything to do with him, which did not prevent Voltaire
from being a great friend of his. The Abbe was imprisoned in Vincennes in 1714 for some disrespectful
pleasantry about the king; and Voltaire, one of whose
conspicuous virtues was constancy to friends in distress,
addressed to him a long poem, complimenting him as an
eminent man of pleasure, and exhorting him to keep up
his spirits.  Unfortunately the Abbe had not much time
in which to profit by his young friend's counsels, for he
died the following year. A still more singular epistle to
be addressed to a divine is that " To AM. l'Abbe de -
who bewailed the Death of his Mistress."  It begins
thus:
" You who in Pleasure's courts did once preside,
Dear Abbe, languish now in sore distress;
That jolly threefold chin, your chapter's pride,
Will soon be two folds less.
O slave! to earth by sorrow bent,
You spurn the feast before you placed,
You fast like any penitent;Was ever canon so disgraced?"
and after much remonstrance on the inutility and folly
of his grief, and a glance at the " constancy of a churchman's love," ends by advising him to take refuge from
sadness in the arms of pleasure. The Abbe Chaulieu,
another friend, nearly eighty, was a poet, a voluptuary,
and a sceptic.  The Abbe Desfontaines, a later acquaintance, befriended by Voltaire, was much worse than any




12


VOLTAIRE.


of them.   The society and example of these ecclesiastics
must have had more influence than the companionship of
a thousand fashionable young scoffers. Another of his
youthful epistles is " To a Lady, a little Worldly and too
Devout." It begins by telling her that when she had
left the arms of sleep and the eye of day had looked on
her charms, soft-hearted Love appeared, who, kissing her
hands and bathing them with tears, remonstrated with
her, in the prettiest terns, on the ingratitude with which,
after all his gifts to her, she was in the habit of turning
from him with disdain to read the sermons of Massillon
and Bourdaloue. He (Love) exhorts her to give youth to
pleasure, to keep wisdom for age, and the piece ends
thus:
"So spake the god; and even while he wooed,
Perchance thy softening heart had owned his sway,
But at thy bedside on a sudden stood
The reverend Pere Quinquet.
That holy rival's threatening air
Told Love he must not hope to gain
Thee, cold, incorrigible fair
And, weary of remonstrance vain,
He dried the pleading tears, so useless now,
And flew to Paris, where his power's assured,
To seek for beauties easier lured,
Though far less loveable than thou."




13


CHAPTER      111.
UNDER THE REGENCY.
WHEN he was twenty - one a great change occurred
with the death of the old king. It would be curious to J
speculate what Voltaire might have become had Louis
died at eighty-seven instead of at seventy-seven. T]J
gloom of the Court extended over the literature as wel
as over the mind and manners of France. It deepened
as the king grew older and more devout: his confessor,
Letellier, a morose and cruel bigot, urged him to fresh
persecutions; it was the Jansenists (a sect into whose
peculiar Calvinistic tenets, founded on distinctions which
would hardly now appear rational or intelligible, it is
not needful here to inquire) who were then the objects
of the fury of the Jesuits, and the prisons were full of
them. All literary works which appeared at this time
had a tinge of devotion, and free-thinking would have
been the most perilous of modes of thought. In these
circumstances, Madame de Maintenon might have set,
Voltaire, as she had formerly set Racine, to compose.
Scriptural dramas for the religious improvement of the
courtly audience; and had he complied, he would have
been guilty of no more hypocrisy than many around




14


VOLTAIRE.


him were practising daily. The spectacle of a gloomy
and intolerant bigotry, enforced by a sanctimonious old
king, by the widow of Scarron, and by the fanatics who had
charge of what the pair believed to be their consciences,
had brought religion itself into discredit, and infidelity
was not only common but matter of boast in the highest
Parisian society.
Unapproachable in profligacy and irreligion -facile
princeps-was the Duke of Orleans, the king's nephew,
and the destined Regent. Accordingly, when Louis
vanished from the scene, such a change took place at
Court as is only to be seen in a pantomime, when the
gloomy cavern of some fell enchanter, with its dismal
incantations and supernatural tenants, suddenly becomes
a palace of glory, inhabited by gauze-clad nymphs, with
harlequin and columbine figuring in the foreground.
Vice, says Burke, loses half its evil by losing all its
grossness. At the Court of the Regent it underwent no
such diminution, and in this respect the change of rulers
was much for the worse. The early part of Louis's reign
had been by no means remarkable for morality, but it
had always been distinguished by decorum. Perhaps
the best and most enduring result of that reign was the
amelioration in manners which it diffused far beyond the
boundaries of France, The flowing courtesy, the refiled
address, the consideration for others, which Sterne, in the
next century, found alike in peasant, shopkeeper, and
noble, had their source in the splendid Court where the
stately and gracious king was for so long the glass of
fashion. The gilded youth of the time ceased to haunt
taverns, ceased to brawl in the streets and fight duels,
and vied with each other in deference to women. It was




WHAT HE DID FOR OPINION.


out of these conditions that sprang also the felicity and
fineness of wit so characteristic of Voltaire, and which
could hardly have been the product of a different age.
The weapons were pointed in the old period with which
he became the champion of the opinions of the new.
But it is obviously an error to impute to Voltaire thatn
he was the originator of unchristian opinion in France.
What he (lid was to give expression to the thoughts
which prevailed all round him-to say effectively wh
so many were wishing should be said. The systematic
suppression of opinion, the senseless dogmatism, the per
secutions, the evil example of the clergy, the sanctimoni
ousness of the Court, had combined to create those element
which broke out in a revolt against Christianity.
But although the new Court was licentious beyond
example, the old machinery of despotism and fanaticism
still remained in full force. The Bastille, the orders for
consignment to it, the power and intolerance of the
clergy, the Order of Jesuits-all were as they had been;
and the press continued to be under the strictest and
most oppressive supervision.
We know that in England at that time patrons might
make or mar an author, and men even of established
character thought it well to propitiate them.  But in
France the avenues to literary fame were still more difficult of access.  "There are," says Voltaire in a letter of
advice to a young aspirant, to whom he is evidently imparting his own experience, "a great number of small
social circles in Paris where some woman always presides, who in the decline of her beauty reveals the dawn
of her intellect. One or two men of letters are the prime
ministers of this little kingdom. If you neglect to be in




16


VOLTAIRE.


the ranks of the courtiers you are in those of the enemy,
and you will be crushed." Something of the kind happened to Voltaire. Among the country houses at which
he often visited was that of the Duke of Maine, at
Sceaux, near M. Arouet's country house of Chatenay.
The Duke was the eldest legitimised son of Louis XIV.
by Madame de Montespan, and important enough therefore, as a possible successor to the throne, to be a rival
of the Duke of Orleans; his wife was active and ambitious, and hence Sceaux became a focus of intrigue, and
the Duchess's friends objects of suspicion to the Government.   From  her 'party issued 'many satirical attacks
upon the Regent, and it was natural that some of these
should be attributed to Voltaire; among others, one that
has survived on account of the vogue it had, known as
"Things that I have seen," in which the writer enumerates
some of the chief evils of the late reign: "I have seen
a thousand prisons full of brave citizens and faithful
subjects; I have seen the people groaning in slavery, the
soldiers famishing," &c., &c. -"and yet I am    not
twenty."  Voltaire always strenuously denied all knowledge of the composition, the most unfortunate passage
in which was that where D'Argenson, the Minister of
Police, was called "an enemy of the human race."  He
was placed under observation by the official thus unpleasantly designated; and when, a few months later,
some squibs against not only the Regent, but his daughter, the Duchess of Berry, came out, he was exiled from
Paris, being allowed the indulgence of choosing his place
of abode. The Duke of Sully's chateau, on the Loire,
had been the home of Henry IV.'s famous minister, and
was full of recollections of both him and his master, and




ORIGIN OF HIS HENRIADE.


17


this was the seat to which he was welcomed. Voltaire's
interest in Henry, which had such important results, was
greatly heightened by another visit he paid in this year
(1717) to M. de Caumartin, a high public functionary,
at his chateau. This old gentleman possessed a most
remarkable memory, stored with traditions of the French
Court which went back to the times of the League, his
forefathers for several generations having held important
public offices, and his great-grandfather having been in
the personal service of Henry.  "Voltaire was carried
away" (says his Autobiography) "by all that M. de
Caumartin, very deeply versed in history, told him of
Henri Quatre, of whom that venerable gentleman was
an idolator; and he began the 'Henriade' through pure
enthusiasm, and almost without thinking what he was
about."
During his stay in the country he enldeavoured to
soften the Regent by addressing a poetical epistle to him,
in which flattery was not spared. It began thus:0 Prince, beloved of gods! who art to-day
A father to thy king, thy people's stay;
Thou who the weight of State upbear'st alone,
For our fair land's repose give up thine own ' —
and ends by an appeal for pity on his "oppressed
youth."
After a time Voltaire, with or without permission,
returned to Paris, where D'Argenson's spies found fresh
matter for report against him, and this time he was committed to the Bastille. He has left a versified account
of his entrapment and lodgment in the fortress. Tlre
official who arrests him thus addresses him:F.C. II.




18


VOLTAIRE.


"My son, the court your merit knows,
Your every phrase with genius glows,
Your scraps of verse, your love-songs gay;
And, as all work deserves its pay,
The king, my son, with grateful heart,
Will make your recompense his part;
And so you'll be, without expense,
Lodged in a royal residence."
In reply to his remonstrances, the escort take him by
the hand and conduct him to his prison, dark and with
walls ten feet thick, where he is put under triple bolts.
"The clock strikes noon: a tray is brought
With humble, frugal cheer 'tis fraught:
Said they who bore it, when my air
Showed no great relish for the fare,
'Your diet is for health, not pleasure;
Pray eat in peace-you've ample leisure.'
See thus my fate distressful sealed —
Behold me cooped up, embastilled,
Sleep, food, and drink distasteful made;
By all, e'en by my love, betrayed."
Nor was this light way of viewing his misfortune assumed in retrospect only. Never did captive bear a better
heart. All the joys of existence cut off, he employed himself, though denied pen and paper, in planning and partly
composing the "Henriade," and in finishing his first
tragedy, trusting the lines partly to his memory, partly to
markings made somehow in a copy of Homer which he was
allowed to have. After nearly eleven months imprisonment, he was permitted to return to Chatenay. It is said
that a nobleman of the Court conducted him to an interview with the Regent. While Voltaire awaited the audience in the ante-chamber, a great storm broke over Paris.




INTERVIEW  WITH THE REGENT.          19
"Things could not go on worse," he said aloud, looking
at the sky, "if there was a Regency up there."  His
conductor, introducing him to the Regent, said, repeating
the remark which the irrepressible youth had then made,
"I bring you a young man whom your Highness has just
released from the Bastille, and whom you should send
back again."  The Regent laughed gobd-humouredly, and
promised, if he behaved well, to provide for him. "I
thank your Highness for taking charge of my board,"
returned Voltaire; "but I beseech you not to trouble
yourself any more about my lodging." The prejudice
against him softened before long: not only was he allowed to return to Paris, but his tragedy was acted before:
the Court, and the Duchess of Berry had so far forgiven
"the wicked mummy" as to be present with her father
at the first representation; while the Regent gave him a
thousand crowns, and also a small pension.




20


AA - PTER   TV.
H18 FIRST TRAGEDY.
THAT he chose a classical subject for his essay in tragedy was owing par-,y to'the fashion set by Racine and
Corneille, partly to his recent studies at the Jesuit College; and he chose this particular story because, as he
tells us, he did not approve of the (Edipus either of
Sophocles or of Corneille, and endeavoured in his own
play to avoid the faults which they had committed.
But it was a subject that no genius could make attractive
in our day. To represent a good man as the sport of
a malignant destiny is of itself an idea belonging to a
pagan rather than a Christian age; and when his fate
takes the shape of causing him unwittingly to slay his
' father and to marry his mother-bringing down, by these
involuntary offences, the wrath of the gods upon a whole
nation-the fable would seem to be altogether outside the
pale of modern sympathies.  Nevertheless the play, obstructed at first by critics who did not like Voltaire, on
the score that it contained reflections against religion, and
by the players because the characters did not suit tb-m,
especially as there was no " lady in love," ran for fortyfive nights in succession.




DRAMA OF CEDIPUS.


21


Believing that the language of t1* drama (which, he
held, should be the standaxr of linguistic excellence)
had terribly degenerated, he set himself to render his
play a model of correctness i.. all respects. It is framed
in extreme accordance with the assumed exigencies of the
unities.  The story is very simple and direct, the time
occupied in the action is the same  that of the representation, and the scene is'throug4h -ut in the same palace or its precincts. In thus focussing the whole drama
into a crisis in the lives of the characters, and making
no demands on the imagination of the spectators to furnish anything except the epoch, the dramatist proceeds on
the assumption that all the illqsioylwhich the stage can
afford is not attained except under these conditions. This
assumption has been proved false by a thousand examples. The writer who has succeeded in observing thea
unities, probably confounds his own satisfaction at overcoming a great difficulty with the pleasure of the audience, forgetting that the spectator is interested in the
effect only, not in the process.  However this may be,
Voltaire continued to value himself on the observance of
the rules with which he hampered his genius, and to
allow his prejudices on this point to affect his estimate of
others, notably of Shakespeare.
It is not expedient to dwell on the character of this
drama further than to say that it exhibits great dexterity
in securing symmetry, compactness, and completeness
under the assumed conditions; and that, if the characters
exhibit no great individuality, and speak rather to prcmote the action than to reveal themselves, they talk as
well as characters so unhappily situated can be supposed
to talk. But it may be interesting to quote one or two




22


VOLTAIRE.


short speeches which were considered to hint at his rebellion against priestcraft. They were so accepted by his
enemies at the time, and his later writings lent to them
fresh significance. Philoctetes makes (Edipus understand
how dangerous is the enmity of the priesthood:"If kings had been your only enemies,
Then under you had Philoctetes fought;
But when a weapon bears a sacred name,
All the more fatal is the stab it deals.
Strongly upborne by his vain oracles,
A priest is oft to rulers terrible;
And a besotted people, fired by zeal,
Making an idol of its stupid creed,
In pious disregard of higher laws,
Honours its gods by treason to its kings."
Jocasta thus questions the authority of the oracle:"Can it not err, this organ of the gods?
A holy tie priests to the altar binds,
Yet, comnercing with gods, they are but men.
Think you, indeed, the award of fate can hang
Upon their seeking, or the flight of birds?
That oxen, groaning under sacred steel,
To curious eyes unveil our destinies?
And that these victims, all in garlands decked,
Within their entrails bear the doom of men?
Not so. To seek in this way hidden truth
is to'usurp the rights of power divine.
Our priests, far other than dull crowds believe,
Owe all their lore to our credulity."
These two last lines have often been quoted as indicating the revolt against religious belief which was then
stirring in the mind of the dramatist. But what they




THE MARECHALE DE VILLARS.


23


really prove is the extraordinary jealousy and intolerance
which could find such a meaning in them.
There runs a tale, that at one of the performances of
this play the Marechale de Villars, the beautiful wife of
Louis XIV.'s famous Marshal, observed a young man on
the stage holding up the train of the high priest in such
a way as to cast ridicule on the scene. Inquiring who
this person was, who seemed to desire to ruin the play, she
was told he was no other than the author; and, struck
by his eccentricity and cleverness, she thereupon desired
that he might be brought to her box and presented to
her. This story, however, can scarcely be altogether true;
for two of Voltaire's published letters which speak of
visits he was about to pay at Villars, her country seat,
are dated a year or two before. But however this may
be, the fact remains that his friendship with this excellent pair, begun in his youth, ended only with their death.
Indeed, it was something more than friendship on Voltaire's part, for the graces of the Mar6chale inspired hin
with one of the two really ardent attachments of his
youth. He appears to have imparted his passion for her
(according to the laudable practice of the time) to everybody who would listen to him, including, possibly, the
Marshal. As for the lady, sne appears to have accorded
him only so much indulgence as a veteran swordsman
may bestow on a promising young fencer,, letting him
practise with her his airs and graces, his tender letters,
verses, vows and entreaties, but never allowing him to
come within her guard.




CHAPTER V.


EARLY SOCIAL AND LITERARY LIFE.
IT was at this time he carried into effect a de3lg-i
which his recent misfortunes had inspired, and abandoning the name of Arouet, took that of Voltaire, thus adding a new adjective, voltair'en, to the French language.
Why he chose that particular name is an enigma not yet
solved. One solution is, that it was the anagram of
Arouet 1. j. (lejeune); but, besides being so far-fetched,
it is burthened with the improbability that he ever did
so style himself. The theory that he adopted the name
of a small estate in his mother's family would be much
more plalsible but for the circumstance that it could
hardly have remained doubtful, yet has never been
established, that there ever was such a place. Such
changes of name were not uncommon, of which there
are two notable examples-Moliere's real name was
Poquelin, and Montesquieu's was Secondat.
He tells us that he was at this time very poor, and
lived, whel itft to his own resources, very frugally,
but happily. Often he was not left to his own resources, for he tells a correspondent of those days that
he passes his life from country house to country house.




SUZANNE DE LIVRY.


25


It was in an interval between these visits, however,
that he formed the second of the attachments before
adverted to.   Suzanne de Livry was a young girl
who, desirous of being an actress, had sought the
author of the successful tragedy in the hope of getting
some good advice. Of this, in a professional sense, he
gave her plenty, and instruction also; and in the course
of the lessons, fill violently in love with his pupil, who
appeared no less ardently to return the passion. It was
for her his portrait was painted by Largilliere, of which
mention has been made. Possibly he might have married her, had she not run away with his particular frieJw,
M. de Genonville.  Voltaire was at first furious: he
pursued the treacherous pair, but not overtaking them,
had time to forgive them, though his despair made him
seriously ill. He even wrote to De Genonville a poetical epistle, in which, while reproaching him, he expresses all his former attachment for him. This disloyal associate died a few years afterwards: by that time
Suzanne had joined a company of strolling players, who
extended their circuit as far as England. Their venture
was unsuccessful, and Mademoiselle de Livry was living
in great privation, when the Marquis de Gouvernet saw
and fell in love with her. He proposed marriage, but
Suzanne magnanimously refused him, on the score that
she was penniless. Upon this he made her buy a
lottery-ticket: it turned up a prize of several thousand
pounds (supplied by the gallant lover, not by the
lottery), and she became the Marquise de Gouvernet.
This marriage did not take place till several years after
the episode with Voltaire. She became a great lady,
and took out of pawn Voltaire's portrait, which was




26


VOLTAIRE.


hung up in the Marquis's hotel, apparently as a family
picture.
The eight years succeeding the performance of " CEdipus," though no doubt very profitably employed by Vol4taire, were the least productive of his literary life. In
1720 he produced another tragedy-" Artemise;" next
year a third-" Mariamne; " and, in 1725, his first and
best comedy-" L'Indiscret."  But it is remarkable that
while his tragedies kept the stage so long, and have been
held in so high esteem as works of art, this pre-eminently
witty man of the world and skilful writer did not succeed in comedy. His most noticeable work of this
period is a poem, "Le Pour et le Contre; ou, Epitre h
Uranie." The nymph to whom it was addressed was a
Madame de Rupelmonde, his companion in a journey to
Brussels. She had spiritual doubts (which she finally
settled, St Simon says, by going into a convent), and
she appealed to Voltaire to tell her what she ought to
believe in. He shaped his reply into verse, first stating
how the acts of the Deity of the Old Testament and the
life of the Messiah of the New seemed to him inconsistent with the character of eternal powers; then he appeals to the Deity, as he imagines Him to be, "to listen
to a voice sad and sincere "-" the insensate blasphemes
Thee," he says, "while I - I revere Thee.
Believe, Uranie, that the everlasting wisdom of. the
Most High has graven in the depths of thy heart a
natural religion. Know that before His throne, in all
times, in all places, the heart of the just man is precious;
know that a humble bonze, a benevolent dervish, will
find grace in His eye sooner than a merciless Jansenist
or an ambitious pontiff. What matters the title under




HE OFFENDS ANOTHER POET.


27


which we implore Him? He accepts all homage, but
none can reflect honour on Him. The Almighty has no
need of our officious care: if it is possible to offend Him,
only unjust acts can do it.  He will judge us by our
virtues, and not by our sacrifices."
At Brussels, on this occasion, he met with a French
poet, Jean Baptiste Rousseau,1 with whom he had had
some friendly correspondence; but their personal intercourse was not so happy, and produced a permanent hostility. Rousseau, in the pride of a poet's heart at meeting
an appreciative listener, read to him a poem he had just
finished, an "Ode to Posterity."  Voltaire expressed a
doubt "whether it would reach its address."  Having
delivered himself of this conciliatory witticism, he, being
also actuated by the pride of a poet rather than by the
prudence of a man of the world, chose that fortunate
moment to recite his "Epistle to Uranie" to the injured
bard. Rousseau, despising the fact that his own writings and his own life were both scandalous, begged to
know why Voltaire had chosen him for tile confidant of
such impious views; and upon these uncomfortable terms
the minstrls j artcd.
1 Not to be confounded with Jean Jacques Rousseau of the
" Hdoise," &c.




28


CHAPTER VT.
IN EXILE.
HITHERTO Voltaire's literary reputation was altogether
that of a poet, and his unorthodox opinions could only
be surmised from the gossip of the society which he frequented; nor was scepticism at that time so uncommon
as to render him who avowed it at all remarkable. But
to avow it in society was one thing-to proclaim it in
print another; the clergy were prompt and powerful to
meet assailants, as he afterwards found, and as he then
knew-for he did not venture to publish the " Epistle to
Uranie" till some years afterwards, when, from the storm
it helped to raise, he found it expedient to cause a rumour
to be spread that its author was the Abbe Chaulieu, then
dead, to whose memory the imputation of unorthodoxy
could do no possible harm. And as a poet only, Voltaire might have continued to be known but for an
incident which changed the current of his life and influence.
At the Duke of Sully's table one day a Chevalier de
Rohan-Chabot-one of the great house of Pohan-making an insolent remark about Voltaire, received a sarcastic
retort. It is to be hoped that his mode of avenging it j




ROHAN'S OUTRAGE ON HIM.


29


was such as the high society of the time did not approve.
When Voltaire was again dining with the Duke a few
days afterwards, he was induced to leave the table by a
false message, and descending to the courtyard of the
hotel, found there this Rohan-Chabot, who, having brought
with him some ruffians armed with sticks, directed thalWs
to seize and chastise Voltaire. This accomplished, the
party drove away. Burning with rage, the poet rushed
back to the dining-room, and called on the Duke of Sully
to take a host's part in avenging the outrage. But the
Duke preferred to remain neutral (for which reason the
name of his ancestor was expunged from the " Henriade,"
and that of Duplessis-Mornay substituted); and Voltaire,
unable of himself to procure redress against a nobleman,
challenged Rohan to fight, in terms that he could not
evade. The bully, seeming to accept the challenge, made
it known to his wife, and his friends obtained from the
minister of the young king (the Regent had made a
highly characteristic exit from the world in 1723) another order for Voltaire's committal to the Bastille. He
remained there six months, and was only liberated on
condition that he quitted France.
He chose England for his place of exile, and brought
with him excetlent introductions.  Lord Bolingbroke,
then in banishment, had married a French lady, and
owned a beautiful place near Orleans-of a visit to which,
and of its lord, Voltaire gives an enthusiastic account in
a letter to Thiriot. Bolingbroke reciprocated the esteem,
warmly praised " Edipe " and the "I Henriade," and recommended him to his friends. These and other such
advantages, joined to his charming address and his wit,
placed him in the best societyr of the time, which was the




30


VOLTAIRE.


last year of George I.'s reign. Only one letter remains
lescriptive of his impressions of the country, in which
he describes what may have been Greenwich fair-a
multitude of gay boats on the Thames escorting the
king and queen, and horse-races and sports near the
town of Greenwich, of which he gives the most appreciative and pleased account. He was extremely vexed to
be told afterwards that there had been much illusion for
him in the scene-that all the pretty irls were servants
or villagers, all the brilliant youts caracoling abouTthe
course students or apprentices on hired horses.  The
same evening he was presented to some C   tjl
whom he found reserved and coU  taking tea, making a
nea   oise with their fans, and either saying nothing or
crying out all together in disparagement of somebody
present. He takes a humorously exaggerated view of
the effect of the east wind in producing moroseness and
even suicide among the English, and says a famous
doctor told him that the wind was in that quarter when
Charles I.'s head was cut off, and when James II. was
dethroned.  "' If you have any favour to ask at Court,'
he whispered in my ear, 'never urge it except when
the wind is in the west or south.'... Besides
this contrariness, the English have those which spring
from the animosity of parties; and nothing puts a stranger
out so much as this. I have heard it said, literally, that
my Lord Marlborough was the greatest poltroon in the
world, and that Mr Pope was a fool. I came here full
of the notion that a Wigh was a refined Republican,
enemy of royalty, and a Tory the partisan of passivp
obedience. But I find that in Parliament nearly all the
Wighs arb for the Court, and the Torys against it."




HIIS OPINIONS OF THE ENGLISH.
"I ask you if you think it easy to define a nation which
cut off Charles I.'s head because he wished to introduce the surplice into Scotland, and demanded a tribute which the judges declared to belong to him; whilst
the same nation, without a murmur, saw Cromwell drive
out Parliament, lords and bishops, and upset all the
laws.   Understand that James II. was dethroned
partly because he gave a place in a college to a Catholic
pedant: and remember also that the sanguinary tyrant,
Henry VIII., half Catholic, half Protestant, changed the
religion of the country because he wished to marry a
brazen woman whom he afterwards sent to the scaffold;
that he wrote a bad book against Luther in favour of the
Pope, and then made himself Pope in England, hanging
those who denied his supremacy, and burning those who
did not believe in transubstantiation-and all this with
gaiety and impunity. A spirit of enthusiasm, a furious
superstition, had seized the nation during the civil wars:
a soft and lazy irreligion succeeded these troublous times
under Charles II.  So everything changes and seems
to contradict itself. What is truth at one time is error
at another.  The Spaniards say of a man, 'He was
brave yesterday.' It is something in this way we must
judge nations, the DEgli:sh in particllar: we must say,
'They were of such a mind in this year, in this month."''
With his usual energy, Voltaire, immediately on coming
to England, set himself to learn our language, which he
was considered to have mastered, noug   the proper
names seem to have been something of a stumblingblock: the "Wighs and the Torys" are not his only
confusions of this kind; Sir John Vanbrugh, having
a foreign name, may excusably be represented as the




'32


VOLTAIRE.


"Chevalier Wanbruck;" but our historical Admiral
Drake need not have become "Dracke; " and the identity of a celebrated actress, whom he addresses in verse,
is almost lost when he apostrophises her as "Ofilds;"
nor is the matter rendered much clearer when she reappears as "Ophils."  However, he felt so sure of his
footing in our tongue that he wrote in it some acts of
his tragedy of " Brutus."
He stayed nearly two years in England (living during
part o  te time in   aen    ae, ovent Garden, and
during another part at Wandsworth), but no mention of
his visit is to be found in contemporary records. Almost the only anecdote respecting it that has come down
to us is the well-known one of his visit to Congreve.
When Voltaire told him of the desire he had felt to
converse with so famous a dramatist, Congreve intimated
that he preferred to be visited as a private gentleman.
"If you were nothing but that," said Voltaire, " I should
never have come to see you." For three months he was
the guest of the famous Lord Peterborough. His intimacy
with Bolingbroke procured for him the acquaintance of
Pope, with whom he had before maintained a correspondence. In a passage of the 'Age of Louis XIV.,' correcting
an error about Pope, he says, "I had lived a whole year
with Pope." This can only mean near Pope, and in the
habit of seeing him. It is somewhat remarkable that in
all Pope's correspondence of those years, with men to
whom Voltaire was probably known, and who would
certainly have received news of him with interest, there
is no mention of personal acquaintance with the French
poet. Voltaire not only read critically the works of
Shakespeare, Milton, Dryden, Butler, Swift, and Pope,
HeW a,*_t~s - x al i.i:.,:*lil~ts




APPRECIATES GREAT ENGLISHMEN.


33


but was the first to introduce them to French readers.
England appeared to him as at once the lan  raU-son
anr'TMe paradise of men of let   He was never tired
of telling  ow posts in the State had been conferred
on Prior an(. Addison, and how 2NW.j] dt, Pope were
held in higher esteem than the k'in     s      He
was convinced that among the chief results of the liberty
of thought which prevailed among us were the advances
made in philosophy and egc   by Locke and Newton.
He studied an4 criticised the works of Locke, and became a chief exponent of the theories of Newton, whom
he never mentioned but with reverence. But it was
from the number of sceptical       hioso  ers, who
had set up natural against revealed re gion, that he
received the impulse  ~              emayt   as forming
a main influence in the rest of his career. It is true he
was already a professed disciple of natural religion. But
it was one thing to hold opinions in common with the
abbes and rakes among whom he lived in Paris, and
another to find those opinions gravely maintained by
philosophers. Hitherto his shafts against Christianity
had been mere jests; he now  at    the means of re
inforcinr them with facts and arguments. Shaftesbury
(whse opinions he recognised again as versified by Pope),
Bolingbroke, Toland, Collins, Wollaston, Chubb, formed
the school in which his deism was confirmed and rendered aggressive.
But the main influence which England exercised on
him was th '       MMIro  1 ee al atmosphere of free thought.
From the standpoint of these sh res tyranny ~tM ts
in France wore a new aspect. There he had only
dreamed of what a country might be if relieved from the
F.C.-II.




T


34                  VOLTAIRE.
domination of priests and despots; here he saw what it
was. Liberty was no longer an idea but a fact; and
thencefor'tsuperstition, oppression, and ignorance were
the "Gorgons and Hydras and Chimaeras dire" against
which he vowed to wage perpetual war.
Of this, and other important epochs of his early life,
there remain but scanty records.   When he grew
famous, his letters became cherished possessions; but at
this time very few had been preserved. An indefatigable letter-writer, with many correspondents to whom he
could without reserve impart his projects, his opinions,
and his affairs, abundant material for this part of his biography no doubt once existed, and in no scattered hands.
He was more than commonly constant to his early friendships, and held sustained correspondence with the objects
of them. Cideville, an advocate at Rouen, had been
Voltaire's schoolfellow. Thiriot had become known to
him when both were studying for the bar. Voltaire made
him a sort of agent; and while the poet was in England,
Thiriot, receiving on his behalf subscriptions for the
English edition of the " Henriade," seems to have appropriated them to his own use. Nevertheless Voltaire forgave this injury, as he had done the treason of Genonville, and often befriended Thiriot, with whom his intimacy continued until that associate's death in 1772.
Concluding a letter to M. de Formont, another Rouen
friend of his youth, he says, " I embrace you with all my
heart, and count myself something more than your very
humble servant, for I am your friend, and tenderly attached to you for all my life." D'Argenson, son of the
Police Minister, was another schoolfellow; the young
Count D'Argental, another advocate, was also a friend




HIS CORRESPONDENTS.              35
of his youth. These, and the fine old warrior Villars,
were the young poet's trusted correspondents, not to
mention the many ladies whom he favoured with his
confidence; and he used to write in most respectful and
affectionate terms to the Jesuit Fathers who had been
his instructors.




36


CHAPTER VII.
THE HENRIADE.
THIS seems the proper place for noticing his renowned
poem, the " Henriade;" for though it had been finished
some years, he was constantly retouching it, and now for
the first time gave openly an edition to the world. One
had been clandestinely printed, smulled into Paris, and
sold in 1724, b  iYi    h imself-the official sanction,
without which a book could not openly be published,
having been refused. A piratical one had also appeared,
published by that miracle of baseness the Abbe Desfontaines, who, after acknowledging, with servile protestations of gratitude, the deepest obligations to Voltaire,
made it his constant business for years to vituperate
him, and had caused the " Henriade" to be reprinted on
his own account, adorned with passages of his own composition. It was to this scoundrel that a well-known
retort was made. Excusing himself to the Minister of
Police for one of his libels on Voltaire, he said, " I must
live, you know."  "I do not see the necessity," replied
the Minister.
The number and importance of Voltaire's English
friends enabled him to publish a quarto edition of his




THE HENRIADE.


37


poem in England with uncommon success. It was dedicated to the queen; and the subscription, headed by
the Princess Caroline, amounted to about two thousand
pounds. This sum, it has been said and repeated by
biographers, became, judiciously invested,  tjui.dation
of his fortune.
The great epics of the world may be counted on the
fingers, and among these is the " Henriade." It was from
the first hailed as the worthy representative of France
in that very select assembly. The world of letters, and
the most fastidious critics, agreed in recognising it as an
extraordinary production, which placed its author among
the first poets of his time.  So greatly did Fr k of
Prussia admire the "Henriade," that he took considerable pains to procure the publication of an elaboratelyillustrated edition of it, which was never completed, but
for which he wrote a preface, generally published with
the poem, expressing his enthusiastic delight in the work
and unbounded respect for its author.  Much as the
taste of the French people in poetry has changed since
then, it continues to command high esteem as a principal
modern classic, and to be issued in cheap editions.
Along with it Voltaire published essays on epic poetry,
and on the most illustrious representatives of that province of song. In these, while distinguishing and allowing for the differences of national tastes, he censures
renowned poets evidently with thorough honesty, but
with more freedom than common opinion warrants: he
finds Homer very imperfect in point oiL.A  and accuses
Milton of a great number of gross faults, t....cee
the speech of Sin, the portress of Hell, which he calls "a
disgusting and abominable history." He quotes passages




38


VOLTAIRE.


from epics in various languages which, in his opinion,
however justly admired, would not be tolerated in French
poetry.  Homer's deities, intoxicating themselves with
nectar, and laughing immoderately at Vulcan's awkwardness, would, he tells us, no more be admissible in a
modern French epic than Virgil's harpies carrying off the
dinner. He notes Milton's expression "darkness visible"
as a liberty which may be excused, " but French exactitude admits nothing that needs excuse." Besides this
exactitude, he claims for French writers clearness and
elegance: to them, he says, "the force of the English
appears gigantic and monstrous on the one hand, and
the sweetness of the Italians effeminate on the other."
These and other passages of his essays greatly help
foreigners to appreciate the "Henriade," which, like all
his writings, possesses in the highest degree the characteristics that he thus attributes to the national poetry. We
must expect here no vague sublimity of effect,. egnant or allusive epit   none of the homely reality which
would be imparted by sucfamiliar touches as w6uld be
deemed vulgar in a serious French poem-and to w^ch
he so gravely objects in Homer and Shakespeare-and
uone' -f thlVomttpbie      s which paint tie manners
of an age. Excellent sense, conveyed in the most perfect
form of expression, a vigour and confidence which prevent him from ever falling ignominiously beneath the
height to which his argument may conduct him, and
the completeness with which he has overcome the exceptional difficulties of French verse, form the chief
elements of his success.
Fired with the audacity of a young man who is conscious of splendid powers and wants to make them felt,




THE HERO OF THE POEM.


39


he appears to have proposed to himself to produce an
epic which should combine the positive merit of being
essentially national with the negaX,.jne of avoiding
what he had found to conderQ   '4     istriou  rcessors. The personage whom he chose as the central
igure was the best fitted for his purpose that French
history could furnish. Never had the nation a hero so
enduringly popular as the skilful general and brilliant
knight whose white plume is a point of light in history
-the conqueror who was clement amid the merciless,
generous in an age of rapacity, genial in an atmosphere
of bloody fanaticism-the good king who wished to see
the day when every French peasant should have his fowl
in the pot. He was, indeed, an apostate, so far as apostasy
may consist in exchanging one form of Christianity for
another; but the change was essential to the interests of
his country, for his faith formed the sole objection which
his Catholic subjects could urge against a king whose
rule afforded the strongest security against anarchy, and
the surest pledge of national prosperity. The recording
angel who took so indulgent a view of Uncle Toby's oath,
would scarcely use very dark characters in inscribing on
his accusing page Henry's change of religion. It is true,
too, that he was noted for his weakness for the fair sex;
but so far as this affects his qualification for an epic
hero, it wore in him a venial, even a gay and gallant,
aspect, when compared with the amours of Achilles or
AEneas. While his character thus presented no fatal objections, its intrinsic virtues received uncommon prominence from contrast with such atrocious blots of history as
are his royal contemporaries. The abominable beldame
Catherine of Medicis-her miscreant sons, Charles IX.




40


VOLTAIRE.


and Henry III.-Pope Sixtus V. —and Philip II. of
Spain, one of the gloomiest of remorseless tyrants,- such
were conspicuous among the chief personages of the time.
Henry was a witness, almost a victim, of what is one
of the most horrible crimes in history, in which queenmother, king, and princes took part, and of which the
Pope heartily approved; and living in an atmosphere of
domestic treachery and murder, with a Reine Margot for
a wife, and her mother and brothers, together with the
infamous crew who formed their Court, for associates, it
is astonishing that he should have preserved an ordinary
share of the better feelings of humanity, and almost a
miracle that he should have continued to show himself
so manly and so sound of heart.
Upon the death of Charles IX., his successor Henry
III. found two great parties opposed in France; that of
the Huguenots, headed by Henry of Navarre-and that
of the Guises, called the Holy League, which, encouraged
by the Pope and supplied with auxiliaries by Spain,
sought, under the veil of zeal for the Catholic faith,
to supplant the king. Henry III., the "Valois" of the
"Henriade," at first declared himself at the head of the
League, but found that he was likely to be only a tool
in the hands of the able and unscrupulous chief of the
Guises. With the best reasons for distrusting each other,
they took the sacrament together in solemn pledge of
mutual faith -Guise, as he bent reverently over the
sacred bread, planning the dethronement of Henry, who,
in turn, was meditating the assassination of the other communicant. In this rivalry of treachery Valois prevailed,
and caused Guise to be murdered in his presence at Blois
— whose fate might be more commiserated had he not




RESEMBLANCE TO CLASSIC POEMS.


41


himself murdered, with circumstances specially atrocious,
the Admiral Coligny. The king thereupon made common
cause with the great enemy of the League, Henry of
Navarre. Joining forces, they encamped before Paris,
which Guise's brother, the "Mayenne" of the poem, now
the chief of the League, held with his troops; and it is
at this point that the "Henriade" opens.
The tone of those essays of Voltaire of which we have
spoken gives promise of such independence of treatment,
that the reader of them is somewhat surprised to find
how many close imitations of Homer and Virgil his epic
exhibits; and that, in fact, it would never have existed
in its present form but for the ancient poets. The resemblance which the relations subsisting between his
chief characters bear to the relations of those of the
older epics need not be much insisted on, for they involve
no deviations from history. If the king, ostensible chief
of the besieging forces, plays in some degree Agamemnon
to the Achilles of Bourbon, their real champion and
leader-if Mornay, like Ulysses, brings all the weight of
his wisdom to withdraw the hero from the silken toils of
pleasure to the duties of the field-if D'Aumale, the
prop of the beleaguered city, renowned in arms, having
an inextinguishable thirst for battle, and always ready to
undertake a champion of the enemy, resembles Hector in
his life as well as in the fate, disastrous to the defenders,
which he meets before the walls,-the answer is, that all
these personages are represented as they really appeared
in the war. But in other cases this kind of warrant does
not exist. Just as the events which have preceded the
opening of the " Eneid" are made known to the reader
through AEneas's recital of them to Dido, so the incidents




42


VOLTAIRE.


which led up to the situation with which the " Henriade "
begins are recounted to Queen Elizabeth by Henry, who,
like the Trojan chief, enlists the sympathies of his
listener, though not with the same result; and this imitation has not the sanction of historical fact. Again,
Henry, like the Trojan hero, and like Ulysses, accomplishes the descent into hell, and, like Dante, visits
heaven.   The fight between Turenne and D'Aumale,
which did not really happen, very much resembles that
between Turnus and IEneas. Then there is a prophet
and a palace of Destiny to connect, as Virgil's Sibyl does,
the present of the poem with the future; there are personifications more or less fantastic, as personages having
only such allegorical existence must be. Besides a palace
of Destiny, there is a temple of Love, with its votaries;
and, lastly, Truth herself descends from the skies to visit
Bourbon's camp. In strange association with these, the
Father of the Universe appears, like a Christian Jupiter,
on more than one occasion, and vouchsafes utterances
which shake the spheres.
Voltaire, without denying that these are imitations,
would probably have considered that they needed no
defence. He might think it of small importance that
some parts of his machinery were borrowed, provided
he turned them to good account. His royal admirer
Frederick asserts, indeed, in his preface, that the French
poet has imitated the ancients only to surpass them.
"If," says the illustrious critic, "he imitate in some
passages Homer and Virgil it is, h   ye   always an
imitation W         cti   it somethinc  origal, and in
which one sees that the judgment of the French poet is
infinitely superior to that of the Greek.  Compare
) ~ ~ ~ ~  _ ami H, w. t;




DIFFICULTY OF THE TASK.


43


Ulysses' descent into hell with that of the seventh
canto of the " Henriade," and you will see that the latter
is enriched with an infinity of beauties which M. de
Voltaire owes only to himself."  Without going the
whole length of this comparison, we may admit that it
is not altogether devoid of justice.
The peculiar difficulty of Voltaire's task lay in the
introduction of supernatural personages and events into
times so recent as the period of the wars of the League.
There were old men living when Voltaire was born who
came into the world before Henry IV. quitted it. To
bring Truth, and Discord, and divine personages, on
so modern a stage, was more than audacious. Nevertheless, if we can get rid of the feeling of incongruity, we
find that they fulfil important parts in the plan. Discord, for instance, supplies a link between the fanaticism
and intrigue which prevailed at Rome and the state of
feeling which actuated the Leaguers in Paris, and brings
personages and events into relation with the main action
whose appearance would otherwise have remained unaccounted for. It was Voltaire's object, by all means, to
exalt out of the sphere of common life the fabric of his
poem-likelihood was of small account with him compared with unity and artistic completeness; and viewed
in this way, we must allow that the business of the epic
has been as well managed as was possible under the
circumstances.
Moderate in length compared with some of its predecessors, the " Henriade " contains between four and five
thousand lines, divided pretty equally into ten books.
It is written, like his tragedies, in rhymed Alexandrines
-a kind of verse common in French poetry, but to




44


VOLTAIRE.


English ears unmusical, halting, and monotonous; and,
accordingly, the twelve-syllable line has seldom been
used among us except to close the Spenserian stanza.
The passages selected for translation will be given in this
volume in blank verse, which-because it is more pleasing
to our ears, and more suitable to our notions of an epic, and
also because Voltaire's lines lend themselves to it with
peculiar facility-does more justice, perhaps, than any
other measure would to the poet; but it may be well to
give the first few lines forming the exordium of the
poem, in a fashion which endeavours to convey the
sound as well as the sense of the original:"That hero's praise I sing who lord of France did reign,
In right of his good sword and of his royal strain,
Who wise the State to rule, by long misfortune taught,
Stilled faction, and forgave the foe who mercy sought,
O'erthrew Mayenne, with Spain's and League's combined
array,
And, master of the realm, ruled with paternal sway."
Henry of Valois, in his camp before Paris, despairing
of success against the League, entreats Bourbon to seek
aid from Elizabeth, trusting to the renown and the persuasions of his envoy to make a friend of our great Queen.
Bourbon departs accordingly, and, approaching our coast,
is driven by a storm to Jersey, where he meets with a
venerable hermit, who prophesies that he will be victorious, and will ascend the throne, and gives him very
pious and excellent advice respecting the use he should
make of his victory.  Henry then resumes his voyage;
and it will probably propitiate English readers to translate the description of our country under Elizabeth as
Henry saw it:



WHAT HENRY SEES IN ENGLAND.


45


" He, viewing England, secretly admires
The happy changes in that powerful realm,
Where the abuse of many a wholesome law
Long wrought mischance to subjects and to kings.
Upon that soil, so stained with noble bloodUpon that throne, whence kings so oft had slipt,A woman at her feet held fate enchained,
Dazzling all eyes with splendours of her reign.
This was Elizabeth, whose potent will,
Now up, now down, the scales of nations swayed,
And made the sturdy Briton love her yoke.
Her people in her time forgot their woes:
The plains are covered with their thriving flocks,
Fields with their wheat, and with their ships the deep.
Feared on the land, their empire is the sea;
Their navy, in its pride, holds Neptune slave,
And summons Fortune from the ends of space.
Their capital, once barbarous, has become
The shrine of art, the storehouse of the world,
The temple of great Mars. Within the walls,
Of Westminster three powers combined appear,
Astonished at the tie which holds them closeThe people's deputies, the lords, the kingOf interests diverse, but made one by law,All sacred parts of that unconquered wholeSelf-menacing, to neighbours terrible.
Much blest whene'er the people, dutiful,
In reverence hold the rights of sovereign power,
More blest whene'er a king, wise, gentle, just,
In reverence holds the people's liberties.
'Ah!' Bourbon cried, ' wlen shall my countrymen,
Like you, find truest glory in sweet peace?
Take pattern here, 0 monarchs of the earth!
A woman's hand has closed the gates of war,
And, leaving woe and strife to you, has made
The happiness of these, her worshippers."'
Henry has an interview with the queen, in which he




46


VOLTAIRE.


sets forth the need of France for help; and, at her desire,
he relates the tale of the recent misfortunes of his country, their origin, and the particulars of the massacre of
St Bartholomew.    This narrative occupies the second
canto, which Voltaire is said to have composed entirely
in the Bastille, retaining it in his memory, and which
alone he found no occasion to revise.
In the third canto the oral history of precedent
events is contained, including the wars of the League,
the death of Charles IX., the murder of Guise, and
the reconciliation of the two Henries, thus bringing
matters down to the time of the interview. Elizabeth,
in a gracious reply, such as she might be expected to
make to so gallant a prince, promises men and money
-influenced, however, rather by the desire to injure
Philip of Spain than to help Valois; and this promise
she redeemed by despatching Essex at the head of a
considerable body of her troops to join in the siege of
Paris.
In the fourth canto we return to the besiegers' camp.
Valois finds himself helpless without Bourbon —the
Leaguers, issuing from the gates of Paris, dismay him
by their rapid successes. In these sallies one leader is
conspicuous-the Hector of the League-who is thus described:
"Of all those champions, he whose valorous deed
Inspired most dread, spread horror widest roundProudest of heart and deadliest of hand'Twas thou, young prince, impetuous D'Aumale!
Born of Lorraine's rich blood, whence heroes spring —
Of kings, of laws, and of dull rest the foe!
The flower of all the youth his constant train,
With them he unrelaxing scours the field,




ITS ALLEGORICAL PERSONAGES.


47


Invading at all points the startled foe,Now in dead silence, now with battle-cry,
In sunshine or 'mid shadows of the night.
So, from Caucasian cliff or Athos' peak,
Whence far away are seen cloud, land, and sea,
Eagles and vultures on extended wings
Cleave in their rapid flight the wastes immense,
Harry in fields of air the fluttered tribes,
In woods and meadows rend defenceless flocks,
And to dread summits of their mountain-home,
Blood-stained, bear off the torn and shrieking prey."
D'Aumale had already penetrated to the tents of
Valois, the surprised besiegers giving way before him,
when Bourbon, just landed from England, came on the
field:
"Then in the midst of them was Henry seen,
Flashing like lightning at the tempest's height.
To the front ranks he flies and leads them on,
Death in his hand, his glances thunderbolts;
As bravely followed, he retrieves the day,
And all the rallying chiefs around him throng."
The Leaguers are repulsed. D'Aumale, trying to rally
them, is in danger, when an unexpected auxiliary appears. Discord, "the daughter of Hell," arrives in person on the scene, and dreading the loss of so devoted an
adherent of herself, covers him with her shield, and
withdraws him within the walls of Paris. She then
flies to Mayenne, and addressing him as " Thou, bred
under my eyes, formed under my laws," bids him be of
good cheer. Creating a storm which checks the advance
of the Royalists, she hurries on its wing to Rome, where
she has an interview with another allegorical personage,
Political Intrigue (la Politique), "daughter of Selfishness




48


VOLTAIRE.


and Ambition, of whom are born Fraud and Seduction."
It is here that the poet takes the opportunity to deliver
his opinion on Sixtus V., the Pope of that day:"Under her consecrated tyrants, Rome
Regretted her false gods.
" Sixtus was chief of Rome and of the Church.
If to be honoured with the title " great,"
Lies, truculence, austerity, suffice,
Among the greatest kings must Sixtus rank.
To fifteen years of fraud he owed his placeSo long he hid his merits and his faults,
Seemed to evade the rank for which he burned,
While self-abasement helped him to the prize."
Up to this point readers of the " Henriade " will proceed
with pleasure, enjoying its good sense, its spirit, and the
clearness and vigour of the poetry. But they will generally lament the introduction of these allegorical actors,
who employ themselves, like the partisan deities of
Homer, in sowing dissension, instigating crime, and interfering to protect those of one party, or to injure or
tempt those of the other, but without the individuality
and picturesqueness of the Olympian powers. All they
do could have been done, with equal advantage to the
plot, by a malignant spirit (like Goethe's Mephistopheles), the emissary of the powers of evil, who might
have been represented as the insidious, unseen prompter
of passions, words, and actions. Being thus the personification only of the evil tendencies of the actors themselves, such an addition to the dramatis personce, if skilfully managed and rendered vague, shadowy, and mysterious, could have helped to exalt the characters and
scenery into an unfamiliar and supernatural atmosphere,




DISCORD AT WORK.


49


without doing such violence to belief as we have to complain of when we find these very abstract and unsubstantial conditions of social existence bodied forth with
features, looks, and garments, taking part in battles,
appearing in chariots, and inspiring courage or fear by
actual words.  Discord, greeting La Politique with "a
mysterious air" and a "malignant laugh," flatters and
caresses her. Together, they surprise Religion (another
personification), and despoil "their august enemy" of
her garments-disguised in which they proceed to the
assembly of sages in the Sorbonne, where they create
confusion and inspire wild counsels:"Then, in the name of all, one dotard cries' The Church makes kings, absolves them, chastens them;
In us this Church, in us alone its laws:
Valois, judged reprobate, no more is kingOf oaths once sacred now we break the bonds.'
Scarce had he ceased when Discord, void of ruth,
Writes down in blood this hateful ordinance;
Each swears by her, and signs beneath her eye."
The effect of the decree is seen presently, when all the
priests issue from their cloisters, with arms and standards,
chanting sedition-" audacious priests, but futile men-atarms." Representatives from the different quarters of
Paris join the tumult:"Fury and treason, arrogance and death,
March at their head through rivulets of blood:
Born in obscurity, in squalor nursed,
Hatred of kings their sole nobility;"
they threaten the Senate, which still fulfils its functions
in the name of the king, and seize the principal members.
Discord next proceeds to give effect to the decree of
F.C. —II.                              D




50


VOLTAIRE.


the Sorbonne by instigating the fanatical monk, Jacques
Clement, to get out of Paris and murder the king. In
the fifth canto is described how Discord summons, from
the infernal abodes, the demon of fanaticism, who conducts the monk to his victim. The poet describes the
last moments of the king, at which Bourbon, his successor, was present:"Already Valois touched on his last hour,
His eyes perceiving but a fading light;
Around him, weeping, stood his courtiers ranged,
Parted in secret by divergent aims,
But pouring in one common voice their grief.
Some, trusting in the good a change might bring,
Mourned faintly for their dying monarch's fate;
Others, enfolded in their selfish fears,
The loss of fortune, not of sovereign, wept.
Amid this clamorous hubbub of complaint
'Twas Bourbon who alone shed genuine tears;
Valois had been his enemy, but souls
Like his at such a time their wrongs forget
Nought but old friendship weighed with Henry then;
In vain his interests 'gainst his pity strove,
The honest hero's thoughts were far away
From what the king's death gave-a kingly crown.
By a last effort Valois turned on him
The heavy eyes which death was soon to close
Placing his hand on those victorious hands,
' Ah, leave,' he cried, 'those generous tears unshed!
The outraged universe should mourn your king,
But you must fight, my Bourbon, reign, avenge.
I die and leave you in the midst of storms,
Cast on a strand all covered with my wreck.
My throne awaits you, yours my throne should beEnjoy the prize your arm has guarded well;
But think how ceaseless storms environ it,
And fear the Giver as you mount the seat.




DEATH OF VALOIS.


51


0 may you, of your dogmas disabused,
His worship and His altars raise again!
Farewell-reign happy-may a stronger power
Protect your life from the assassin's steel.
You know the League, you see what blows it strikes,
That aim, through me, to reach your bosom too.
The day may come..a still more barbarous hand..
Just heaven! 0 spare the earth a soul so rare!..
Permit.. ' but at these words death, pitiless,
Cones rushing on his head, and ends his lot."
In the camp Bourbon is hailed as king; in the city
the Leaguers assemble to choose a monarch.  Whilst they
are occupied in their deliberations (in which Potier, a
citizen, by his assertion of Bourbon's rights in the very
presence of Mayenne, earns for himself an immortal
niche in the poem), they are startled by a sudden call to
arms. Henry has chosen that moment to direct an assault upon the walls:"Bourbon employed not those propitious hours
In rendering funeral honours to the king,
In decking forth his tomb with titles brave
Which living pride upon the dead bestows;
Not by his hand those desolated shores
Were cumbered with the pomp of sepulchres,
Whereby, despite the strokes of time and fate,
The arrogance of rank prevails o'er death:
He thought to send the Valois in his grave
Darksome a tribute worthier of his shade,
Punish his murderers, his foes confound,
And o'er the land subdued spread happiness."
The attack, in which the English auxiliaries, led by
Essex, take part, "marching for the first time under our
colours, and seeming astonished to serve our kings," is
successful. The suburbs are taken; and Henry, excited




52


VOLTAIRE.


by the combat, appeals to his soldiers to bring fire and
sword to bear on the city itself, when he is checked by a
supernatural interference:"Just then, from out the bosom of a cloud,
A glorious phantom grew upon the sight;
Its shape majestic, mastering the winds,
Upon their wings came down towards the king.
Of the Divinity the living rays
Full on its brow immortal beauty shed."
This is the spirit of Henry's ancestor St Louis, who
rebukes the fury of the assailants, and thus addresses the
king:" I am that happy king whom France reveres,
Father of Bourbons, and thy father too.
Louis, who lately combated for you;
Louis, whose faith your alien heart neglects;
Louis, who grieves for you, admires you, loves you.
God will one day conduct you to his throne.
In Paris, you, my son, shall conqueror tread,
Not for your valour, but your clemency;
'Tis Heaven thus speaks by me, its messenger.'"
Then, seeing the king exposed to a terrible hail of
missiles from the walls, the saint withdraws him from the
combat and conveys him to Vincennes. St Louis continues to be an important actor in the rest of the epic,
and with happy effect. The objections made to Discord,
Truth, &c., do not apply to him. A sentiment common
to all nations warrants the poet in assuming that a man's
departed forefathers continue to bestow on him interest
and protection; and there is a peculiar propriety in representing the great French hero as specially watched over
by his sainted ancestor, to whom the Bourbons have always looked with veneration.  " Son of St Louis," said




HENRY'S DREAM.


53


the Abbe Edgeworth to Louis XVI. on the scaffold, " ascend to heaven!"
The seventh canto is in some respects the most remarkable. It opens by telling us that the infinite goodness of God has placed among us two beneficent beings,
always lovable inhabitants of earth, supports in trouble,
treasures in poverty; the one is Sleep, the other Hope.
St Louis summons both to Henry. Sleep heard the call
in his secret caves; softly he came through the fresh
bowers; the winds were hushed at sight of him; happy
dreams, children of hope, fluttered towards the Prince
and covered him with olive and laurel, mixed with their
own poppies. Then the sainted Louis, placing on the
forehead of the sleeper his own diadem, exhorts him,
saying that it is a small thing to be a hero or a king
without a share of enlightening grace, and that, less to
reward than to instruct him, he will show him the
secrets of a more durable empire. He then invites him
to fly with him to the bosom of God Himself.
Frederick the Great specially admired the device of
taking Henry to heaven and hell in spirit, in his sleep,
rather than in the body, as IEneas and Ulysses went.
"The single idea," says the admiring monarch, " of attributing to Henry's dream what he sees in heaven and
hell, and what is prognosticated to him in the temple of
Destiny, is worth the whole of the 'Iliad;' for the dream
brings all which happens within the rules of reality,
whereas the journey of Ulysses into hell is devoid of all
the ornaments which might have given an air of truth to
the ingenious fiction of Homer."
Most readers will concur with Frederick so far as to
consider it judicious to make the dream the medium




54


VOLTAIRE.


through which the hero views the celestial and infernal
scenery.
"He ceased, and in a fiery car the two
Course through the heavens ere a moment's spaceAs storm and lightnings in the night are seen
To dart from pole to pole, and split the air."
What they saw, transported thus to distant worlds, the
poet boldly proceeds to describe; and we may see how,
in taking this survey of the universe, he has been influenced by his study of the theories of Newton:"In the bright centre of those orbs immense,
That cannot hide from us their distant paths,
Flames on that star of day, divinely lit,
Which round his burning axle ever turns,
And whence are poured unceasing floods of light.
His presence 'tis that gives to matter life,
Deals out the days, the seasons, and the years,
To all the varying worlds that round him glide.
These orbs, to law obedient, as they move,
Attract, repel each other ceaselessly,
And, interchanging rule and maintenance,
Reciprocate the rays by him bestowed.
Beyond their courses, in the depths of space,
Where matter swims, by God alone held in,
Suns without number are, and endless worlds.
In that profound abyss He opes their pathsBeyond all heav'ns the God of Heaven doth dwell.
The hero follows his celestial guide
To depths from whence the countless spirits come
Who bodies animate and people worlds;
Therein our souls are after death replunged,
From fleshly prison-house for aye set free.
Here a just Judge assembles at His feet
Immortal spirits which His breath has made.




VISION OF THE JUDGMENT-SEAT.


55


The Being this whom, knowing not, we serve,
Whom the whole world by different names adores;
He hears our clamours from empyreal heights,
And this huge mass of error pitying views,
These senseless images, which ignorance
Makes piously of wisdom infinite."
"Death, the frightful daughter of Time, brings before
him the inhabitants of our sorrowful world;" and, as
they appear, the different priesthoods of the earth look
in vain for the beings they had deemed divine. Everything being in a moment made clear to them, the dead
hear in silence the eternal judgments.   Henry dares
not approach the throne whence are delivered the sentences " which so many of us presumptuous mortals try
in vain to anticipate;" but nevertheless he cannot refrain
from reasoning on what he sees:' What is,"' said Henry, speaking to himself,
'The law supreme by God for mortals made?
Does He condemn them that they shut their eyes
To knowledge which Himself has made obscure?
Does He, an unjust Master, judge their acts
By code of Christians which they never knew?
No; He who made us means to save us all;
On all sides He instructs us, speaks to us,
Graving on every heart a natural law
Alone unchangeable and ever pure.
Doubtless by this law are the heathen judged;
They, too, are Christians if their hearts be right.'"
This questioning receives from the throne itself, in accents of thunder, a reply which
"All the immortal choir is hushed to hear,
And every star repeats it in his course."
Henry (so the voice says) is to beware cf surrendering




56


VOLTAIRE.


himself to his feeble reason.  "God has made thee
to love, not to comprehend Him; invisible to thine
eyes, He is to reign in thine heart; He hates injustice, but pardons error, except voluntary error, which is
punished."
The king is now conveyed to the regions of eternal
sorrow. There, besides more allegorical personages suitable to the scene-such as Envy, Pride, and Ambition
-he sees Jacques Clement, the murderer of Valois, still
clutching his bloody knife. There he sees also tyrants
and their insolent ministers undergoing retribution: but
the Saint assures him that even these are not punished
beyond their deserts, but only as a father punishes his
children; that though the gifts of the Deity are infinite,
His chastenings know bounds, and that He will not requite moments of weakness and fleeting pleasures with
everlasting torment.  The scene then changes to the
abode of happy spirits, where he sees the just kings,
wise ministers, and devoted warriors of France, including
Joan of Arc, " shame of the English, of our throne the
stay." And not these alone, for the palace of Destiny
opens for him its hundred iron gates, showing him the
great men of the future (among whom Voltaire gives an
honourable place to his friend Marshal Villars) and the
seer's own descendants. Henry exults to find one of
these becoming king of Spain, but St Louis checks his
transports by hinting how dangerous an honour this may
prove to be; and with this the vision ends:"The goddess of the dawn, all rosy-faced,
Opes in the East the palace of the Sun;
To other regions Night withdrew her veilWith darkness also fled the fluttering dreams.




IVRY.


57


The prince, awakening, in his heart perceived
A strength new-born, an ardour heaven-inspired;
His glances spread around respect and fear,
And majesty in all his aspect shone.
So when the avenger of the chosen race
Had on Mount Sinai conversed with God,
The Hebrews at his feet crouched in the dust,
And could not bear the brightness of his eyes."
The Leaguers, disheartened by Henry's successes, are
about to receive important succour.  Count Egmont,
marching from the Netherlands with a strong force of
Spanish cavalry, was approaching Paris to join Mayenne,
who hoped, thus reinforced, to attack the king with advantage. Henry met them both in the open field, and
the incidents of the battle and its results make up the
eighth canto. The well-known words of Henry to his
soldiers are embodied in the poem:"'When the fight's hottest, look to my white plume!
In honour's path it still shall show the way."'
Defeated on this famous field of Ivry, Mayenne and
the Leaguers retreat into Paris. It was now that the
victorious Bourbon gave notable proof of the generosity
which was so conspicuous an element in his fine character. To the prisoners taken in battle he, on the spot,
gave their liberty, telling them that they were free
either to return to Mayenne or to join his own standard. At the same time he restrains his own troops
from carnage:"Lord of his warriors, he their courage curbs,
And seems no more the lion splashed with blood
Who terror spread, and death, from rank to rank,
But a mild deity, who lays aside




58


VOLTAIRE.


His thunder, binds the storm, and cheers the earth.
O'er his brow, threatening, blood-stained, terrible,
Was spread the sweet serenity of peace."
The prisoners join his ranks. The news of his victory
spreads, and the Leaguers are almost in despair. Discord, knowing that with his triumph will come the end
of her reign, resorts, in order to arrest his career, to a
last stratagem, which forms the subject of the ninth
canto.
It might be supposed that the solemn incidents, the
celestial experience, and the divine counsel of the preceding canto would have fortified the king against such
a disreputable device as that which the malignant Discord now had recourse to. She repairs to the temple of
Love (which is full of allegorical personages), and rousing the deity from his bed of flowers, enlists him in her
cause. Delighted with a mission so completely suited
to him, he flies at once to the plains of Ivry, near which
Henry was hunting.   Love "felt at sight of his victim
an inhuman joy; he hardened his features and made
ready his chain,"-then commanding the winds to assemble the clouds, and to bring on night with thunder
and lightning, he lit his flambeau to lead him astray:"Left by his people 'mid the woods, the king
Followed this hostile star that lit the shades,
As the benighted traveller is seen
To follow meteors which the earth exhalesThose treacherous fires which shed malignant light
To lure the victim to the precipice."
The "precipice" is the fair Mademoiselle d'Estrees,
the " belle Gabrielle " of history, then a dweller in these
woods:



AMOUR WITH GABRIELLE.


59


" Just entering on that age, so perilous,
Which gives the passions sure ascendency,
Her haughty, generous heart, though formed for love,
Had never listened to a lover's vows,
Resembling in its spring the nascent rose,
Which, peeping forth, shuts in its loveliness,
Hides from the amorous winds its bosom's freight,
But opens to the sunshine calm and clear."
Throwing away his torch and his arrows, the god
takes the form of a child, and approaching Gabrielle,
tells her that the conqueror of Mayenne is at that
moment near her:"Love hugged himself at seeing her so fairSure of success when such attractions aid.
Her raiment's simple art (by him inspired)
To eyes bewitched seemed Nature's own effect.
Her golden hair, abandoned to the breeze,
Now veiled the young perfections of her breast,
Now rising, showed their charm unspeakable.
Her modesty but lent new lovelinessNot that severe and sad austerity
Which frightens love, and beauty too, away,
But the sweet shyness, childlike, innocent,
Which lights the face with rosy tints divine,
Inspires respect, love's ardour animate,
And crowns the transports of its conqueror."
Forgetful of the claims of his Reine Margot, who had
given him no great reason to be mindful of them, the too
susceptible hero falls a very easy victim to the beauties
of this fascinating maiden. Love, continuing to lend his
treacherous aid, spreads enchanted bowers of myrtle, and
throws over the whole region his powerful spell:"All speaks of love there-in the fields the birds
Redouble their endearments and their songs.




VOLTAIRE.


The sweating reaper, coming ere the dawn
To cut the yellowing ears that summer swells,
Pauses in trouble while his heaving breast
Appears to wonder at its new desires;
So he stays, spell-bound, in these regions fair,
And, sighing, turns from his unfinished sheaves.
Near him the shepherdess forgets her flocks,
And drops the spindle from her trembling hand.
How with such sorcery could Gabrielle strive?
The spell entranced her irresistibly;
'Twas hers to combat on that hapless day
Her youth, her heart, a hero, and the god."
Everything being thus satisfactorily accounted for,
without detriment either to the heroism of the monarch
or the modesty of the maiden (all blame for whatever
may happen obviously resting with the supernatural
powers who have so craftily brought them together), the
pair are kept in the silken chains of the malignant deity,
while the chiefs of the army wonder what has become of
the general, and the soldiers, bereft of his leadership,
seem already vanquished. In these critical circumstances,
the Genius of France, summoned to the rescue by St
Louis, interposes, and leads the prudent Mornay, " whose
solid virtues were his only loves "-and who has, consequently, but small indulgence for the king's weaknessto the retreat of the enthralled monarch. The uncompromising sage, fixing on him, even in the very arms
of Gabrielle, a sad and severe gaze, preserves a silence
that must have been very embarrassing to the king, who
at last breaks it by acknowledging his own fault and
Mornay's devotion.  The fair D'Estrees is left, fainting,
to the protecting care of Love, and the errant monarch
irturns to his army.




COMBAT OF D'AUMALE AND TURENNE.


61


In the last canto the siege recommences. The respite
has revived the courage of the Leaguers, but the king
is impatient to finish his conquest. The fierce D'Aumale
exhorts the garrison to sally and become the assailants.
He tells them  that "the Frenchman who awaits the
attack is already half beaten;" but he fails to inspire
them with his own courage, and at last issues alone from
the gates to challenge a champion of the enemy. All
Henry's chiefs are eager to meet him, but to the valiant
Turenne is awarded the honour of the encounter; and he
goes out to meet the foe, while the citizens flock to the
ramparts, and the king's soldiers range themselves opposite to see the combat:
"Paris, the king, the army, heaven and hell,
Upon this fight illustrious fixed their eyes."
The champions, who engage without armour, and with
only swords for weapons, advance upon each other with
few but characteristic words:
" ' God, my king's arbiter,'" so prayed Turenne,
'Come down and judge bis cause, and fight for me!
Courage is naught without Thy guardian hand;
Not in myself but all in Thee I trust.'
Answered D'Aumale: 'I trust in mine own arm;
'Tis on ourselves the combat's lot depends;
Vainly the coward makes appeal to GodSerene in heaven He leaves me to myself;
The side of victory is the side of right,
And the sole arbiter the god of war."'.
Of the two warriors, D'Aumale shows himself in the
fight the more eager, strong, and furious-Turenne the
more skilful and restrained.  While D'Aumale exhausts
himself in vain efforts, the king's soldier fights calmly




62


VOLTAIRE.


and dexterously, and, pressing on at the right moment,
strikes down, with a mortal blow, the champion of the
League. Extended on the sand, he still vainly menaces
Turenne. His sword escapes from his hand; his looks
grow wild with the horror of defeat; he raises himself,
looks towards Paris, and falls dead. Mayenne, looking
on, sees in the event the prognostication of his own
approaching overthrow. Soldiers bear, with slow steps,
the body within the walls:- -
"This bloody spectacle, this fatal train,
Enters through crowds bewildered, stupefied;
All shrink at sight of that disfigured corpse,
Those brows all blood-stained, and that mouth agape,
That head low-hanging and with dust defiled,
Those eyes in which his horrors Death displays.
No cries are heard, no tears are seen to fall,
Compassion, shame, dejection, and despair
Stifle their sobs and render sorrow mute."
As the siege goes on famine seizes on the city, and
this canto contains some horrible pictures of the extremities to which the unhappy people are reduced.
Henry gives another signal proof of magnanimity by
sending in supplies to his perishing enemies. But the
people, led by the priests, still refuse to acknowledge
him, and more of supernatural aid is necessary for his
final victory.  St Louis again appeals to heaven-Truth
herself descends upon the tents of the king, and gives
him clearer views. He perceives it to be his duty to
profess the Catholic faith-thereupon the opposition of
the League ceases, and he enters Paris amidst his now
submissive subjects:"The people-changed from this auspic:ous dayKnow their true father, conqueror, and king."




63


HIS MIDDLE AGE.
CHAPTER VIII.
ADRIENNE LE COUVREUR.
ON Voltaire's return to Paris in 1, he for some time
lived retired, almos, in a remote faubourg, and
began to develop his extraordinary talent for financial
speculation.  He had inherited from his father (who
died in 1722) and his brother some little income, which,
together with his pension, made up about ~400 a-year;
to this he had just added the English subscription for
his " Henriade." But as his first financial successes seem
to have come in the form of large winnings in a lottery,
it is not necessary to look beyond these for the basis of
his fortune. He largely increased his gains by investin
them in various well - selected enterprise  such as the
commerce with Cadiz and speculations in Barbary corn.
He then acquired an interest in a contract for provisioning the army of Italy, by which he gained ~30,000.
Iis subsequent investments were so advantageous-in
annuities, loans, and mortgages-that he lived and died
the richest of all eminent men of letters, and was quite


A




C4


VOLTAIRE.


independent  f         fits of his writings, of which he
always appears to have been careless.
His play of "Brutus" was the first fruit of his exile;
and this he considered his most forciblvvritten tragedy.
It breathed a spirit o0f reedom  long unknown to ~te
French stage, and set forth in eloquent language the
rights of an oppressed people.   After the performance
of it, Fontenelle told the author that "he did not think
him fitted for tragedy; that his style was too forcible, too
lofty, too brilliant." "Then I must study your pastorals
again," said Voltaire.
It was about this time that Voltaire, finding his former
friend Suzanne, now Marquise de Gouvernet, inhabiting
a fine house in a fashionable quarter of Paris, wished
to renew his acquaintance with her. She had intimated
no such wish; but he, who had made love to so many
high-born ladies, might without presumption approach
this butterfly Marquise with whom he had been so intimate when she was a chrysalis.     When he presented
himself at her house, a huge Swiss hall-porter inquired
Voltaire's name, on learning which, he observed, in a
tone by no means encouraging, that it was not on the
Marquise's visitors' list.  On returning home, Voltaire
turned this rebuff to excellent account: he wrote to the
Marquise a poetical epistle, of that half gay, half serious, and all graceful cast, in which he is unrivalled, and
which is to this day among the most famous of his lighter
poems.1
1 This piece is not of a kind to which translation could do justice.
The name by which it is known to French readers, " The You and the
Thou,' implies this. In the passages where he reverts to their former
intimacy, he uses the Thou, -where he speaks of her present position,
the You; and we have, of course, no equivalent pronouns of famili-:.....




w


NEVER ATTACKED TIHE GOVERNMENT.          65
There is no doubt that Voltaire felt keenly the indignity and injustice which he had undergone, and
which had forced him into exile. In a letter of instructions written from England to his agent, he says, "If
messieurs my debtors profit by my misfortunes and
my absence to refuse payment, as others have done, you
must not trouble yourself to bring them to reason-'tis
but a trifle. The torrent of bitterness that I have drunk
makes these few drops of small account."  Nevertheless,
except the good-humoured piece, the " Bastille," already
mentioned, there is not a word in any of his writings to
show that he was mindful of having been so grievously
insulted and oppressed. WNhat is no less extraordinary
is, that possessing the courage, power, and disposition
to defy those whom it was so dangerous to provoke,
he never assailed the Government under which it had
been possible to inflict on him such a measure of injury, and the hostility of which, directed by his potent
enemies, rendered his long existence one of contest,
evasion, and exile.  No Frenchman liviln          e
y             to the vower.                 Despotr
ism," he says, " is  e a use       y y as anarchy of
republics.  A sultan who, without justice, or form of
justice, imprisons or puts to death his subjects, is a highway robber who calls himself Your Highness." Nor was
any one more alive than he to the evil of a privileged class.
" That government would be worthy of Hottentots," he
tells us, "in which a certain number of men should be
allowed to say, 'Tis for those who work to pay-we owe
nothing, because we do nothing." But it is only in such
arity and respect. To this, and to its grace of expression, the poem
owes its fame, rather than to more substantial meris.
F.C.-IL                                 E




66


VOLTAIRE.


abstract fashion that he lets his ideas about government
be seen.   lIteret h&e       nt andLg.;          his
eulogies on Louis XIV. are splendid; he would have
been a courtier if he could.  Far different is the spirit
in which he attacked what he called superstition.  It is
evident that he thought spiritual despotism worse and
therefore a fitter object oI6 -nosty, than temporal despotism.  The lower classes were sunk in ignorance, the
upper in frivolity; while among their pastors a vicious
life was so common as to be scarcely a scandal. Amid
such a state of things the Church sought to maintain its
authority not by amending the lives of the priesthood
and humanising their precepts, but by maintaining the
empire of stupidity and supersition over the ignorant,
and by forcibly repressing the dissent of those who were
neither stupid nor superstitious. Voltaire, therefore, believed that to sap the misused authorit of the Church
was the first necessary step towards awvakenin the
of the nation.
~6on after his return to France, an event occurred
which was well calculated to exasperate his hostility
against intolerance.  Adrienne le Couvreur, the finest
tragic actress of the age, tle best who t haaffL ey6"0hat
time trod tcOeii seage, died in Paris in the height
of her xae. She was a woman of a warm and generous
heart; she wrote letters in a way in which only the
most cultivated Frenchwomen of the time, such as
Madame de Maintenon and Madame de Sevigne, could
write them-that is to say, in a way which raised and
refined the standard of the French language.  She was
the first example of a French actress who combined
professional renown with consideration in society.  She




DEATH OF ADRIENNE.


67


had long been the dear and intimate friend of Voltaire,
had represented with extraordinary effect most of his
heroines, and had played Jocasta only five days before
her death.   He had been summoned to her deathbed,
and she died in his arms.      Such was the woman to
whom   the clergy of Paris refused Christian burial, because of her profession.   Her body was taken secrely7
by ni;ht in a hackney-coach to the bank of the Seine,
not very far from where is now the Pont de la Concorde, and there hastily interred.  It may be imagined
with what feelings Voltair,- tinging with him       from
England a tenfold horror of fanaticism, beheld this outrage; and those feelings,   hicr     'ihimself describes as
"indignation, tenderness, anT pity," found expression in
verse: 1
"ON THE DEATH OF THE RENOWNED ACTRESS,
MADEMOISELLE LE COUVREUR.
What do I see! the lips that breathed delight,
The lovely eyes, so eloquently bright,
With livid horrors of the grave o'erspread!
0 Muses, Graces, Loves, whose looks she wore,
Whom we both worshipped, your own work restore!
Too late-'tis o'er-one kiss, and she is dead.
Is dead!-and as the dismal tidings fly,
All hearers stand transfixed with grief, as I.
I hear the sorrowing Arts their loss deplore;
Weeping, they cry, ' Melpomene's no more!
1 In poems of this class he seeks compensation for the severe restrictions to which writers of French poetry must submit, in frequently
varying the order of the rhymes and the measure; and in these particulars the translation follows the original with sufficient closeness
to preserve the external resemlllance. In translating pieces of similar
versification the same rule is observed in this volume.




68


VOLTAIRE.


What will ye say, ye races yet unborn,
Who learn the cruel wrong these Arts forlorn
Endure from those who rob the dead of peace?
A grave they her deny with scornHer, to whom altars had been raised in Greece.
Flattered, adored, while she on earth remained,
I saw obsequious crowds her glance await.
She dies-and so the idol is profaned!
She charmed the world-a sin to expiate
Henceforth that bank of Seine is holy ground;
The spot where thy rejected dust finds room,
By thy shade hallowed, in our verse renowned,
Is more a temple than a tomb.
Here my Saint Denis is. I reverent bow
Before the shrine of genius, spirit, grace;
I loved them living, I adore theml now,
Despite the grisly king's embraceDespite the ungrateful and the base,
Who bear this grave's dishonour deep, not thou.
Ah! must we always see our daily life,
So light and gay, with bigot laws at strife?
Our fickle race, whose views uncentred range,
Exalt, disparage, as the mood may change?
Is there no land but England where
Man's thought is free, and gains free birth?
Riival of Athens, region blest and fair,
That, with its other tyrants, has cast forth
Old shameful bigotries; where sages dare
Speak all tleir thought, where honour waits on worth
No art is scorned there, no achievement vain;
The conqueror of our host on Blenheimi's plain,
Dryden the lofty, Addison the wise,
Sweet Oldfield,'2 Newton, reader of the skies —
1 The burial-place of French royalty.
2 Mrs Oldfield, the famous actress, died in the same year as Mlle
Le Couvreur, and was bI-lied il Weotliinstei A bbey.




HER GRAVE.


69


All share the hospitable fane.
And Adrienne's dust in Westminster would lie
With statesmen, poets, kings, and chivalry,
For England's gifted rank her great among;
Freedom and plenty in their island-home,
Have roused up from its sleep of ages long
The spirit that ennobled Greece and Rome.
Are then Apollo's laurels dead beneath
Neglect and drought in our unkindly sand?
Why is my native land no more the land
Of genius and its honouring wreath?"
The young Count D'Argental, Voltaire's friend, was
an ardent admirer of this lady, from whom he received
in return for his devotion nothing but friendship and
good advice. He lived to be very old; and, fifty years
after her death, being then past eighty, he heard that
the owner of some ground near the river had disycoeaed,
while preparing to build there, some vestiges of her
grave.  The old man hastened t' te t spot-, recognised
ihe resting-place as hers, and obtained leave to erect a
monument over it, on which he inscribed some veribs
expressive of the passion that half a century had not
sufficed to extinguish.



70


CHAPTER IX.
THE DEATH OF CESAR
THE spirit of liberty which animated Voltaire's poem
soon excited attention. Copies of it had passed among
his friends from hand to hand, and passages became
known to some of his enemies, who denounced him to
the Chancellor. It was a curious feature of authorship
in those days that an eminent writer might have, and
often had, "enemies "-that there were people anxious
to injure or destroy him; still more curious was it that
these enemies should have the power of blighting the
most promising career. What could enemies have done
in our day against Mr Dickens, or Mr Thackeray, or Mr
Tennyson l The power they had then was owing to the
fact that no book could be openly published without the
permission of appointed officials, and that those, frequently quite incompetent as judges of literary work,
were open to many kinds of influence. Thus a personal
dislike to an author on the part of a seemingly contemptible person, might assume a very practical form when a
whisper to somebody who could influence a minister or
a censor of the press might have such important consequences. Voltaire's social qualities were such, at once




HIS ENEMIES.


71


brilliant and aggressive, that in proportion to the many
who admired would be the many who disliked him;
while his writings had already irritated the sensitive
suspicion of the clergy. But, besides this kind of animosity, there was another that was full of mischief-the
jealousy which genius and success inspire in the unsuccessful. An author of our day can safely despise the
rancours thus excited, which, indeed, rarely take the
form of injurious or combined attack; but they were
very formidable when they could find free vent in systematic misrepresentation of, and libels upon, any eminent
object of envy who lacked powerful protectors, or had
powerful ill-wishers; and all his life, Voltaire was beset
y bravoes of the press-the Grub Street of Paris —
who, sometimes set on by others, sometimes stabbing on
their own account, made it their occupation, without
having any personal quarrel to avenge, to malign him.
With his recollection of the Bastille lhe
thought it expedient to withdraw quietly to Rouen,
causing a report to spread that he was returning to England. He had an abundance of literary projects to
occupy him. The tragedies of the "Death of Caesar,"
"Eryphile," and "Zaire;" the 'History of Charles XII.;'
a satirical poem, the " Temple of Taste;" another poem,
the "Temple of Friendship;" and the opera of " Samson,"-were the product of about two years' work at this
time, besides the preparation for the press of his " Letters on the English," originally written from England to
his friend Thiriot.
He had been accustomed to translate passages from
the best English poets into verse for the benefit of his
friends. Among these pieces was the scene between




72


VOLTAIRE.


Antony and the Roman      people in "Julius Caesar."
"Voltaire," says a French editor of the "Death of
Caesar," "instead of translating the monstrous work of
Shakespeare, composed, in the English taste, the present
play." For the most part, its plot runs parallel to that
of Shakespeare; only Voltaire, according to his principle
of admitting nothing into tragedy which is not elevated
above common life, gives us none of those scenes between
citizens, and none of those sentiments of the moi, which
lend so much of life and reality to the English play, and
he omits, too, the softening elements supplied by Portia
and Calphurnia. On the other hand, he introduces a
new and strong point in making Brutus the son of
Cvesar.  The dictator, in an early scene, reveals to
Antony how    he had secretly married    Servilia, the
sister of Cato; that stern Republican, ignorant of the
marriage, had caused her to wed another, and Brutus had
passed for the son of this second husband. But, in
dying, Servilia wrote to remind Caesar that he was
Brutus's true father. On this ground Caesar accounts for
the fondness with which, in spite of Brutus's unceasing
opposition to himself, he regards that implacable patriot,
and even finds excuses for that hostility; as thus:"' If Brutus owes me life, if truly he
Be Cvesar's son, a master he must hate.
I from my earliest youth have thought like him;
I hated Sylla and all tyrants else.
Had not puffed Pompey sought to smother me
Beneath his glory, I were freedom's friend.
Born proud, ambitious, still for virtue born,
Were I not Caesar, I would Brutus be."'
At this point Brutus enters with the Republican




TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.


73


senators; they   remonstrate  with the Dictator, who
retorts with scorn, and who, retaining Brutus for a
moment, while dismissing his companions, tells him that
it is Brutus alone who can disarm Caesar-it is he alone
whom Caesar desires to love.  Brutus replies:"' If thou keep promise, all my being's thine;
If thou'rt a tyrant, I abhor thy smiles:
I will not stay with thee and Antony,
Since he, uncitizened, demands a king."'
The conspirators meet; and Brutus, impelled to action
by such appeals as Shakespeare, following history, tells of,
is for killing Caesar. Before Pompey's statue he vows
the death of the Dictator; the others have left the scene,
and he is following, when Csesar's entrance stays him.
The ambitious chief reproaches the Republican, reasons
with him, draws him almost to confess his fell design,
and then gives him Servilia's letter, in which the relationship between them is revealed. Brutus receives the
intelligence with more horror than satisfaction; to
Caesar's appeals he at length replies, that if he be indeed
his father, he will make one single prayer to him:"' Decree me present death-or cease to reign! '
Caesar, exasperated, bursts forth against him:"'Ah, savage foe!-tiger, whom I caress!
Unnatural flesh that turns my flesh to stone!Thou art no more my son. Go, citizen!
From you remorseless my despairing heart,
The heart you stab, a stern example takes.
Go-Csesar was not made to pray in vain;
I learn of Brutus human ties to spurn.
I know you not. Raised by my power o'er law
No more I let too partial mercy plead,




74


VOLTAIRE.


But with clear conscience give my anger way.
Facile too long, I now of pardoning tire;
Sylla I'll copy even in his rage,
And all you traitors at the storm shall quake.
Inhuman foe, go, seek your worthless friends;
They all defy me, all shall feel my wrath,
And, knowing what I can, learn what I dare.
Ruthless I'll show myself, and thou the cause.'"
Brutus imparts the secret of his birth to the other conspirators, and resolves that it shall not move him from
his purpose. In another scene with Caesar, he so far
softens as to kneel to him in entreaty that he will forego
the crown at which he aims; both are inflexible, and
" the mightiest Julius " is slain. Antony addresses the
people, but not with the artful eloquence which renders
his speech, in the English play, unequalled as a popular
appeal. Nevertheless the situations, the conduct, the
language of Voltaire's play, are all of a stamp that will
cause most of its readers (especially if they do not place
it at the disadvantage of a comparison with the " monstrous work of Shakespeare ") to think it worthy of its
lofty theme.




75


CHAPTER X.
ZAIRE.
IN the preface to a tragedy addressed to Bolingbroke,
he thus speaks of the difficulties offered tocomposition
in French verse: "That which affrighted me most in
re-entering on this career was the severity of our poetry,
and the slavery of rhyme. I regretted the happy liberty
you have of writing your tragedies in blank verse; of
lengthening, and more, of shortening, nearly all your
words; of making the verses run into one another; and
of creating, in case of need, new terms, which are always
adopted among you when they are sonorous, intelligible,
and necessary. An English poet, said I, is a free man,
who makes his language subservient to his genius; the
French is a slave to rhyme, obliged sometimes to make
four verses in order to express what an Englishman
would render in one. The Englishman says all he
wishes-the Frenchman only what he can; the one travels in a vast highway-the.other marches in shackles,
in a narrow and slippery path.
" But we can never shake off the yoke of rhyme-it is
essential to French poetry. Our language does not agree
with inversions; our verses do not suffer the running of




76


VOLTAIRE.


Dne into another-at least this liberty is very rare; our
syllables cannot produce a sensible harmony by their
long or short measures; our caesuras and a certain number of feet would not suffice to distinguish verse from
prose.  Besides, so many great masters -Corneille,
Racine, Boileau —have so accustomed our ears to the
harmony of rhyme, that we could not endure any other;
and he who wished to deliver himself from the burthen
which the great Corneille carried, would be regarded with
reason, not as a bold genius adventuring in a new route,
but as a weak man who could not journey in the ancient
ways."
The tragedy of " Brutus," acted on a private stage, was
not permitted to appear in print, and was not represented
till many years later.  But he gave " Eryphile" to the
stage, which was a failure; and, very soon after, "Zaire,"
which had a prodigious success. It was in this play
that he first exchanged the classic for the romantic style,
without, however, ceasing to preserve the unities, and,
no longer the imitator of Racine and Corneille, became
himself the founder of a school.  " Zaire," he says, " is
the first drama in which I have dared to abandon myself to all the sensibility of my heart: it is my only
tender tragedy."       *
" Those who are fond of literary history," says the advertisement to the play, "will like to hear how the piece was
produced. Many ladies had reproached the author with not
putting enough love into his tragedies: he replied that he
did not believe it to be the proper place for love; but since
they mnust absolutely have amnorous heroes, he would do as
others did."... "The idea," he says, again, " struck
me, of contrasting in the same picture, honour, rank, country,




THE PLOT OF ZAIRE.


77


and religion on the one side, with the tenderest and most illstarred love on the other; the manners of Mahonleta,s with
those of Christians; the court of a soldan with tiat,fl a, ing
of France; and to cause Frenchmen to'appear for the first
time upon the tragic stage."
The plot of the piece, forming a very pretty and ingenious tale, will be best condensed from his own sketch
of it, written for a friend:Palestine had been wrested from the Christian princes
by Saladin.  Noradin, of Tartar race, had then rendered
himself master of it. Orosman, son of Noradin, a young man
full of greatness, virtue, and passion, began to reign with
glory in Jerusalem. He had brought to the Syrian throne
the spirit of liberty of his ancestors. He despised the rigid
rules of the seraglio, and did not desire to augment his dignity by remaining invisible to strangers and to his subjects.
He treated Christian slaves with mildness. Among them
was a child, taken in Noradin's reign, in the sack of Caesarea.
This child having been recovered, at the age of nine, by the
Christians, was brought to St Louis, the king of France, who
undertook the charge of bringing him up. He took in France
the name of Nerestan, and, returning to Syria, was again
made prisoner, and shut up almong the slaves of Oroslman,
anl here he met once more in slavery a girl with wlom lie
had been captured in CGesarea. This girl, Zaire, was ignorant,
as well as Nerestan, of her birth; she only knew that she
had been born a Christian, as he and some other slaves a
little older than herself assured her. She had always preserved an ornament which enclosed a cross, the only Iroof
that sie possessed of her religion. Another slave, Fatinms,
born a Christian, andl placed in tile seraglio at the age of ten,
imlparted to Zaire what little sle knew herself of the religion
of her fathers. Young Nerestan, who was free to see Zaire
and Fatimla, animated with the zeal then proper to French
cavaliers, and with the tenderest fr'iendslip for Zaire, sought




78


VOLTAIRE.


to incline her to Christianity. He proposed to purchase
Zaire, Fatima, and ten Christian knights with the property
he had acquired in France, and to carry them to the Court of
St Louis. He had the boldness to demand from the Soldan
permission to return to France on his parole, and the Soldan had the generosity to allow it. Nerestan set out, and
was two years absent from Jerusalem.
Meanwhile the beauty of Zaire increased with her years,
and the touching simplicity of her character aided still more
than her beauty to render her lovalle. Orosman saw and
conversed with her. A heart like his could not love otherwise than madly. He resolved to throw off the effeminate
habits which had been the bane of so many Asiatic sovereigns,
and to possess in Zaire one who should share his heart with
the duties of a prince and warrior. The faint ideas of Christianity, barely traced on the heart of Zaire, vanished at sight
of the Soldan; she loved him no less than she was loved by
him, without letting ambition mix in the least with the
purity of her tenderness. This is how she speaks to her
confidante Fatima:"Who could refuse to give him all her heart 7
Not I, who but for this o'ermastering love
Perchance had been a convert to the Cross,
But, wooed by Orosman, I all forgot.        If
I see but him, and my enraptured soul
Brims o'er with bliss to find itself adored.
Call up in your own thought his feats, his grace,
That powerful arm which many kings hath crushed,
That charming brow whence glory radiates.
I speak not of the sceptre he confers;
No, gratitude were but a small return,
A slighting tribute, all too poor for loveMy heart craves Orosman and not his crown.
I may too easily believe his flame;
But if the heavens had been harsh to him,
Condemning him to chains that I have borne,
And placing Syria's realm beneath my rule,




ZAIRE.


79


Either my love deceives, or Zaire1 to-day
Would stoop as low to raise him to her side."
Nor is the Soldan less impassioned in his vows. After
telling her of his readiness to forego the customs of Mlahometan kings, and to make her his only mistress and
wife, he thus closes the speech:"I love you, Zaire, and from your soul expect
A love which answers my consuming flame.
My heart is one that owns not moderate joys;
Faint love would make me think myself abhorred:
Such is the character of all my mind.
Boundless my wish to worship, solace you;
If the same ardour glows within your breast,
At once I wed you-not on other terms;
The perilous constraint of marriage-ties
Would be my bane if it were not your bliss."
It is at this moment that young Nerestan returns from
France. He had brougrht with him the ransom of Zaire,
Fatima, and the ten cavaliers. " I have redeemed my word,"
he said to the Soldan, " it is now for thee to hold to thine;
but know that I have exhausted my fortune in the purchase.
Nothing but honourable poverty remains for mle, and I am
about to return to my bonds."  The Soldan, admiring the
courage of the Christian, and himself born for generous
actions remitted all the ransoms, gave him a hundred knights
for ten, and loaded hinm with presents, but, at the same time,
signified that Zaire could not be purchased, and was indeed
above all price. Also he declined to give up among the redeemed a prince of Lusignan, captured long ago in Cmesarea.
This Lusignan, the last of the stock of the kings of Jerusalem, was an old man, venerated throughout the East, and
whose name alone might be dangerous to the Saracens. It
was he whom Nerestan had chiefly wished to redeem. The
1 Zaire, a dissyllable in the French play, is made a monosyllable
here, as being more euphonious to E~nglish ears and better suited to
English verse.




80


VOLTAIRE.


youth appeared before Orosman overwhelmed with the
double refusal. The Soldan observed his trouble, and experienced from that moment the beginnings of a jealousy which
the generosity of his character enabled him to stifle; however, he ordered that the hundred cavaliers should be ready
to set out with Nerestan next day.
Zaire, on the point of becoming sultana, wished to give
Nerestan one proof of gratitude; she threw herself at Orosman's feet to beg liberty for old Lusignan. Orosman could
deny her nothing; the captive was brought from his prison.
The redeemed Christians were with Nerestan in the outer
courts of the seraglio, weeping the doom of Lusignan; above
all, the Chevalier de Chatillon, the close friend of the unfortunate prince, could not make up his mind to accept
that freedom which was refused to his master,-when Zaire
entered among them, bringing with her him whom they had
despaired of seeing more.
Lusignan, dazzled with the light, which he had been deprived of during twenty years of captivity, could scarcely endure it, not knowing where he was, nor whither they were
conducting him. Seeing at last that he was among his
countrymen, and recognising Chatillon, he gives way to the
joy mingled with bitterness which the wretched feel in their
consolations. He inquires to whom he owes his deliverance.  Zaire, presenting Nerestan, answers that it is to
him that all the Christians owe their liberty. When the
old man learns that Nerestan has been brought up in the
seraglio with Zaire, he beseeches them to tell him of the fate
of his children. " Two," he says, "were seized in the cradle
when I was taken in Caesarea; two others, with their mother,
were killed before mly eyes. I have heard that my yotngest
son and my daughter were broug(ht to this seraglio. Have you,
Nerestan, Zaire, Chatillon, no knowledge of what has become
of these sad remains of the race of Godfrey and of Lusignan?"
While he thus questioned them, he perceived on Zaire's
arm an ornament enclosing a cross, and remembered that his
dautghter had worn scli wlhen carried to the font- Chatill on
had placed it on her-and she had been snatched froml his




Z&IR.E.


81


arms before she could be baptised. The likeness in feature,
the age, the scar of a hurt his little son had received, all
convinced Lusignan that he still had children in Zaire and
Nerestan. Nature spoke to the hearts of all three at once,
and expressed itself in tears. "' Embrace me, my dear children," cried Lusignan, "and look once more on your father."
Zaire and Nerestan could not tear themselves from his arms.
" But alas!" exclaimed this unhappy old man, " shall I taste
an unmixed joy? Heaven that restores my daughter, does it
restore her as a Christian?" At these words Zaire blushed and
trembled, and avowed herself a Mahometan. Grief, religion,
and nature lent strength at this moment to Lusignan: he
embraced his daughter, pointing to the Holy Sepulchre; ard
animated by despair, by zeal, and aided by so many Christians and by his son, lie strongly moved her.  She cast
herself at his feet and promised to become a Christian.
Thus far Voltaire; and this will appear, to most, the
doubtful point of the play.  How people may feel who
unexpectedly see for the first time their nearest relations,
of whose existence they had remained in ignorance, is a
problem which few can solve; but we may be tolerably
certain that a young girl such as Zaire would be unlikely
to renounce her lover and change her faith in a moment,
at the bidding of a newly-found father. However, if
this difficulty be tided over-in which good acting might
greatly help-things go smoothly through the rest of the
plot:At this moment comes an officer to separate Zaire from
her father and brother, and to arrest all the French knights,
andl, as Lusignan is removed, he binds her by an oath to
secrecy. This sudden severity was the result of a council
held lby Orosman. St Louis's fleet had sailed from Cyprusas was feared, for the Syrian coast; but a second courier
having brought the news of the departure of St Louis for
F.C. —II.                                F




82


VOLTAIRE.


Egypt, Orosman was reassured, for he was himself the enemy
of the Soldan of that country. Thereupon he ordered that
the Frenchmen should be sent to their king, and now thought
only of repairing by the nagnificence of his nuptials the
wrong which in his anger he had done to Zaire.
"Whilst the preparations were made, Zaire, in grief, asked
permission from the Soldan to see Nerestan once more.
Orosman, too glad of an occasion to please her, was so indulgent as to permit the interview. Nerestan saw Zaire, but it
was to tell her that her father was ready to expire; and that,
in his last moments, his joy at having recovered his children
was mingled with sorrow at not knowing whether she would
become a Christian; and that, while dying, he had ordered
her to be baptised that day by the Pontiff of Jerusalem.
Zaire, melted and overcome, promised everything, and swore
to her brother that she would be a Christian, that she would
not marry Orosman, and that to be baptised should be her
first care.
Scarcely had she given this promise when Orosman, more
amorous and more beloved than ever, comes to conduct her
to the mosque. Never had any one a heart more torn than
Zaire's; she was drawn one way by her family ties, her
name, her new faith-and another by the best of men, who
adored her. Slhe no longer knew herself; she gave way to
grief, escaped from the arms of her lover, and, quitting him in
despair, left him overwhelmed with surprise, grief, and anger.
The suspicions of jealousy were reawakened in the heart
of Orosman. Pride prevented them from appearing, but his
suppressed indignation thus shows itself in their next inter.
view:"Lady, time was when my enchanted soul,
Listening, unshamed, to dictates all too dear,
Found glory in submission to your chains.
I deemed myself beloved, and, sooth, your lord,
At your feet sighing, well might look for love!
I will not, like a jealous, doting fool,
Give vent to anger in resentful words;




ZAIRE.


83


Stabbed cruelly, yet for complaint too proud,
For poor pretence too generous, too great,
I come to tell you that a cold disdain
Will be of your caprice the fit award.
Attempt not to deceive my tenderness,
To seek for arguments whose glozing art,
Veiling repugnance with illusive tints,
Might lure a lover back who still were blind;
Who in his dread of shame would fain refuse
To know the cause that bids you outrage him.
Lady, 'tis past: another shall ascend
The throne my love has deigned to offer you;
Another will have eyes, and know, at least,
What value on my heart and hand to set.
Fixed my resolve, though it may cost me dear.
Know Orosman is capable of all;
Rather, far rather, would I lose you now
And die afar, distracted with the loss,
Than hold you mine, if to your wavering faith
It costs one sigh that is not breathed for me.
Go-never more will I behold your charms.
'ZAIRE.
"0 God, who seest my tears, Thou hast reft all;
Thou only wouldst possess my wildered soul!
Well, since 'tis true I am no longer loved,
My lord" OROSMAN.
"It is too true, as honour bids,
That I adored, that I abandon you,
That I renounce you, that you so desire,
That other laws presiding... Zaire, you weep?"
"Zaire, you weep? " seems to have been the great
point of the play.     "These words," says Voltaire,
" make a grand effect on our stage."


j
i
i
i
I




84


VOLTAIRE.


Zaire's love increases with the indulgent tenderness of
her lover. She casts herself in tears at his feet and beseeches
him to defer the marriage till the morrow. She calculates
that her brother will then be gone-that she will have received
baptism-that she will have acquired the strength to resist;
she even flatters herself that the Christian religion will permit her to love a man so generous, so virtuous, to whom nothing is wanting but to be a Christian. Struck with these
ideas she speaks to Orosman with a tenderness so natural, a
grief so genuine, that he yields again, and agrees to live this
one day witlout her. He was sure of being loved, was happy
in the thought, and shut his eyes to all else.
He had, however, in the first movements of jealousy,
ordered the seraglio to be closed to all Christians. Nerestan,
finding it shut, and not suspecting the cause, wrote a. pressing
letter to Zaire desiring her to open the secret door leading to
the mosque, and recommending hter to be faithful to her
word. The letter fell into the hands of a guard, who carried it
to Orosman. The Soldan could scarcely believe his eyes; he
no longer doubted his own misfortune and the criminality of
Zaire. To have loaded a stranger, a captive, with benefits;
to have given his heart, his crown, to a slave-girl; to live only
for her, and to be betrayed by her; to be deceived by the
semblance of the tenderest affection; to experience at once the
most violent love, the blackest ingratitude, and the vilest
perfidy,-was, without doubt, a horrible condition; but Orosman wished to find her innocent. He sent the letter to her
by an unknown slave. He flattered himself that she would
not listen to Nerestan, who alone seemed to him guilty. He
ordered that he should be arrested and bound, and went
himself at the hour appointed to the place of rendezvous to
await the effect of the letter.
The letter is delivered to Zaire: she reads it trembling,
and after long hesitating, tells the slave that she will expect
Nerestan, and orders that he shall be admitted. Of all this
the slave informs Orosman.
The unhappy Soldan goes wild with grief.    Weeping,




ZAIRE.


85


he draws his dagger. In the darkness Zaire comes to the
rendezvous. Orosman, hearing her voice, lets his dagger fall.
She draws near-she calls upon Nerestan, and at that name
Orosman stabs her.
At that moment Nerestan is brought in, in chains, with
Fatima. Orosman, beside himself, addresses Nerestan, whom
he terms his rival: "'Tis thou who tearest Zaire from me,"
he said; "look on her before she dies. Let your punishment
begin with hers." Nerestan approaches the body. "What do I
see? My sister! Barbarian, what hast thou done?"  At4he
word sister, Orosman is as a man who wakes from a deadly
dream; he knows his error-he sees all he has lost-he;s
too 'deeply plunged in horror to complain. Nerestan and
Fatima speak to him, but he understands nothing of what
they say except that he was loved. He calls on Zaire-runs
to hler-they stop him- -he falls back in the stupor of despair. " What is to be my doom  " said Nerestan. After a
long silence the Soldan orders his fetters to be taken off, loads
him and the other Christians with presents, and then kills
himself beside Zaire.
This play, translated by Aaron Hill, a gentleman who
was once manager of Drury Lane, and wrote a tragedy
with the appalling title of "The Fatal Vision," was acted in
London in 1735.   Mrs Cibber (daughter-in-law of Colley
Cibber), then only eighteen, made her first appearance as
Zaire, and achieved an extraordinary degree of success.
A young gentleman " of fortune and condition " made an
equally decided failure as Orosman. The play long retained its place on the list at Covent Garden, where
Master Betty (who died only a year or two ago) acted
Orosman, and Charles Kemble, Nerestan.      Played by
good actors, it was no doubt capable of producing
strong effects of the kind to which our grandfathers
were perhaps more sensitive than we are-effects quite




86


VOLTAIRE.


consistent with the conventional and declamatory
style of the English as well as French tragedians of
the time.
Voltaire continued to write tragedies up to the end of
his life, producing twenty-six in al. of which the concluding specimen, from one of the most popular of
many that were eminently successful, has now been
given.
The reader who knows his Slha.kuearw, and who
studies a tragedy or two of Voltaire, or Addison's "Cato,"
will see that there are two verry (ieff p principles on
which to write a play. One is, to regrdita ai a picture of
life; to give to the characters some of the individuality of
real men and women-that individuality of course being
made to suit and strengthen the plot; to disregard time
and space, so as to obtain latitude for the free development of story and of character; to call on the spectator
of the drama for the many concessions required to meet
the exigencies which these conditions entail; to mix, as
in life, high with low, laughter with tears, rude jests with
sublime sentiments; and to make the language and manners of the characters correspond with them in their range
from the lover, the patriot, the tyrant, down to the knave,
the jester, and the sot. This, the Shakespearian method,
admits so many side-lights from the world without, as to
impart a spacious, open-air character to the drama, as if
the stage were merely an eddy in the great tide of human
affairs which sweeps past almost within sight and hearing.
The Voltairian drama (the drama of the ancients, and
of Corneille and Racine) makes illusion and situation.its
chief aims. The time occupied by the action of the ~sy
is the same"as that occupied by the performance of the




TlE VOLTAIRIAN DRAMA.


87


piece; the scene does not shift-the spectators are to be
persuaded that they are looking at a crisis in the affairs
of the characters which would naturally reach its catastrophe in the time during which they observe it. Nothing is admitted that does not tend to the development of
the plot; every speech is directed to that end. This
naturally gives to the whole piece an air of isolation, as
if the characters had no other business in life than what
they are doing on the stage. What Voltaire's characters
say is always effective, the language vigorous, the matter
directly to the point; but no picture is given either of
manners, or the times, or of human life.
It is not attempted here to decide which method is the>
better adapted to the stage.  There can be no question
which gives more pleasure and profit to the reader of a
play. The opportunities for such wisdom and wit and
poetry as shall be of general application, to be quoted,
and remembered, and put by for use, must necessarily be
much fewer when the energy of the dramatist is absorbed
in the action of the piece, under conditions which tax all
his art and ingenuity. The principle of maintaining an
elevation above the level of common life excludes a vast
range of Shakespearian characters-not only the gravediggers and clowns and jesters, but many to whom we
accord high rank in the serious drama: Shylock, and
Cassio, and Kent, and even Lear himself, would all be
pronounced unsuitable, even monstrous.   But on the
other hand, the Voltairian method intensifies the interest
-the attention of the audience is focussed upon effective
situations leading up to the catastrophe. Want of individuality even might be defended on the ground that,
as ready-made suits ought to fit average and not excep



88                   VOLTAIRE.
tional people, so it is easier to find good representatives
of parts in which the actor can adapt the part to himself,
than of those in which he must adapt himself to the
part.  Many Zaires and Alzires might be found for one
Lady Macbeth or Cleopatra.  In all that he aimed atin versification, language, situation, and stage effectVoltaire was one of the most successful of dramatists. A
note in Forster's 'Life of Goldsmith' says: " Cr Ijuced
Voltaire's tragedies next to those of Shakespeare.
Gray's high opinion of Voltaire's tragedies is shared by
one of the greatest authorities on such matters now living,
Sir E. B. Lytton, whom I have often heard maintain the
marked superiority of Voltaire over all his countrymen in
the knowledge of dramatic art, and the power of producing theatrical effect."




89


CHAPTER XI.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH.
THE untiring and audacious pen of our author soon
brought him into trouble which more than counterbalanced the popularity acquired through his tragedy.
In his " Taploie f.,T >bte" (a satirical poem) he not only
treated the most respected names in French literatureRacine, Corneille, Boilbai — with a freedom of critjijmi
which, however honest and fair, seemed to their admirers
disrespectful, but dealt out to iT'iconltemporaries what
li(b^ut not they) considered justice.  "The work," he
says, "has roused up against me all those whom I have
not praised sufficiently to their mind, and still more
those whom I have not praised at all." The publication
of the "Epistle to Uranie," written ten years before, and
which, as has been said, he attempted to disown, inflamed yet more the animosity which raged against
him. Yet he was at the same time engaged in adding
to his "Letters on the English," then nearly ready for
publication, an attack on the "Thoughts" of Pascal,
which would be fuel to the fire. He had intrusted the
work to a printer of Rouen for publication. But he
long hesitated to publish it for fear of the consequences,




90


VOLTAIRE.


and felt his way carefully by gaining opinions about
it.  " I have read," he says, "to Cardinal Fleury
two letters on the Quakers which I had taken great
care to cut and trim, so as not to frighten his devout
and sage Eminence.    IIe has found what was left
pleasant enough, but the poor man does not know what
he has lost." Finally, the Rouen publisher, instigated
by the hope of profit which Voltaire's extraordinary
repute promised, gave them to the world without the
sion of the author. The opposition they aroused
was even nin '~ o ent an Voltaire had anticipated,the publisher was sent to the Bastille; the whole edition
was seized an, Turnt iiy order or the Parlia; a
the author, findingltat another warrant was out against
him, found it necessary to seek concealment.  "I fear
much," he says, "that in presen circumstances a fatal
blow may be dealt me. There are times when one may
do anything with impunity; at others nothing is blameless. It is my hap to experience the hardest treatment
for the most frivolous causes. Yet, in two months from
this, I might possibly print the Koran without censure."
The reader who considers the specimens of these terrible
letters, about to be given, will probably agree with
r Voltaire that it was the writer rather than the book that;was the object of such unreasonable persecution.
It is easy to see how a discussion on the various religious sects to be found in England might be made to
convey reflections on the Catholic priesthood.  _begins
ed    e Quakers. " It seems to me," he says, "tha'Te
doctrine ahda istory of a people so remarkable as the
Quakers deserve the curiosity of a reasonable man." He
had therefore sought an interview with "one of the




VOLTAIRE AND TIIE QUAKERS.


most celelratec  Quakers of England," whose name, it
appears, was Andrew    Pitt, and who received him in
due Quaker fashion.   In reply to Voltaire, he explains
and justifies by texts the peculiarities of the sect; why
they do not acknowledge the efficacy of the two sacraments-why they have no ministers of their religionwhy they refuse to address others with salutations and
titles, to take oaths, and to serve in war-and why they
wear a particular dress.
"You see," comments Voltaire, "how my holy man misused, plausibly enough, three or four passages of sacred writ
which seemned to favour his sect, forgetting, in perfect good
faith, a hundred passages which crush it. I took good care
to contest nothing-there is nothing to gain by disputing
with an enthusiast: it is not expedient either to tell a lover of
the faults of his mistress, or an advocate of the weakness of
his cause, or to talk of reason to one who has spiritual light
-so I passed to other matters.... I see the sect dying
out every day in London. In every country the dominant
religion, when it abstains from persecution, swallows up all
the others in the end."
On the whole, he treats the Quakers very tenderly, as
if he liked them.    Nevertheless, what he said about
them did not satisfy Andrew Pitt, who afterwards wrote
to the author to complain that he had a little embellished the facts ofT"7inmterview, and "to assure him
that God was displeased at his having passed jests on
the Quakers."
His nxt e,.say, on the Anglican Chxrch, begins by
saying, "England is the country of sects: in my Father's
house there are many mansions. An Englishman goes
to heaven, like a free man, by the road that pleases him."
He then gives a satirica slketc3 of the  lag  r, such as




J2


VOLTAIRE.


Fielding might have written without being accused of
particular irreverence:"The Anglican clergy have retained many Catholic ceremonies, and, above all, that of receiving tithes, with scrupulous
exactness. They have also the pious ambition which makes
them desire to be the masters; for what vicar does not want to
be pope in his own village "  "With respect to morals, the
English clergy is better regulated than that of France." This
he ascribes to our universities, and to the fact that " they are
not called to the dignities of the Church till very late, and at
an age when men have no other passions than avarice.
Besides, the priests are nearly all married, and the awkward
manners contracted at the university, and the little they enjoy of female society there, are the causes why a bishop is
ordinarily obliged to be content with his own wife. The
priests go sometimes to the tavern because custom allows it;
and if they get tipsy, it is with gravity and without scandal."
"That indefinable being who is neither churchman nor
layman-in one word, an abbe'-is a species unknown in
England. The clergy are all set apart, and nearly all pedants.
When they hear that in France young men noted for profligacy, and raised to the prelacy by the intrigues of women,
make love publicly, cheer themselves with love-songs, give
elaborate dinners, and then go to implore the light of the
Holy Spirit, boldly calling themselves successors to the
apostles —they thank heaven they are Protestants.  But
these are, as Master Francis Rabelais says, nothing but vile
heretics, to be burnt and sent to all the devils-which is the
reason why I do not concern myself at all in their affairs."
Presbyterianism fares no better:"It is nothing but pure Calvinism, such as had been established in France, and now exists at Geneva. As the clergy
of this sect have only very middling salaries from  their
Church, and consequently cannot live like bishops, they have
taken the natural course of exclaiming against honours to




THE ENGLISH SECTS.


93


which they cannot attain.  Figure to yourself the proud
Diogenes, who trampled on the pride of Plato-the Scotch
Presbyterians do not ill resemble that haughty and beggarly
reasoner.  They treated their king Charles II. with much
less respect than Diogenes showed for Alexander; for when
they took up arms for him against Cromwell, who had betrayed them, they made that unfortunate king undergo four
sermons a-day.
"Compared with a young and lively French bachelor, gabbling in the morning in the schools of theology, and in the
evening carolling with ladies, an Anglican theologian is a
Cato; but this Cato would seem a gay youth by the side of
a Scotch Presbyterian. He affects a grave deportment, an
afflicted air, carries an immense hat, a long cloak over a short
coat, preaches through his nose, and gives the name of 'harlot
of Babylon' to all Churches in which some ecclesiastics are
lucky enough to have two thousand a-year, and where the
people are good enough to suffer it, and to call them ' Monseigneur,' Your Grandeur,'" Your Eminence.'
"While the Episcopal and Presbyterian sects are the two
dominant ones in Great Britain, all the others are welcome,
and live well enough together; while most of their preachers
hate each other reciprocally with nearly as much cordiality
as that with which a Jansenist damns a Jesuit."
And he winds up this letter by saying"'If there were but one religion in England, its despotism
would be formidable; if there were only two, they would
throttle each other; but there are thirty, and they live happily and peaceably."
In the same vein he treats other persuasions, and then
passes to the Government. He compares the Senates of
England and of Rome, and finds no resemblance in them
except"That in London some members of Parliament are suspected, no doubt wrongfully, of selling their votes on occa



94'


VOLTAIRE.


sion, as was done in Rome. The horrible folly of a war of
religion was never known among the Romans; that abomination was reserved for the devout preachers of humility and
patience. Pompey and Caesar, Antony and Augustus, did
not fight in order to decide whether the high priest should
wear his robe over his shirt or his shirt over his robe."
This, he says, the English have done, though he
thinks they never will be guilty of such folly again.
He then goes on to draw    a comparison between the
Governments of Rome and of England altogether to our
advantage, and in which he ceases to be sarcastic:"The fruit of civil wars in Rome has been slavery-in
England, liberty. The English have shed a great deal of
blood, no doubt, in their struggles for liberty; but others
have shed as much, with the result only of cementing their
bonds.
" That which becomes a revolution in England is only a
sedition in other countries. A city takes up arms to defend
its privileges, whether in Spain, Barbary, or Turkey; immnediately mercenary soldiers subjugate it, executioners punish
it, and the rest of the nation kisses the rod. The French
think the government of this isle of Britain more stormy
than the sea which surrounds it, and this is true-but it is
when the king begins the tempest, by wishing to make himself master of the vessel of which he is only chief pilot. The
civil wars of France have been longer, more cruel, more
fertile in crime, than those of England; but not one of them
has had for its object a wise liberty."
After describing the condition of the country in the
time of King John"Whilst the barons, the bishops, the popes, thus tore to
pieces the land where each wished to rule. the people, the
most useful and even the most virtuous part of a community
of men, composed of those who study laws and sciences, of




FRANCE AND ENGLAND COMPARED.


95


merchants, artisans, lastly of labourers, who exercise the first
and most despised of callings-the people, I say, were regarded by them as animals below man. It was far from
advisable that these should have part in the governmentthey were villeins; their labour, their blood, belonged to
their masters, who called themselves nolles.  The great
majority in Europe was what it still is in many countriesserfs of a lord, a species of cattle bought and sold with the
land.  Ages were necessary to do justice to humanity-to
perceive that it was horrible that the great number should
sow and the small number reap; and is it not happy for the
French that the authority of these minor brigands has been
extinguished in France by the legitimate power of the kings,
as it has been in England by that of king and people?"
This last sentence is one of his ironical touches. The
state of the French peasantry was shocking, as nobody
knew better than Voltaire; the "minor brigands," of
whom, perhaps, the Chevalier Rohan-Chabot was one,
were in full exercise of their oppressive privileges, and so
became a chief cause of the Revolution.
"Everything proves," he says, "that the English
are bolder and more philosophic than we. A good
deal of time must elapse before a certain degree of
reason and of intellectual courage can cross the Straits
of Dover."
The remaining letters treat chiefly of our philosophers
-Bacon, Locke, and Newton —of our Tragedy and
Comedy, and of our poets and men of letters.     The
essay on Locke concludes thus:"It is neither Montaigne, nor Locke, nor Bayle, nor Spinosa, nor Hobbes, nor my Lord Shaftesbury, nor Mr Collins,
nor Mr Toland, &c., who have lighted the torch of discord
in their country; it is, for the most part, those theologians
who, having had first the ambition of being chiefs of a sect,


(




96


VOLTAIRE.


have very soon aspired to be chiefs of a party. All the books
of modern philosophers put together will never make as
much noise in the world as was once caused by the dispute of
the Franciscans about the shape of their sleeve and their
hood."
The reader will think that there is nothing that we
have quoted which could be supposed worthy of imprisonment or persecution; yet there is no doubt that
Voltaire's apprehensions were but too well founded.
Constantly impelled by his active and clear-sighted intellect to combat what he considered to be abuses, he
was often induced to withjuli      T   blicati  n what
he had written, because le was nth re      o undergo
martyrdom for his opinions  and thus it IS tia/:many
of hmso      -Wdlgaty ing in his desk for years, and being
made known only to intimate friends, slipt into the
world, either through a foreign press, or because the hope
of profiting by the fame of the great writer had tempted
some knavish publisher to get surreptitious possession of
a manuscript, and to print it without the author's sanction. With his eagerness for fame this suppression of
his writings was a source of mortification, while to one so
excitable of temperament the apprehension of arrest was
vexatious in extreme degree; and the twofold annoyance
thus inflicted naturally aggravated his animosity against
the priests, whom he considered the chief authors of the
persecution. But, besides personal resentment, there is
no doubt that his very genuine philanthropy also prejudiced him against the clergy: he honestly believed that
superstition and fanaticism had caused the greatest calam-?
ities and bloodiest wars which history tells of; the religion of his persecutors appeared to him as necessarily a




HIS CRAVING FOR FREE UTTERANCE.


97


superstitious and fanatical religion; and hence he was
constantly impelled to provoke the fresh exercise of their
arbitrary authority by the indignation which his former
injuries had aroused in him. His desire to enjoy free
utterance had often led him to contemplate a voluntary
exile, and was very strong in him now.  " When I gave
permission," he says, "to Thiriot, two years ago, to print
these cursed letters, I had arranged to quit France, and
to go to enjoy in a free country the greatest delight I
know, and the best right of humanity, which is to be dependent on law only, not on the caprice of man. I was
very resolute in this idea: friendship alone made me entirely change my determination, and has rendered this
country dearer to me than I had hoped for." The particular friendship alluded to forms, as we shall now see,
a main element in this epgeh of his life.


F.. -II.


G




98


CHAPTER XIL
MADAME DU CHATELET.
BESIDES this craving after liberty of expression, his
desire to devote himself to letters, in the abstract, was
extraordinarily powerful. It was by far his strongest
passion, and, in fact, absorbed and turned to its own account all the others. " Heavqns, my dear Cideville!" he
exclaims, "what a delicious life to find one's self living
with three or four literary people who have talents but
no jealousy-to live thus in harmony, to cultivate our
art, to talk it over, to enlighten each other! I fancy I
may live some day in such a little paradise." Notwithstanding the extraordinary industry and success which
had thus far distinguished him, he must have felt that
the life he had led of late, one of constant evasion-the
life, in fact, of a bird of passage, whose periods of migration were altogether uncertain and fortuitous-diversified by intervals when he figured as a man of pleasurewas, to say nothing of its discomfort, at variance with
his true vocation. He now perceived an opportunity of
quitting the frivolities and dissipation of Paris, and of
living in comfort and security in a spot so near the
French frontier that a single step would place him beyond




MADAME DU CHATELET.                   I     f
the grasp of arbitrary and capricious power, wvhil'e^I;/.;
would at the same time enjoy the solace of the most con-d-..
genial female society which, perhaps, all France could
supply to him. This opportunity, of which he immediately took advantage, consisted in retiring to the country
house of the Marquis du Chatelet, on the verge of Lorraine, along witl  e"tie Marquis's wife:" I was tired," he says, " of the idle, turbulent life of Paris,
of the crowd of dandies, of bad books printed with the approbation and privilege of the king, of the cabals of literary
people, of the baseness and dishonesty of the scum who dishonour letters. I found in 1733 a young lady who thought
much as I did, and who took the resolution to pass several
years in the country, and there to cultivate her mind, far from
the tumult of the world: this was the Marquise du Chatelet,
the woman who was the most disposed to study the sciences of
any in France. Her father, the Baron de Breteuil, had made
her learn Latin, which she knew as well as Madame Dacier;
she had by heart the choice passages of Horace, Virgil, and
Lucretius; all the philosophical works of Cicero were
familiar to her. But of all studies, she preferred mathematics
and metaphysics."
Nor is this the testimony merely of a too partial admirer-critics of unimpeachable judgment confirm it.
" She really took a high place in letters and philosophy,"
says St Beuve, " and retained the admiration of Voltaire,
who was not the man to let his intellect be for long the
dupe of his heart."
Madame du Chatelet, twelve     years youngr thaa
Voltaire, who was not yet forty, was then about twentyseven. Although an enemy of hers, Madame du Deffant,
has left an unfavourable portrait of her, there is no doubt
that she was in person as well as in mind an extremely




100


VOLTAIRE.


attractive woman. She was a tall dark beauty, with very
pretty features, and a countenance of much individuality.
Unlike learned ladies in general, she had a very strong
leaning towards a life of pleasure: society, operas, balls,
suppers, the gaming-table, flirtation-all these she enjoyed with uncommon zest.    She had been married
young to the Marquis du Chatelet, a very uncongenial
mate, who, having small taste for the sciences, pursued
his own paths in other directions, and left his wife to hers.
The Marquise, according to the custom of the time, had
had a lover; and that lover, also according to the custom
of the time, had been the Duke of Richelieu. The Duke
had given her a ring containing his portrait, which she
vw replaced with the likeness of Voltaire, who evidently
considered that he had at length sowed his wild oats, was
tarning over a new leaf, and was respectably settling himself in life, when he retired with his companion to Cirey.
Everybody seemed to be otf ltle same oitnion; M. de
Voltaire and Madame du Chatelet received and returned
the visits of great people, and people of fashion, and
learned people; they were frequent guests at the neighbouring Court of King Stanislaus; the lady's brother
came to stay with them, and the too indulgent Marquis
du Chatelet also gave them occasionally the sanction of
his presence as a guest.
Cirey was a dilapidated mansion in Champagne, situated in a poor, barren district. None of Voltaire's extant
letters give any description of the surrounding scenery
-indeed, he seems to have had but a very commonplace
perception of natural beauty.  His income, now more
than ~3000 a-year, supplied the means fTiishing the
chateau, and of embellishing it with gardens; with his




LIFE AT CIREY.


101


contributions, too, a gallery was built for pictures and
statues, and a cabinet of objects of science formed.  A
set of apartments for Madame du Chatelet, and another
for him, were fitted up with extraordinary taste and
splendour. A guest who has left a record of her visit to
Cirey, Madame de Grafigny, says that Voltaire's rooms
were more like those of a prince than of a private gentle
man. The rest of the mansion seems to have been left
much in its former condition, which was the reverse of
magnificent.
This was his home for fifteen years, from 1734 to
1749 —his abode hlere beng, however, varied by frequent
visits to Paris, to.Dl      to Berlin, While at
Cirev, both     ale and Madame du Chatelet studied and
wrote perseveringly.  He was, Madame de Grafigny
says, so greedy of his time, so intent upon his work, that
it was sometimes necessary to tear him from his desk for
supper.  " But when at table he always has something
to tell, very facetious, very odd, very droll, which would
often not sound well except in his mouth, and which
shows him still as he has. painted himself for us' Always one foot in the coffin,
The other )erforming gamblades.'
To be seated beside him at supper, how delightful "
Reading aloud, the performance of comedies and tragedies,
marionettes, and magic-lantern, exhibited by Voltaire,
ftes - these were the chief diversions of the place.
Their journeys to and from   Cirey to Paris, Brussels,
and elsewhere, generally made by night for economy of I
time, were performed in a huge carriage so crowded with "
trunks, baggage, and movables of all kinds, that it some- i
times broke down on the road.  * '.*.' -.'       -
~  eel **: \  ^ *




102


CHAPTER      XIII.
PHILOSOPHY OF HISTORY.
THE works of this period of his life exhibit to the
full the extraordinary fertility of his mind, and the
equally extraordinary facility with which he gave form
and expression to his thoughts. The tragedies of "Alzire," "Zulime," "Mahomet," and " Merope," the comedy
of the "Prodigal Son," many philosophical treatises, the
"Seven Discourses on Man," in verse, the satire, also in
verse, of the " Worldling," the " Essay on the Morals and
Spirit of Nations," and the burlesque epic of the " Mai "
(of Orleans), were the most considerable productions of
these years.
The "Essay on the Morals and Spirit. of Nations " was
composed in 1740 for the edification of Madame du
Chatelet, who complained that she had found modern
history full of trivial and unauthenticated facts, while
she had searched it in vain for pictures of manners, the
origin of customs and laws, and the progress of humanity.
Thereupon Voltaire undertook, as a delicate attention,
what would have been to many a learned writer the
work of a life, and is reckoned by some critics as his
highest. i e.e/trCt. Bossuet had brought a universal




PIILOSOPHY OF HISTORY.


103


history down to the establishment of Charlemagne's empire, and at that point Voltaire took it up, and continued
it down to the reign of Louis XIII. In his preface he
sets forth his idea of what are the proper subjects of
history, and how it should be written:"There is no object," he says, "in knowing in what year a
prince unworthy of remembrance succeeded a barbarous ruler
in a rude nation.... The more important it is to know
of the great actions of sovereigns who have rendered their
people better and happier, the more we should ignore the
herd of kings who only load the nmemory."
Prefacing his essay by a sketch of earlier times, he
dwells for a moment on the horrors from which, as he
has so often insisted, civilisation has rescued the world.
"Let us avert our eyes," he says, " from those times of
savagery which are the shame of nature;" and then, after
describing the horribly barbarous condition of the peoples
of Germany and Gaul at the time when Caesar was making war on them, he remarks:" See what Tacitus has the impudence to praise, in order to
disparage the Court of the Roman Emperor by contrast with
the virtues of the Germans. It is the part of a mind as just
as yours [Madame du Chatelet's] to regard Tacitus as an ingenious satirist, no less profound in his ideas than concise in
his expressions, who has written rather a criticism than a
history of his own time, and who would have deserved the
admiration of ours had he been impartial."
In after-years it seemed to him expedient to introduce
his essay by another, which he called the " Philosophy of
History," and they now appear as one work. In returning from his last visit to Prussia (to be hereafter adverted
to), he passed some time at the Abbey of Senones, and




104


VOLTAIRE.


there he found many rare and precious works, of which,
with even more than his accustomed diligence, he took
advantage, giving himself, for the time, entirely up to
study, and accumulating materials with which he vastly
increased the value of the next edition of his essay. " I
had chalked," he says in a letter, "the portrait of the
human race in profile-here you will see it painted in
three-quarters." The vast reading necessary for the work
is disguised by the ease and simplicity of the style; and,
in order to realise the extraordinary labour which it implies, it is necessary for the modern reader to bear in
mind that Voltaire led the wa     paths that, now well
trodden and familiar, were then enveloped ini darkness.
It is rendered less flowing and imposing, but more lucid,
by being divided into short chapters, each forming an
essential but distinct portiol- o he argument and narrative.  Many problems which are discussed and disputed
by the philosophers of our day, are here briefly, clearly, and
confidently stated. He is, as we have seen, no believer in
savage virtue, or in the nobility sometimes deemed to be
the accompaniment of a state of pure nature, and strongly
insists that every nation has had its beginning in a condition approaching, and in many respects inferior, to that
of brutes. " The reason is, that it is not in the nature of
man to desire that which he does not know. Not only a
prodigious extent of time, but fortunate conditions also,
are necessary in order that man may raise himself above
the life of animals." In the spirit, though not with the
full knowledge, of a modern geologist and ethnologist, he
speaks of the great changes of the earth's surface, and
their influence on the races of men. The gradual formation of societies and of languages is briefly but pithily




PIILOSOPHY OF HISTORY.


105


noted. Some short extracts from early chapters will illustrate the style and treatment:"A long period elapsed before men of singular endowments
formed and taught to others the first rudiments of an imperfect
and barbarous language, which had not, however, been necessary to the establishment of some degree of society. There
were even entire nations which had never succeeded in forming a regular language, or gaining a distinct pronunciation:
such were the Troglodytes, according to Pliny; such are still
the tribes about the Cape of Good Hope. But what a distance
between this barbarous jargon and the art of painting one's
thoughts!
"The most populous countries were doubtless the warm
climates, where man foun( easy and abundant nourishment
in the cocoas, dates, pine-apl les,.nd rice which grew of themselves. It is very likely t' t Ii.dia, China, and the borders
of the Euphrates and Tigr, wce thickly populated when the
rest of the globe was almost a desert. In our northern
climates, on the contrary, it was much easier to encounter a
herd of wolves than a society of men.
"The capture of Constantinople alone sufficed to cril:h
the spirit of ancient Greece. The genius of the Romins was
destroyed by the Goths.   The coasts of Africa, once so
flourishing, are now only the haunts of banditti. Still greater
changes have taken place in climates less favourable. Physical
have joined with moral clases; for it the ocean has not entirely changed its bed, it has, at least, alternately covered and
abandoned vast regions. Nature has been exposed to many
scourges, many vicissitudes. The fairest, the most fertile
territories of western Europe, all the low lands watered by
rivers, have been covered with the ocean during a prodigious
multitude of ages.
"What notion had the earliest peoples of the ' soul'? That
which our rustics have before they have learned their Catechism, or even afterwards. They get only a confused idea,




106


VOLTAIRE.


upon which they never reflect. Nature has been too compassionate to make metaphysicians of them; this Nature is
always and everywhere the same. She makes the original
societies of men feel that there is something superior to man
when they experience extraordinary calamities.  She also
makes them perceive that there is in man something which
acts and thinks. They do not distinguish this faculty from
that of life; and the word soul always signifies life with the
ancients, whether Syrians, Chaldeans, Egyptians, Greeks, or
those who came at last to establish themselves in a part of
Phoenicia.
"By what degrees could the step be gained of imagining, in
our physical being, another being which is metaphysical
Certainly, men solely occupied with their wants could not
know enough to fancy themselves philosophers. In course of
time societies were formed, a little civilised, in which a small
number might have sufficient leisure to reflect. It might
happen that a man who deeply felt the death of his father,
brother, or wife, would see in a dream the person whom he
lamented. Two or three dreams of this kind would disquiet
a whole tribe. Here is a dead person appearing to the living,
yet the decaying body is still in its place. It is, then, something which was in the departed, and which walks abroad;
it is his soul, his shade, an airy figure of himself. Such is
the natural reasoning of ignorance which begins to reason.
This opinion is that of all the earliest tinles that we know of,
and must therefore have been the opinion of those that we
know not of.
" The idea of a purely immaterial being could not present
itself to minds which knew only of matter. Smiths, carpenters, masons, and labourers, were necessary before a man
could exist who would have leisure to meditate. All the arts
of handicraft have doubtless, by many ages, preceded metaphysics.
"Let us remark, in passing, that in the middle age of
Greece, in the time of Homer, the soul was nothing but an
aerial image of the body. Ulysses sees, in hell, shades, spirits.
Could he possibly see pure spirits?




PHILOSOPHY OF HISTORY.


107


" We will examine, by-and-by, how the Greeks borrowed
from the Egyptians the ideas of hell, and the apotheosis of
the dead; how they believed, like other peoples, in a second
life, without suspecting the spirituality of the soul. On the
contrary, they could not imagine how an incorporeal being
could feel good or ill. And I know not if Plato is not the
first who has spoken of a purely spiritual being. That is,
perhaps, one of the greatest efforts of the human intellect.
Yet. the spirituality of Plato is still strongly contested; and
the greater part of the fathers of the Church, Platonists as
' they are, consider the soul as corporeal.
When, after a great number of ages, some societies were
established, it is probable that there was some sort of religion,
of rude worship. Men, then solely occupied with the care
of sustaining life, could not rise to the Author of life; they
could not discern that concert of all parts of the universe,
those means, and those innumerable ends which speak to
wise men of an Eternal Architect. The knowledge of a God
who designs, rewards, and avenges is the fruit of cultivated
reason."
He goes on to show how local tutelary deities arose:" To know how all these worships, or superstitions, were
established, it seems to me that we must'follow the march of
the human intellect when left to itself. A village inhabited
by those who are almost savages, sees the fruits that fed it
perish; an inundation destroys some of the huts; the lightning burns others. Who has done them this evil? It cannot
be their neighbours, for all suffer alike. It is then some
secret power; this has injured them, and this must therefore
be appeased. And how? by serving it, as we serve those
we wish to please,-by making it little presents. There is a
serpent in the neiglhbourhood-it may very likely be this
serpent. Milk is therefore placed near his cave; he thenceforward becomes sacred; his aid is invoked when there is war
with a neighbouring village, which, on its side, has chosen
another protector. Other small populations find themselves




108


VOLTAIRE.


in the same case. But, having no object which fixes their
fear or their adoration, they call the being whom they suspect
of having worked them ill by the general title of Master,
Lord, Chief, Ruler."
Tribes or nations next acknowledge, and even naturalise, each other's gods. Then, but after a long interval,
came the apotheosis of great men: the supposed son of a
god became himself a god.
" One might write volumes on this subject, but all would
reduce themselves to two sentences: it is, that the mass of
the human race has been, and long will be, senseless and imbecile; and perhaps the most senseless of all have been they
who have wished to find sense in these absurd fables, and to
place reason in folly.
"Nature being everywhere the same, men have of necessity
adopted the same truths and errors in those matters which are
the objects of the senses, and which most strike the imagination. All have attributed the noise and effects of thunder to
the power of a superior being inhabiting the air. Peoples
bordering on the sea, finding high tides inundating their lands
at the full of the moon, have thereupon believed that the
moon was the cause of all that happened at the periods of its
different phases.
"Amongst animals, the serpent appeared to them to be
endowed with superior intelligence, because, seeing him cast
his skin, they believed that he renewed his youth. By thus
changing his skin he could maintain himself in perpetual
youth-therefore he was immortal.   Thus he became in
Egypt and Greece the symbol of immortality. Large serpents
living near fountains prevented the tinid from approaching
very soon they were supposed to guard treasures. Thus a serpent guarded the apples of the Hesperides; another watched
over the Golden Fleece."
Next came the distinction between malignant and
tutelary powers; and then of expiation:



PHILOSOPHY OF HISTORY.


109


" Water cleansed the stains of body and vestments, fire
purified metals; therefore water and fire must purify souls.
Thus no temple was without its salutary water and fire.
Men plunged into the Ganges, the Indus, the Euphrates, at
the time of the new moon and of eclipses; this immersion
expiated sins.  If they did not also purify themselves in
the Nile, it is because the crocodiles would have eaten the
penitents.
" Herodotus recounts in his simple way to the Greeks
what the Egyptians had told him: but how is it that in
speaking to him of nothing but prodigies they omitted to
mention the famous plagues of Egypt; of the magical contest
between the sorcerers of Pharaoh and the minister of the
God of the Hebrews; and of an entire army swallowed up in
the Red Sea, under waters raised like mountains to right and
left to let the Hebrews pass, which in falling back drowned
the Egyptians l It was, assuredly, the greatest event in the
world's history; how is it, then, that neither Herodotus, nor
Manethon, nor Eratosthenes, nor any other of the Greeks who
were so fond of the marvellous, and always in correspondence
with Egypt, has spoken of the miracles which ought to live
in the memory of all generations. I do not make this reflection to slake the testimony of the Hebrew books, which I
revere as I ought; I confine myself to expressing astonishment at the silence of all the Egyptians and all the Greeks.
Providence doubtless does not waish that a history so divine
should be transmitted to us by any profane hand.
"Though the fall of angels transformed into devils was the
foundation of the Jewish and the Christian religion, nothing
is, nevertheless, said about it in Genesis, nor in the law, nor
in any canonical book.  Genesis says expressly that a serpent spoke to Eve and beguiled her. It is careful to remark
that the serpent is the most subtle of animals; and we have
already observed that all nations had this opinion of the
serpent. Genesis notes especially that the hatred of men
towards serpenft springs from the ill office which that animal
did the human race  that it is since that time that he endeav



110


VOLTAIRE.


ours to bite us, and we try to crush him; and that, finally,
he is condemned for his evil conduct to crawl upon his belly
and to eat the dust of the earth. It is true that earth forms
no part of the serpent's food; but all antiquity believed it."
He then takes a review of the creeds and customs of
the most ancient nations known to history. One of these
nations he distinguishes by special approval, another by
special blame. In describing the Chinese, he admires the
antiquity of their civilisation, which goes back four fhousand years; their annals, which rejo4; facts of history
and nat.rtead of the fables which form the early
cTr'onicles of other nations; the patrral system by which
their vast and populous empire is governed; jic    e
of imposture in their religion; their freedom from the
fanaticism whic rinspires religious assassinations and religious wars; their industry and skill in manufactures; their
superiority in certain branches of learning over all the
other peoples of Asia; their success in cultivating morals
and laws; and, what was perhaps in his eyes tTer greatest; merit, the fact that they had never been priest-ridden.
On tieo teriant ae      iW    an him
special antipathy.  He enumerates, with    horror, the
chief examples of that ruthless slaughter of their enemies
which was part of their policy:"It is not to be wondered at," he says, "that the neighbouring nations united against the Jews, who in the mind of unenlightened people could only pass for execrable brigands,
and not for the sacred instruments of divine vengeance and
ofthe future safety of the human race."
After saying that they have never had a country of
their own since the time of Vespasian, he remarks:"In following the historical thread of the petty Jewish




PHILOSOPHY OF HISTORY.


111


nation, it is seen that no other end was possible for it. It
prided itself on having issued from Egypt like a horde of
robbers, carrying off all that it had borrowed from the
Egyptians; it was its glory never to have spared age or sex
in the towns which it had captured. It dared to manifest
an irreconcilable hatred for all other nations; it revolted
against all its masters; always superstitious, always barbarous,
abject in misfortune, and insolent in prosperity. Such were
the Jews in the eyes of the Greeks and Romans, who could
read their books; but in the eyes of Christians enlightened
by faith, they have been our precursors, they have prepared
the way for us, they have acted as the heralds of Providence."
A firm believer in the benefits of civilisation, Voltaire,
in forming his estimate of the character of a nation, notes
carefully the extent and success of its efforts to rise out of
barbarism; a constant friend of humanity, he applauds
the spirit of mercy and tolerance wherever he finds it;
and himself an apostle of natural religion, he seeks carefilly for all tokens of its existence, coming to the following conclusion:"A very pure religion existed among the nations whom we
call Pagans, Gentiles, and Idolators, though the peoples and
their priests followed shameful customs, childish ceremonies,
and ridiculous doctrines, and though they even poured out
human blood in honour of those imaginary gods whom their
wise men despised and detested. This pure religion consisted
in the recognition of the existence of a supreme God, of His
providence, and His justice."
Arriving at the time of Charlemagne, he again takes
a survey of the condition of all civilised nations-their
religions, customs, and laws-and thence from epoclhto
epoch down to the age preceding his own, when he thus
reviews his work in the same spirit which has directed
him throughout:



112


VOLTAIRE.


" The object has been the history of the human intellect,
and not the detail of facts nearly always distorted: it was
not intended, for instance, to inquire of what family the lord
of Puiset, or the lord of Montlheri, might be. who made war
on the kings of France, but to trace the gradual advances
from the barbarous rusticity of those days to the polish of
ours.
"In what a flourishing condition would Europe be without the continual wars which trouble it for very trifling
interests, and often for petty caprices! To what a degree of
perfection might agriculture have attained, and how widely
might manufactures have spread comfort and ease throughout
communities, if such astonishing numbers of useless men and
women had not been buried in cloisters! A new humanity
has tempered the scourge of war, softening its horrors, and
still continuing to save nations from that destruction which
appeared so imminently to menace them. It is indeed very
deplorable to see such a multitude of soldiers maintained by
all princes; but this evil produces good. The people do not
now mix in the wars which their masters wage; the citizens
of besieged towns often pass from one domination to another
without loss of life to a single inhabitant; they are only the
prize of him who has most soldiers, cannon, and money."
In all this the reader may perhaps discern a spirit
which, at least in humanity and liberality, was in advance of his own time, and possibly of ours.




113


CHAPTER XIV.
A DIDACTIC POEM.
"THE 'Essay on Man' of Pope," says Voltaire, "appears to me the finest didactic poem, the most useful, the
most sublime that has ever appeared in any language."
It is probable that his high opinion of Pope's work,
and the admiration he expressed for the writings of
Boileau, inspired him with the wish to rival their success. What he respected so much in Pope's poem could
scarcely have been its philosophy, though it contains
much that harmonises with his own views in support of
natural religion. Nobody can ever have been convinced
or consoled by a homily which, addressing an imaginary
opponent as " Presumptuous Man!" and the preacher's
fellow-man as " Vile worm!" comforts the miserable with
the assurance that their sufferings are part of a general
scheme of perfect benevolence, and, with complacent
superiority, rebukes the foolish for not being wise, and
the unfortunate for not being happy.   The task of
explaining "the riddle of the painful earth" has been
always too hard for philosophy; and such questions as
that of free-will, of the balance of happiness, of the relaF.C. —II.                              H




114


VOLTAIRE.


tive position of man in the universe, are rather exercises
for ingenuity than problems for solution. Endeavours
to answer them are too much (to borrow the words of an
old writer) like the attempt " to draw the likeness of Proteus, or to define the figure of the fleeting air." Never has
the wit of man devised a faith which is consistent with
the facts of life, or which renders them clear to the hapless
being who stumbles darkling among them. Nor can it be
said that Voltaire has been more successful than others
in this adventure, the special object of which in his case
is to explain how the bestowal of happiness on man,
seemingly so fortuitous, is yet consistent with divine,justice.  His First Discourse endeavours to establish
that the measure of good and evil is equally dealt out to
men in all conditions of life-a doctrine which, after
all indispensable limitations, must remain of very doubtful authority. The next affirms the doctrine of free-will,
and the deduction that, as man is free, his happiness
rests with himself.  The Third asserts that the chief obstacle to happiness is envy; the Fourth, that moderation
4 an essential element of happiness; the Fifth affirms,
in opposition to the ascetics of the time, that pleasure
is a gift of heaven, and its pursuit, within just limits,: praiseworthy; the mixth, that perfect happiness cannot
be the lot of man in this world, and that the inevitable...f.t forms no just ground for complaint; and the
Seventh, that virtue consists in promoting the happiness
of our fellows, and not in vain practices of mortification.
Some of these themes require no proof, some admit of
none; and the reader may be apt to think that so
original a mind might be better employed than in in



DISCOURSES ON MAN.


115


genious attempts to solve either insoluble or self-evident
propositions. But what both Voltaire and Pope have
done in the matter, and what gives both of them a place
among philosophic poets, is, that while conducting us
along paths that lead to nowhere in particular, they invest with artistic and memorable interest a great deal
of what is to be met with on the road. The "Essay on
MAan," of which nobody could explain the scheme or
justify the logic, contains many passages which have
permanently enriched the popular stock of thought, often
even to the degree of endowing it with proverbs; and
in the same way, the "Discourses on Man," which can
never have had any influence on anybody's method of
seeking happiness, have nevertheless contributed many
striking verses and illustrations to French didactic poetry.
But the styles of the two poets have not always much in
common. Voltaire generally wants the condensity, the
sharp effects, the careful, neat antitheses of Pope-for
his compositions were always rapidly executed, and such
attributes can only be, except by happy chance, the last
results of the prolonged distillation of ideas and the
fastidious selection of words; but these compositions
possess all his characteristic ease and grace, and much
happiness of illustration.
Whether there was any apparent novelty, or special
force, for contemporary readers, in Voltaire's two first
Discourses, is doubtful; but it is tolerably clear that they
possess only small interest now. Into the third, however,
his own experience infuses vigour: he who had all his
life suffered fromi detractioi and had felt the keenest
resentment against his calumniators, could scarcely treat




116


VOLTAIRE.


in abstract fashion the subject of Envy; and this "Discourse" 1 contains many keen personal allusions.      It
begins with the following passage, and ends with the
next quoted, in which the reference to Desfontaines,
Freron, and the like venomous foes, is sufficiently apparent:"If man be free he should himself restrain,
If pressed by tyrants he should break the chain.
His vices are the despots of his breast,
Their fell dominion all too manifest.
Direst of these in its capricious hate,
The basest and the most inveterate,
Dealing with poisoned blade a coward blow,
Is Envy, of fair Fame the stealthy foe.
Though born of Pride, it dreads the light of day,
Admits nor mercy's touch nor reason's ray,
Feels others' merit as a burthen vast,
And sinks beneath: so lies, 'neath Etna cast,
The giant, foe of gods, whom gods o'ercame,
Hurling in vain the fires that round him flame.
Blaspheming, writhing, in his earth-pent lair,
He thinks to shake the world with his despair;
Etna's vast load, by his huge heavings stirred,
Again subsides, and holds him sepulchred.
Courtiers I've seen, with pride of fools elate,
On conquering Villars turn the eye of hate;
They loathed the powerful arm, their surest stay;
He fought for them, they sneered his fame away.
Well might the hero, as the war drew near,
Tell Louis, "Tis Versailles alone I fear;
Against your foes a dauntless front I bring;
Guard me from mine, for they stand near my king."'
1 The measure of the poem is, like that of the " Henriade," rhymed
Alexandrines, which are here rendered in the ten-syllable lines of the
" Essay on Man."




PRAISES MODERATION.


117


After many illustrations of Envy, in which his contemporaries figure, the "Discourse" concludes thus:"How grand, how sweet 'tis, to one's self to say,
'I have no enemies'! My rivals  Nay,
Their good, their ill, their honour's mine in part,
Their triumphs, too, for we are kin through Art.
Thus folds the gracious earth to bosom wide
These oaks, these pines, that flourish side by side;
With equal sap impels the grove to rise,
Rooting in Hades, branching to the skies,
Their trunks unmoved, their heads, as in disdain,
Bent back, defying all the tempest's strain;
Whom brotherhood makes time-proof. And, the while,
Under their spreading shade do serpents vile
Hiss, venting each on each a poison-flood,
And stain the roots with their detested blood."
The Discourse on " Moderation " contains much excellent though not very original advice, besides a lament
that his own too-unrestrained desire to rise in the world
should have led him to waste his time in courts. He
thus lectures the Sybarites of Paris:"Ye who in pleasure's quest your hours employ,
Learn both to recognise it and enjoy!
Pleasures are flowers, which our Master's care
'Mid the world's briers makes to blossom fair;
Each has its season, and a later bloom
May still survive to cheer our winter's gloom.
In gathering them the touch should lightly rest,
Their fleeting beauty fades too eager pressed.
Do not, upon the palled sense, lavish cast
All Flora's sweets in one voluptuous blast!
Somewhat the wise still leave unfelt, unknown,
And, by abstaining, hold the joy their own.
Luckless the drone, with leisure's load oppressed,




118                 VOLTAIRE.
Who ne'er with labour freshens failing zest;
Nature no favours will unbought bestowSpontaneous harvests spring not here below."
To the general rule of "Moderation" he, however,
makes afterwards one happy exception:" Divinest Friendship! perfect happiness
The one emotion that can bear excess."
>,.3 hi...f"




119


CHAPTER XV.
FIRST VISITS TO FREDERICK.
BY far the most notable feature of this, the Cirey
epoch, was his intercourse with Frederick the Great.
The association of these two, the most conspicuous men
of their age, had its origin in the exalted admiration with
which Voltaire's writings had inspired the prince.
In August 1736 Frederick, then in his twenty-fifth
year, and not yet king, was living at the chateau of
Reinsberg, cultivating music, poetry, science, and literature, when, having as yet no cares of government on his
mind, and believing the illustrious men of the age to be,
of all men, those whom it were best to know and converse with, he wrote to Voltaire such a letter as a
young enthusiast would write to one whose gifts he considered to be pre-eminent-prefacing with many splendid
compliments the reuest for "all your wjt gs," it being
notorious that many more existed than had as yet seen
the light. A fitting reply from the gratified poet helped
to begin a correspondence which proceeded with sustained pleasantness for four years. In 1740, Frederick,
now newly made king, being on a tour along the Rhine
frontier, proposed to visit Voltaire, who was at Brussels;




120


VOLTAIRE.


but afterwards, excusing himself on the score of an attack
of ague, he invited Voltaire to come to him instead, and
the first meeting accordingly took place at Wesel.
"I saw," says Voltaire, " in a small room, by the light of
a candle, a little mattress, two feet and a half wide, on which
lay a little man wrapped up in a dressing-gown of coarse
blue stuff: this was the king, who perspired and shivered
under a wretched counterpane, in a violent access of fever.
"Having paid my respects, I began the acquaintance by
feeling his pulse, as if I had been his first physician. The fit
over, he dressed, and placed himself at table. Algarotti,
Keyserling, Maupertuis, and the King's Envoy to the StatesGeneral, formed the supper-party, at which we discussed, to
the very bottom, the questions of the immortality of the soul,
of liberty, and of the Androgynes of Plato."
Voltaire spent three days here with the king:" I soon felt attached to him," he says; "the more that he
was a king-always a very attractive circumstance for human
weakness. In general, it is we literary people who flatter
kings; but this one applauded me from top to toe, whilst the
Abbe Desfontaines, and other rascals, libelled me in Paris at
least once a-week."
The royal party continued its route, while Voltaire returned to Holland, whence he presently wrote to Maupertuis:"When we parted at Cleves, you going to the right, I
to the left, I fancied myself at the last judgment, when the
elect are separated from the condemned. Divus Fredericus
says to you, ' Sit down at my right hand in the paradise of
Berlin,' and to me, ' Depart, thou accursed, into Holland.'"
Frederick, on his side, was equally pleased with the
meeting:



VISITS TO FREDERICK.


121


" I have seen that Voltaire whom I was so curious to know.... He has the eloquence of Cicero, the mildness of
Pliny, the wisdom of Agrippa; he combines, in short, what
is to be collected of virtues and talents from the greatest men
of antiquity. His intellect is at work incessantly; every
drop of ink is a trait of wit from his pen. He declaimed his
Mahomet to us - an admirable tragedy; he transported
us out of ourselves; I could 'only admire him and hold my
tongue. The Du Chatelet is lucky to have him; for, of the
good things he flings out at random, a person who had no
faculty but memory might make a brilliant book."
In the next three years Voltaire paid three other visits
to Frederick. In December of the same year when they
first met, he spent six days with the king at Reinsberg.
"Voltaire," wrote Frederick, " has arrived, all sparkling
with new beauties, and far more sociable than at Cleves."
Again, in 1742, the poet went to him from Paris, where
he had been observing the reception given to his tragedy
of " M.home," which was, on the part of the audience,
enthusiastic; but the ever-venomous Abbe gptaines
and his crew denounced the play as impious, and raised
such a storm that Cardinal Fleury, although he had read
and approved of the piece, was obliged to advise the author
to withdraw it.  Just then came Irederick's invitation,
wnlc1iee sio'ved to the Cardinal, expressing at the same [
time a wish to be of use to France at the Prussian Court.
In these years the many-sided poet, seeing how few arf"'
hardly-won were the rewards of letters, how strong the
vantage-ground that high office would give him against
his enemies, was much disposed to try his fortune in
diplomacy, especially with such an opening to that career
as was offered by his intimacy with the most politic and
most warlike sovereign then existing.  With such views




122


VOLTAIRE.


he spent a week with Frederick at Aix-la-Chapelle, the
king coming frequently to converse with his gifted visitor in his own room, and imparting freely his political
views and intentions, which were duly communicated to
the Cardinal; and, moreover, bribing Voltaire to come
and live at Berlin by the promise of a beautiful house,.-estate there. A year later, many changes having
happened in the interval, he again visited his august
friend, this time at Berlin. Fleury was now dead. Voltaire had brought out in Paris his tragedy of  Meroe,
watching it from the box of his old friend the Marecale
de Villars, whose daughter-in-law, the Duchess of Villars, sat with them. The enthusiasm for the author was
unbounded-nothing like it had ever been witnessed in
a French theatre: not content with summoning him to,the front of the box, the audience insisted that the
Duchess should kiss him, which favour she, urged by
her mother-in-law, bestowed with charming grace. But
there were literary griefs to balance this success: his
"Death of Caesar" was not allowed to appear; he was
excluded from a vacant seat which he had hoped for
(the vacancy made by Cardinal Fleury) in the French
Academy; and, chilled and disappointed, he again turned
his thoughts to diplomacy. France was in difficulties;
personal friends of Voltaire were among the ministers;
and this time he went as an unrecoqgyejs.i.owith
secret instructions. No welcome could be warmer than
that which Frederick gave him; he was lodged close to
the king's apartments, and their intimacy was as cordial
as ever. Nor was there, this time, the disturbing element
of a mission concealed from Frederick: the king, willing
to accept him as a negotiator, received diplomatic sug



END OF HIS DIPLOMATIC CAREER.          123
gestions in a humorous, semi-serious, altogether indulgent vein, and even took pains to write such replies to
him as from their tone, flattering to Voltaire, conciliatory
to France, might serve the diplomatist without in the
least committing the royal writer to any policy. But the
mission was quite unsuccessful, because Frederick was
convince^1ta.            ltnher to hooe or to fear
from France; because, too he despised its overnment
and its poi~y, and the diplomatist did not exist, whether
Votair'e or any one else, who could have made him
change his opinion; while any prospect of benefit which
the aspiring negotiator might have derived from the
king's compliments, vanished upon the sudden dismissal
from office, through disfavour with the French sultana
of the period, Madame de Chateauroux, of the favourably disposed functionary to whom his despatches were
addressed.




124


CHAPTER XVI.
HE TRIES COURTIERSHIP.
VOLTAIRE'S attempt to gain a secure position by diplomacy had therefore failed.  But he had yet another
resource.  His confidence, his manners, his powers
of pleasing, and his ambition-all rendered courtiership a most promising career for him.     He had
already become a candidate for Court favour, not without some success, in the time of the Regent. Now his
pretensions were far higher-the most celebrated man
of letters existing could confer on the Court niore lustre
than he could possibly derive from it. And it would
certainly appear that a Court with no great merits of its
own to rest upon, could scarcely strengthen itself upon
cheaper terms than by attaching to its interests the chief
literary power of the nation. Fortifying himself with
such sound reasoning, Voltaire opened his caTign for
the conquest of the Qourt with an ode. Louis XV. was,
in ri44, in the camp of the army which was besieging
Fribourg. Thither Voltaire repaired, bearing with him
-his "Ode to the King."  It begins, "Thou whose justice
all Europe loves or fears;... king necessary to the
world" -and so on.     But notwithstanding this un



HIlS COURT FAVOUR.


125


scrupulous plastering of undeserving royalty, the effusion earned him no favour from its subject. In 1745
he tried again-and this time he had female inm   to
help him, more powerful than that of all the nine muses.
The famous Madame de Pompadour was now the sultana
regnant.  Voltaire and she had been friends of old,
when she was obscure Madame D'Etioles-and an opportunity occurred of turning her friendship to account.
The Dauphin's wedding with a Spanish Princess was
about to be celebrated; to the shows and spectacles
Voltaire was called on to contribute a dramatic piece.
Its title was "The Princess of Navarre:" he had, or professed to have, the meanest opinion of it; but, transfigured by the light of Madame de Pompadour's favour,
it appeared so excellent that it gained for r iitp
lucrative offices at Court: he was appointed gentleman'j"6 ai>ie rivriate  4Thi"t ma
-oinar       te camber     waever that may be), with
permission to sell the dignity; and also
ioya. ty oug    gratified bythese favours, he could not
'elp seeing how inadequate was the occasion taken for
bestowing them, and expressed his sense of the incongruity in a verse (not specially adapted for translation
into English verse, nor a particularly good example of
his style,) which says " My' Henriade,' my' Zaire,' and
'Alzire' never procured for me a singe look from the
king: I had a thousand enemies and very little glory
-now, honours and benefits are showered on me for une
farce de la Foire," which may fairly be translated "a
burlesque at the Strand."  But his Court-favour was
entirely of the reflected kind: there was nothing personal in it, and of this he was made sensible before long. He celebrated the triumphal return of the
~ @^,<F;SC~~C."# son,        W




126


VOLTAIRE.


king, after the Fontenoy campaign, by a piece called
the "Temple of Glory," in which flattery as usual was
not spared, and in which the king figured as "Trajan." After the performance, Voltaire was near Louis as
he passed out attended by the poet's old friend, the Duke
of Richelieu; and emboldened by the reception of his
piece, he approached the Duke and said, loud enough for
the king to hear, "Is Trajan satisfied ""  The dull
monarch replied only by a frigid, contemptuous glance.
It has been asserted that Voltaire repelled Louis Quinze
by the vivacity and familiarity of his eulogies- that
Ithe king would not admit the idea of counting men of
letters and men of intellect for anything, or of tolerating them on any footing at Court: "It is not the fashion
in France," said he.
Nevertheless, Voltaire's interest with the ruler's ruler
procured for him, in 1746, the long-coveted distinction
of a plact in the French Academy.  He ima  ed that
henceforth he would  fdin his associates, t rt -nin
cham    s agaist is  en.e., persecutors, and slanderers;
but in this he was mistaken. Even his friend Madame
de Pompadour began to fail him.  Unser soe     tile
minuence 'e^e ~egtwee [   on the tragic poet Crebillon
favours hitherto denied to Voltaire: his play of "Catiline"
was brought out with extraordinary advantages, and his
works were printed at the Louvre, though that distinction was even now refused to the " Henriade." It was
natural that Voltaire should feel sore at this: he withdrew from Court to his retreat at Cirey; and there,
among a multitude of works, he employed himself in
making such reprisals upon Crebillon as would never
have originated in any but a mind of astonishing activity




COMPETES WITH CREBILLON.          127
and energy.  He had always rendered honour to his
brother dramatist, whose repute, indeed, rested upon
very just foundations: nor did he now condescend to
any sort of detraction; but taking the subjects of three
of.Crebillon's tragedies, he treated them himself. "Semiramis" retained its name; "Electre" became "Oreste;" J
"Catiline " was "Rome Sauvee:" and into these plays.
especially the last. Voltaire infused a force and brilliancy
which left no lduubt of hiiu sueiority, on the ground
they occupied in common, to his favoured rival.
r 9; _. 4 -;wa 1^ ^  -" *  'n




128


CHAPTER XVII.
LA PUCELLE.
IN the quiet of Cirey, Voltaire must have felt like
some storm-tost mariner who has at length reached
a land-locked bay. Yet even here he was not always
free from the apprehensions which had beset his
earlier career.  The guest already quoted, Madame de
Grafigny, once had a curious illustration of this. She
had been present at the readings of the several cantos of
the " Maid ' as they were completed.  These readings
were conducted with some secrecy, and took place in the
bath-room, as a very private spot, accessible only to a
chosen few; and Madame de Grafigny, much delighted
with the poem, from time to time gave a brief account
of its tenor and progress to a correspondent, M. Devaux.
Among other seignorial rights exercised by Madame du
Chatelet at Cirey was the control of the post-bag; and
on what she might think sufficient occasion she did not
scruple to open letters addressed to others.  Suspecting
that people in the neighbouring towns had talked about
the readings, she opened a letter from M. Devaux to
Madame de Grafigny, and read these words: "The canto
of 'Jeanne' is charming!"  This information, conveyed




HIS FEARS AROUSED.


129


to Voltaire, filled the excitable mind of the poet with
apprehensions-he fancied that a copy of the poem had
been sent to Devaux, that other copies were probably
abroad, that he was compromised, that he would have to
fly. Accordingly, when Madame de Grafigny had retired
to rest, she was surprised by the abrupt apparition of her
host, who cried out that he was lost, that his life was
in her hands. " QuickM ada   write and get it back!"
he entreated hurriedly. The poor woman did not understand him.  "Fie, fie!" he exclaimed; " there ought to
be good faith where the life of a poor unfortunate like
me is concerned." His appeals, in spite of her attempts
to explain, grew more urgent, till at last Madame du
Chatelet entered in a fury holding out the opened letter,
which she called a proof of infamy.   The unlucky
Madame de Grafigny was quite overcome by these attacks;
and Voltaire, perceiving this, and seized with compassion
for their helpless guest, restrained and endeavoured to
soothe the Marquise.  As soon as she could find voice
and obtain a hearing, Madame de Grafigny explained the
words which had been so misinterpreted.  "I must say,
in his praise," she states, "that from the first moment
Voltaire believed me, and immediately begged me to
pardon him." Next day she was ill, and in despair;
she had no money wherewith to leave the place: " at last
the good Voltaire came at noon; he was vexed to tears
by my condition; he repeatedly asked forgiveness, and I
had occasion to see the sensibility of his soul."  After
this he did all he could to make her forget the scene, of
which he was much ashamed.
"The Maid," or "ma Jeanne," as Voltaire generally
termed it, was, he says, his diversion between the acts of
F.O.-IL                                 I


I




130


VOLTAIRE.


more serious occupations.  It is a burlesque poem  in
twenty-two cantos, in which the female champion of
France figures in a variety of adventures, which are by
no means calculated to exalt her claims to sanctity:
Charles VII., Agnes Sorel, the famous knights Dunois
and John Chandos, and other renowned personages, also
appear in Hudibrastic guise. According to Longchamp,
who was Voltaire's valet and copyist throughout his
abode at Cirey, and who has left many particulars of his
life there, it was at a supper at the Duke of Richelieu's
that the idea of the poem was started. The subject of
the Maid of Orleans had been treated as a serious epic by
a French Academician, Chapelain, who, whatever his
abilities in other walks of literature, had only succeeded
in rendering his heroine so ridiculous by his stilted and
wearisome eulogies and bad verses, as almost to forbid
any one else to adventure in the same direction.  "I
will wager," said the Duke to Voltaire, "that you would
have made much better use of the subject, and would
have managed to exalt your heroine without making a
saint of her." Voltaire, in reply, said that he did not
think Boileau himself could have made much of such an
unpromising theme, and that he believed that it lent
itself much better to burlesque than heroic treatment.
The Duke, agreeing in this, urged him to undertake the
task; the guests joined in the request, becoming so importunate, that he at last agreed to examine the subject
as soon as he could find leisure; and he kept his promise
so well, that in a few weeks he had four cantos ready.
These, being read to the saine party at the Duke's, were
so applauded that he resolved to extend and complete the
work. In the course of it he introduced so many satiri



AN INDISCRETION AT PLAY.


131


cal episodes, and made it the vehicle of so much pleasantry on contemporary events and personages, that he
dismissed all idea of publishing it during his lifetime,
because of the hostility it would be certain to arouse;
and hence the scene with Madame de Grafigny. But as
usual, furtive and falsified editions began to appear, till,
many years later, he published one himself at Geneva.
The work is so little suited to the taste of our time that
no specimens can be given; yet it was very generally
esteemed as one of his most brilliant performances. "The
eighteenth century," says St Beuve, "adored the libertine 'Maid,' and the most correct people could repeat entire cantos. M. de Malesherbes knew his 'Maid' by
heart." In cleverness, in its audacious spirit, and in the
opposing tides of admiration and reprobation which it set
in motion, it is more comparable to "Don Juan" than to
any other work.
Much as they appreciated their rural home, Madame
du Chatelet and Voltaire did not object to leave it occasionally for a visit to Paris, Where the lady plunged into
amusements and dissipations with as much ardour as if
Newton and geometry were idle words. In the year
1746 they were at Fontainebleau, guests of the Duke of
Richelieu, and playing high at the queen's table. A run
of luck, or perhaps worse, set in against Madame du
Chatelet, who, on the second night, was a loser of between three and four thousand pounds. Voltaire, disturbed at so considerable a loss, whispered to her in
English that her absorption in the game prevented her
from seeing that she was playing with sharpers. The
words were overheard and repeated; and perceiving this,
and knowing how serious might be the consequences,




132


VOLTAIRE.


they slipt quietly away, and at once, in the middle of the
night, set out for Paris. On the road a wheel broke-a
common occurrence of the time, and one in which the
wheels probably were less in fault than the roads. Voltaire sent a peasant to Sceaux with a letter, begging an
asylum from his old friend the Duchesse du Maine, now
stricken in years. He was welcomed at once, was admitted with all due secrecy by a discreet steward, placed
in a very private set of apartments, and waited on by a
trusty valet, none else of the household knowing of his
presence. At night, after the Duchess had gone to bed,
and all the servants had withdrawn, Voltaire used to descend by a secret stair to her chamber (bed-chambers
were places of comparatively public resort in those days);
the confidential valet laid out his supper-table at the bedside; and the Duchess, who greatly delighted in his conversation, talked over old times with him. After supper he
sometimes read to her a tale, composed during the day expressly for her amusement. The "Arabian Nights' Entertainments," introduced into France by Galland many years
before, had rendered oriental romance popular. Voltaire
had seen how English writers had made it the convenient
vehicle of a moral lesson, as in Addison's "Vision of
Mirza;" he now extended its use, in those light and
sparkling romances, which are the most enduringly popular of his works. " Babouc," "Memnon," "Scarmentado,"
"Micromegas," and best of all, " Zdi4" first saw the
light at the delighted old princess's bedside.
While he was thus occupied, the Marquise was endeavouring to pay her play debt, and to soothe the resentment of the illustrious players, by some of whom diligent
inquiry had been made for Voltaire,. who was believed to




HIS ASYLUM AT SCEAUX.            133
have taken refuge in Berlin. At length, Madame du
Catelet]cane to Sceaux, to announce that all fear of ill
consequences from his imprudent speech was over. The
Duchess kept them both at Sceaux, to join a brilliant
company assembled there. It was the custom to hold
readings in the drawing-room before dinner. The Duchess
wished the company to share the pleasure which she had
felt in hearing the little romances. Voltaire, one of the
finest of readers, complied; they were found altogether
delightful, and he was made to promise that they should
be printed; and, accordingly, "Zadig" appeared soon
afterwards..,jirasff-Q-  4.r.




131


CHAPTER XVIII.
ZADIG.
NOTHING was ever recounted more lightly and gracefully than the narrative by which Zadig is conducted
through his adventures.  These are altogether of the
oriental type, such as the "Arabian Nights" has made
familiar to us-prodigious occurrences, discoveries, and
meetings that take place just at the right time; surprising ups and downs of fortune, penury and prodigality
treading on one another's heels; the extreme of luxury
prevailing at one moment, the most abject misery in
the next. But while the gorgeous fancies of the East
trust, and with reason, to their surprising incidents and
splendid colouring alone for their effect, Voltaire has
made his tale the setting of innumerable gems of satire,
wisdom, and wit. The failings of humanity, the defects
of society and of governments, the errors of theology,
and the hypocrisy of priesthoods, are all in turn the subjects of what may be called raillery rather than sarcasm,
which is a term too harsh for the pleasantries of the
book. Also, like so many novels that hold a high and
permanent place, it contains much of the personal exerience of the author. Zadig is Voltaire, with increased
A;..




ZADIG.


135


personal advantages, and more simplicity, reticence, and
modesty.
"It is astonishing that, having so much wit, he never insulted with his ridicule the chatterings, so vague, desultory,
and confused, the reckless disparagements, the ignorant decisions, the gross jests, the vain noise of words, which is called
conversation in Babylon. He had learnt in the first book
of Zoroaster that self-love is a balloon filled with wind,
whence issue tempests when it is pricked. Zadig, above all,
did not make a boast of despising and conquering women.
He was generous; he was not afraid of bestowing favours
on the ungrateful, observing the great precept of Zoroaster:
'When you are eating, give something to the dogs lest they
bite you.' He was also as wise as it is possible to be, for it
was his aim to live with wise men. Learned in the sciences
of the ancient Chaldeans, he was not ignorant of the facts of
nature as ascertained in his own time, and knew of metaphysics as much as in all ages has been known-that is to say,
very little. He was firmly persuaded that there were three
hundred and sixty-five days and a quarter in the year, in
spite of the new philosophy of the day, and that the sun was
in the centre of the world; and when the chief Magians
told him, with insulting superciliousness, that his sentiments
were pernicious, and that to believe that the sun turned on
itself, and that there were twelve months in the year, was to
be the enemy of the State, he held his tongue, without anger,
and without disdain."
In Zadig's early projects of matrimony he discovers,
f and submits with philosophic good-humour to, the in-. constancy of women. He has a friend called Cador, and
a wife called Azora; and the reader of their domestic
history can hardly fail to be reminded of Genonville
and Suzanne de Livry. There is also an envious man (an
Abb6. Desfontaines), who is always doing Zadig ill offices,
which he requites with benefits. A certain bishop, Boyer,




136


VOLTAIRE.


had been one of Voltaire's chief persecutors, and mainly
instrumental in excluding him from the Academy-in
the tale he figures as "an archimage, Yebor" (anagram
of Boyer), "the most foolish, and therefore the most
fanatical, of all the Chaldeans. This man would have
had Zadig impaled for the greater glory of the sun, and
would then have recited the breviary of Zoroaster in a
more satisfied tone."
All the early misfortunes of Zadig, like those of Voltaire, are persecutions caused by his efforts to set people
right. When these have quite crushed him, a happy
discovery not only rescues him from capital punishment,
by hanging, but renders him the favourite of the King of
Babylon, in whose good graces he makes such progress as
presently to become grand vizier; and under his sage and
benevolent administration the empire attains to the height
of prosperity and content.  "The king said, 'The great
minister!' the queen said, 'The charming minister 1' and
both added, ' What a pity if he had been hanged."' His
adverse destiny, however, intervenes-the king is jealous
of the queen's regard for him-and after many escapes he
becomes the slave of an Arabian merchant, Setoc, who
presently discovers his merit and makes him his intimate
friend. Zadig "was vexed to discover that S4toc adored
the celestial army-that is to say, the sun, moon, and
stars-according to the ancient usage of Arabia."  He
argued with him, but in vain:"When evening came, Zadig lighted a great number of
flambeaus in the tent where they were about to sup; and when
his patron appeared, he cast himself on his knees before the
waxlights, and thus addressed them: 'Eternal and brilliant
luminaries, be ye always propitious to me!' Having offered




ZADIG.


137


this prayer, he seated himself at table without looking at
Setoc. ' What is the meaning of this?' said Setoc, astonished.
'I do as you do,' answered Zadig. 'I adore these candles,
while I neglect their master and mine.' Setoc comprehended
the profound sense of this apologue.  The wisdom of his
slave entered into his soul; he no more lavished incense on
creations, but worshipped the Being who had made them."
Before he left Arabia with his master, he had, among
other good acts, put a virtual end to the practice of permitting wives to burn themselves with their deceased
husbands; and for this, he found on his return, he was
to suffer:"During his journey to Bassora, the priests of the stars
had resolved to punish him. The jewellery and ornaments
of the young widows whom they sent to the pile had been
the perquisite of the priests; and this was why they wished
to burn Zadig for the ill turn he had played them. They
therefore accused him of entertaining erroneous views about
the celestial army; they deposed against him, and made oath
that they had heard him affirm that the stars did not set
in the sea. This frightful blasphemy caused the judges to
tremble; they were ready to rend their garments when they
heard these impious words-and would have done so, without
doubt, if Zadig had had the means of paying for them. As it
was, in the excess of their grief, they condemned him to be
burnt at a slow fire."
From this fate, however, he was rescued, and despatched on business by his master to the Isle of Serendib, where he presently has relations as agreeable with
Nabussan, its discerning monarch, as Voltaire's with
Frederick, though the Oriental bears no resemblance to
the Prussian ruler. Zadig's observations on the government of the island furnish the author with the oppor



138


VOLTAIRE.


tunity of a little satire on the farmers-general of the
French revenue:"This good prince was always flattered, deceived, and
robbed; it was who should most pillage his treasury. The
receiver-general of Serendib always set the example, faithfully followed by the rest. This the king knew; he had
often changed his treasurers, but he had never been able to
change the established mode of dividing the king's revenues
into two unequal parts, of which the smallest always camne to
his najesty, and the largest to the administrators.
"Nabussan confided his trouble to Zadig: ' You who know
so many fine things,' said he, 'can you not tell me how to
find a treasurer who will not rob me?' 'Assuredly,' said
Zadig, 'I know an infallible mode of giving you a man who
will keep his hands clean.' The king was charmed, and
asked, while he embraced him, how this was to be done.
You have only,' said Zadig, ' to cause all those who present
themselves for the dignity of treasurer to dance; he who
dances the lightest will be infallibly the most honest man.'
'You jest,' said the king; 'a pleasant way certainly of
choosing a receiver of my revenues! What! do you pretend
that he who cuts the neatest caper will be the most upright
and skilful financier?' 'I will not answer for his being
the most skilful,' returned Zadig, ' but I assure you that he
will, without doubt, be the most honest.' Zadig spoke with
so much confidence that the king believed he had some supernatural secret by which to recognise financiers. 'I do not
like the supernatural,' said Zadig; ' people and books who deal
in prodigies have always displeased me. If your majesty will
allow me to put what I propose to the proof, you will be convinced it is the easiest and simplest thing possible.' Nabussan
was much more astonished to hear that'the secret was simple,
than if it had been given to him as a miracle. 'Well,' said
le, 'do as you think proper.' 'Leave me alone for that,'
said Zadig; 'you will gain more in this proof than you think
for.' The same day he made public, in the king's name,
that all candidates for the post of receiver-in-chief of the




TIHE TEST FOR A TREASURER.


139


moneys of his gracious majesty Nabussan, son of Nussanab,
must present themselves in habits of light silk, on the first
day of the month of the crocodile, in the king's ante-chamber.
They came, accordingly, to the number of sixty - four.
Musicians had been placed in a neighbouring saloon. All was
prepared for the ball: but the door of this saloon was closed;
and it was necessary, in order to enter it, to pass through a
small gallery, which was somewhat dark. An usher went to
meet and introduce each candidate in succession by this passage, in which each was left alone for some minutes. The
king, aware of the plan, had spread out all his treasures in
this gallery. When all were assembled in the saloon, the
king ordered the dance to begin. Never had any dancers
performed more heavily or with less grace; all held their
heads down, their backs bent, their hands glued to their
sides. 'What rascals!' murmured Zadig. One alone made
his steps with agility, his head up, his look assured, his body
straight, his arms extended, his thighs firm.  'Ah, the
honest man, the excellent man!' cried Zadig.  The king
embraced this upright dancer, declaring him treasurer; and
all the others were punished and taxed, with the utmost
justice-for every one, in the time spent in the gallery, had
filled his pockets, till he could hardly walk. The king was
distressed for human nature that among these sixty-four
dancers there should be sixty-three thieves.  The dark
gallery was named the Corridor of Temptation. In Persia
these sixty-three lords would have been impaled; in other
countries a chamber of justice would have consumed in costs
three times the money stolen, replacing nothing in the kings
coffers; in yet another kingdom  they would have been
honourably acquitted, and the liglit dancer disgraced; in
Serendib they were only sentenced to add to the public
treasure, for Nabussan was very indulgent."
Many and entertaining are the adventures by which
the at length happy Zadig is elevated to the side of his
beloved Astarte on the throne of Babylon; upon which




140


VOLTAIRE.


event the envious man, the Babylonian Desfontaines,
died of spite and shame; Cador, cherished according to
his services, continued to be the friend of the king,
j "who was then the only monarch on earth who had a
" friend." Many just and beneficent actions were performed;
and among others, a Babylonian noble who had deprived
a fisherman of his savings and his wife (as previously
made known to Zadig in one of his adventures), was
compelled to give them back; " but the fisherman, grown
wise, only took the money."
Some of our readers have probably; in their youth,
met with Parnell's " Hermit;" and, as probably, that
versified attempt to justify the ways of Providence will
have appeared more than commonly unpleasant, even
revolting. Although the fable, derived from the East,
had been at least twice used before Parnell adopted it,
yet, strange to say, the fertile and original Voltaire did
not disdain to incorporate it, without acknowledgment
and without advantage to the story, in his gem of a
tale.




141


CHAPTER XIX.
END OF THE CIREY EPOCH.
IT is known from the Marquise du Chatelet's correspondence that she considered the first ten years of this
life at Cirey paradise.  For so long Voltaire continue'T
to be the devoted lover, full of consideration and of attention, ready with graceful gifts and still more graceful
verses.  He wrote poetical epistles in which she figured
as the illustration or pointed the moral; he wrote pieces
complimenting her on her learning, and not destitute of
allusions to her wit and beauty; he replied in highlyfinished rhymes, in her name, to illustrious correspondents.
But the inevitable time came when all this changed: the
poet was growing old; notwithstanding the astonishing
vitality which preserved his mental energy in perfection
to eighty-four, he aged physically, perhaps, before hit
time.   He was thinner than ever; he lost his teeth,
henceforward assuming that profile to which his busts,*
made in extreme old age, accustom us; he was ofteni
an invalid; and he began to regard the fair sex as to be'
turned to account chiefly for literary purposes. Thus it
was not so much that he gave up love as that love gave
him up. Nevertheless they parted friends, and Voltaire




142


VOLTAIRE.


made his adieux to the retiring deity with admirable
grace. It must have been at this period, and in reply to
some domestic remonstrances, that he wrote as follows:I)ost ask me still of love to dream?
Then bring me back love's radiant time 1
Give to my sunset's parting gleam
The glow and freshness of my prime.
From haunts wherein the god of Wine
And god of Love hold joyous sway,
Time, in his cold hand taking mine,
Turns my reluctant steps away.
Yet from his ordinance severe,
Some benefit at least may springWho still apes youth when age is here,
Knows all the sorrows age can bring.
So let the young alone pursue
The dalliance sweet that makes their heaven;
And since our moments are so few,
Let some to wisdom's quest be given.
Yet oh! are ye for ever fled,
Illusion, fondness, fantasy?
Celestial gifts that o'er me spread,
A charm to cause all cares to flee?
Two deaths we die, 'tis plain decreed;
To cease to love, nor know the bliss
Of being loved, is death indeedTo cease to live is nought to this.
Thus did I wistfully deplore
The errant joys of life's young day;
My heart, reviving, longed once more
For those false fires that led astray.




ST LAMBERT.


143


Then, stooping through celestial space,
Fair Friendship to my succour came;
She had, methought, Love's tender grace,
Though nought of Love's impetuous flame.
Her charm so strange and sweet prevailed,
And, guided by the light she bore,
I followed her-yet still bewailed
That none but her might lure me more.
Madame du Chatelet was unfortunately indisposed to
accept either poetry, or friendship, or even geometry,
as a complete substitute for a lover's devotion, and did
not reject the opportunity, when it was offered, of obtaining that sympathy which was no longer bestowed by
the philosophic poet. At Luneville, sometimes at Commercy, a few miles over the frontier, Stanislaus, the
father of Louis XV.'s queen, once king of Poland in
reality, and still keeping the title, held his Court as
Duke of Lorraine-that being the dominion which the
greater Powers had, in the course of their negotiations
(high-principled and disinterested as those of great Powers
usually are), assigned to him in compensation for the loss
of his kingdom; and here Voltaire and his Emilie were
warmly-welcomed guests. The monarch, in the absence
of other domestic companionship, had concluded a lefthanded alliance with the Marquise de Boufflers (the title
of Marquise appears to have been almost as fatal to propriety as that of Abb6), who, in turn, had bestowed her left
hand upon Monsieur de St Lambert, a young guardsman
about the Court of Lorraine. Stanislaus objected to the
attentions of the good-looking guardsman, who, accordingly, could only join Madame de Boufflers' card and
supper parties after the dethroned potentate had gone to




144


VOLTAIRE.


bed. This left a good deal of St Lambert's evening unoccupied, and it was in these trying circumstances that
he sought to console himself with the society of Madame
du Chatelet until it was time to go to supper with
Madame de Boufflers.    In these preliminary visits he
made himself so agreeable that Voltaire's portrait in the
ring shortly went after the Duke of Richelieu's, and was
replaced by St Lambert's. Nor was Voltaire long left in
doubt as to the new state of affairs, which at first made
him very angry, but to which he soon reconciled himself so completely as to make the situation the subject of
a little comedy in verse: this work, however, never was
published.
This was in 1748; in the following year Ma      du
ChAtelet died, after a very short illness. Of the three widowers'wno-sie left, Voltaire was by far the most inconsolable. The Marquis's loss was not of a kind to be considered irreparable; St Lambert had Madame de Boufflers
' and other sources of consolation; but Voltaire fell into a
transport of grief, and for long continued to appear stunned
by the blow, remaining alone in his chamber plunged in
the idlest torpor. This event ended his abode at Cirey;
the chateau was handed over to the Marquis, and Voltaire
took up his residence for a time in Paris, removing
thither his furniture, pictures, busts, museums, and the
material of his literary works. But it was still a long
while before he recovered any degree of calm; nor does
it appear that Madame du Chatelet had any successor in
his regard, and she may therefore with propriety be
styled the Last of Voltaire's Marquises




145


HIS    OLD     AGE
CHAPTER XX.
LAST VISIT TO FREDERICK
BEREFT of the companion by whose side he had traversed the plateaus of middle age, Voltaire now found
himself facing alone those downward slopes of life which
always grow more rapid of descent till they disappear
over the verge of the world.   Far from finding any
flattering illusions in the prospect before him, he was
prone to exaggerate his feebleness and to anticipate the
approaches of age. But though he felt the loss of the
Marquise so severely, he was too elastic of nature, had
too many sources of interest, and possibly too little depth
of heart, to be permanently unsettled by the blow. " I
know no more powerful remedy," he has said, "against
the ills of the soul, than the strong and serious application of the intellect to other objects."  Accordingly, being
persuaded by his old friends Richelieu and D'Argental,
who, after his arrival in Paris, paid him daily visits in
his sorrow, to seek this mode of distraction, he busied
himself with completing his two tragedies, " Orestes"
F.C.-IL                                 K




146


VOLTAIRE.


and " Rome Saved," for the stage, and with superintending the rehearsals at a small private theatre, taking parts
himself, after a while, as had always been his custom.
It was at this time (February 1750) that he began his
acquaintance with the celebrated actor, Le Kain. Voltaire saw him taking a part in a new comedy, and desired
that the actor sLould visit him  next day. Le Kain
describes the poet's eyes as " sparkling with fire, imagination, and genius. In addressing him I was penetrated
with respect, enthusiasm, admiration, and fear. I was
experiencing all these sensations at once, when MI. de Voltaire had the goodness to put an end to my embarrassment by opening his arms and 'thanking God for having created a being who had so moved and melted him
Yby reciting such very bad verses.'" Voltaire, after advising him against the stage as a profession, offered him
10,000 francs (~400) with which to start in trade as a
jeweller, his father's business.  Before discussing the
question, Le Kain begged to be allowed to declaim to
him  from  Piron's play of "Gustave."   "'Give me
nothing of Piron's,' cried he, in a thundering and terrible voice; 'I am not fond of bad verses: repeat
something from Racine,'" which he did, drawing from
Voltaire enthusiastic expressions of delight. For six
months the poet supported the actor and gave him his
first notions of his art; and, as Le Kain records many
years later, " now he calls me his great actor, his Garrick,
his favourite son-these are titles which I owe only to
his goodness; but that which I adopt in the bottom
of my heart is, 'a pupil penetrated with respect and
gratitude.'" He goes on to sketch his great friend's
character:



FAILS TO PROPITIATE LOUIS XV.


147


" M. de Voltaire has always been constant to his friends.
His character is impetuous, his heart good and compassionate.
He is modest in the highest degree on the subject of the
praises which have been lavished on hint by kings, people
of letters, and the whole nation. Profound and just in his
judgments on the works of others, full of amenity, of politeness, and of grace in his intercourse with the world-inflexible
towards those who have offended him,-there you have his
character drawn from nature."
But whatever his achievements or his fame, he never
attained to so much favour at Versailles as would have
secured him from persecution. He found it impossible
to propitiate the laced suit and perruque which called
themselves Louis XV., and which resemble nothing so
much as Feathertop, who was put together, clothed, and
inspired with a kind of vitality, by the old witch in
Hawthorne's tale; or what may have been the original of
Feathertop, in the "Dunciad ""A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead;
And empty words he gave, and sounding strain,
But senseless, lifeless! idol void and vain!"
Voltaire's post of Historiographer-Royal gave him admission to Court, but he could not join the privileged few
who passed beyond tls antechamber, and perhaps nevyx,
in all his famed existence, could boast of being preA4
when his sovereign changed his shift. In despotic monarchies, access to the king's person, even if it be only to
powder his wig, is a matter of high importance; for the
dexterous use of a moment of good-humour or caprice in
the source of all honour and prosperity, a pretty speech,
or an apt flattery, or that mysterious and debasing quality, a talent for intrigue, may be the making of a courtier.




148


VOLTAIRE.


What now lent a double sharpness to disappointment
was Voltaire's consciousness that he had stooped to flatter
this semblance of a king.  Even his friend Madame de
Pompadour was estranged by the enmity of the men of
letters who could gain her ear; and his old schoolfellow
D'Argenson,l now Minister, had refused, what Voltaire
thought he ought to have offered, admission to the Academies of Science and Belles Lettres.
While he experienced these mortifications in his own
country, his friend the King of Prussia had persistently
pressed on him the most flattering tokens of appreciation,
in the offers by which he tried to persuade the poet to
take up his abode at the Court of Berlin. These Voltaire had hitherto steadfastly declined, pleading his obligations to Madame du Chatelet. That tie was now dissolved,
and Frederick not only repeated his invitation, but reinforced it with the promise of a pension of ~850 a-year, the
gold key of chamberlain, an Order of Merit, and apartments in the palace close to his Majesty's own.  Voltaire
no longer hesitated, but went to demand the king's permission to quit France. Louis is said to have graciously
responded that he was welcome to go when he pleased,
and turned the royal back upon him. Madame de Pompadour took a cold leave of him, and desired him to present her compliments to the King of Prussia. The
message being duly delivered, Frederick replied, " I don't
know her," and passed to something else-which did not,
however, prevent the discreet poet from writing some of
his little classical verses to the Marquise, in which he
1 There were two D'Argensons, schoolfellows of Voltaire-the elder,
the Marquis, was always friendly to him; the younger was the Minister.




MADRIGALS.


149


"had the honour, on the part of Achilles, to return
thanks to Venus."
He is considered to be unrivalled in these gay little
pieces of verse, of many of which Madame de Pompadour is the subject, containing compliments by implication, and depending for success on grace and felicity
of expression. To say the truth, he occasionally seems
to the present writer to be not at his happiest in
giving point to these; while compliance with the taste
of his times, which was in favour of extensive dealings with the heathen mythology, renders his allusions,
relating as they frequently do to goddesses, Fates, Loves,
&c., a little trite at the present day. The following
"Madrigals" to the thr-,e sisters of Frederick the Great
are, in the original, excellent specimens of the grace
and adroitness which were often needed to excuse his
audacity:"To THE PRINCESS ULRIQUE.
"Often, amid delusions vain,
A little spark of truth will gleam;
Last night, exalted in a dream,
I did to royal rank attain,
And loved you, Princess-more, my love I spoke;
The gods took not all from me when I woke,
Only my crown did not remain."
" T  THE PRINCESSES ULRIQUE AND AMILIE.
"If Paris were recalled to life
To say which owns the brightest eyes,
He would in half divile the prize,
And so preserve the world from strife."




150


VOLTAIRE.


"To THE PRINCESSES TJLRIQUE, AMALIE, AND
WILHELMINE."
"Fair Ulrique! charming Amelie! forgive!
I thought to love you only, and to live
From other sovereignty free:
Now, with adoring eyes, I see
That sister on whose steps must Love attend.
Sure it can ne'er the Graces Three offend
To love all three!"
He arrived at Berlin in July 1750. There now commenced the singular relations between the two most
notable men of their time, which seemed to be, at first,.o full of pleasure and advantage for both. Voltaire's reception was such as might well pour balm over the
wounded feelings of a sensitive poet. He was invested
with his cross and key, and lived in the most complete
and friendly intimacy with the king. Frederick had
always been ambitious of the fame of an author, and had
several works, poetical and other, at this time in the
press. To the correction of these Voltaire gave an occasional hour; the rest of his time was passed either in
privacy and occupied with his own pursuits, or in playing his part in such companies, entertainments, and conversations as were entirely to his mind. No wonder he
should say, "I find a port after thirty years of storms."
'tn the other hand, the French Court began to talk with
resentment of his having left it. His friend the Duke of
Richelieu wrote to say so, adding remonstrances of his
own:"You have d6ne me the honour," replies Voltaire, "to inform me that the king and Madame de Pompadour, who
never bestowed a glance on me when I was in France, have




HIS FRIENDSHIP WITH FREDERICK.


151


been shocked that I should quit the country.  But how
should I be treated if I were to return? Madame de Pompadour seemed, at the last, entirely estranged from me. Shall
I renounce the favour and familiarity of one of the greatest
kings on earth, of a man who will go down to posterity, to
go and intrigue at a toilet for a word which I shall not obtain? to solicit Monsieur d'Argenson in my old age for permission to pass an occasional hour at the assemblies of the
Academies of Science and of Inscriptions?"
And though Voltaire was still willing, even desirous,
to return on fitting conditions, and begged Richelieu to
use his good offices to that end, yet he evidently regarded
complete expatriation as the alternative.  So this remarkable alliance went on, of a king who, though not yet at
the height of his fame as a general, had made himself a
name among the great masters of war, and who governed
his kingdom without ministers, and the illustrious foreigner whose conquests in other fields were still more
eminent and assured. In this period Voltaire finished
his 'Age of Louis XIV.,' corrected his "Maid," added
to his "Essay on the Morals of Nations," and wrote the
poem (similar in form and spirit to his "IDiscourse on
BMan" ) on the "Law of Nature."    His plays were acted
at Court, the highest personages taking parts along with
the author; he was treated with the most friendly consideration by the princesses; and he might sup every
night with the king, who really laid aside his royalty
at these moments, liked to surround himself with men
of intellect, and  encouraged  the freest conversation.
"When the king," says Voltaire, " has governed all the
morning, and governed single-handed, he is a philosopher
for the rest of the day, and his suppers really are what
the suppers of Paris are believed to be-they are always




152


VOLTAIRE.


delicious, but reason always rules there: one thinks
boldly there-one is free."
"I had set out," he says elsewhere, " to pay my court to
the King of Prussia, thinking to see Italy afterwards, and
then to return to have my 'Age of Louis XIV.' printed in
Holland. I arrive at Potsdam; the great blue eyes of the
king, and his sweet smile and his siren voice, his five victories, his extreme taste for retirement and for letters-in
fine, kindness enough to turn one's head, delightful conversation, perfect liberty, forgetfulness of royalty in our intercourse-all this carried me away."
It is even recorded that, in the carnival-time, Voltaire
held a levee, as an established royal favourite, when all
the great officials paid their respects to him. But it unluckily happened that at this time Voltaire's propensities
for financial speculation got the better of his judgment.
The exchequer bills of Saxony, at a considerable discount
at home, were, by special proviso, payable to Prussian
subjects in gold. The opportunity which a Prussian
subject would therefore enjoy of buying the bills at a discount, and then obtaining full value, had occurred to
others, but had been rendered of small avail by stringent
regulations and penalties. Nevertheless it was upon such
a doubtful enterprise that Voltaire now entered, with the
respectable assistance of a Jew money-lender and general
dealer, with whom he had hCd lffme tlransactions, such as
hiring jewels in which to play his part of Cicero.  This
associate was despatched to Dresden, really to buy the
paper, but ostensibly to speculate in furs and jewellery,
and was furnished by Voltaire with drafts on Paris, to a
considerable amount, leaving as security, with his employer, jewels valued at his own estimate. It occurred to




EMBROILED WITH A JEW.


153


the wily Hebrew, incapable even of that limited degree of
honour which the proverb enjoins, that he might employ
Voltaire's money in another way to much better advantage, and that the nature of their relations would secure
him from the consequences. Acting upon this inspiration, he proceeded to apply the proceeds of Voltaire's
bills to purposes of private trade. The wrath of the
defrauded and excitabTle pilsopller may be imagined.
It took, at first, the form of nearly throttling the Jew,
and then of bringing an action against him, in which,
seeking to meet an unscrupulous enemy with his own
weapons, Voltaire descended to steps not consistent with
the dignity of a great light of letters and a royal chamberlain; and though he, after a fashion, gained his cause,
yet scandal speedily made both Berlin and Paris resound
with the liveliest variations on this providential theme.
Of all this Frederick was kept duly apprised, and did
not fail to rate his chamberlain pretty severely on the
occasion.  But his own standard of honour had not
hitherto appeared to be of a character so lofty as to
render Voltaire's offence unpardonable, and the charm of
the culprit's conversation soon restored him to favour.
Among Frederick's papers was found a description of
Voltaire in the royal handwriting, and supposed at first
to be also of the royal composition, though it was
considered, later, as a transcript:"I esteem in you," it says, "the finest genius that the ages
have produced. I admire your verse, I love your prose, above
all the little detached pieces in your Literary Miscellanies.
Never had any author before you a tact so fine, nor a taste
so true and delicate, as yours. In conversation you are charming; you can at once instruct and amuse. You are the most




154


VOLTAIRE.


seductive creature that I know, capable of making everybody
love you when you wish. You have so imany graces of intellect that you can at the same time offend, and deserve the
indulgence of everybody. In fact, you would be perfect if
you were not man."
So the suppers went on as before, Voltaire was again
in the ascendant, scandal was reduced to speak of him
in whispers-only, along with his Court-favour, sprang
up and flourished the envy which it excited among his
fellow-courtiers, especially his countrymen.
A Doctor La Mettrie, one of these French adventurers,
iwparted to Voltaire, as a piece of news likely to gratify
him, that Frederick had said, "I still want Voltaire for
another year-one sucks the orange before throwing away
-4e skin;" and about the same time, this or another
kind friend told his Majesty that General Manstein
having taken his Memoirs to Voltaire for revision,
received for reply, " The king sends me his-dirty linen to
wash, so yours must wait;" and also, that the poet,
seeing on his table a packet of the royal verses, brought
for correction, had petulantly exclaimed, "This man is
both Caesar and the Abbe Cotin " (a poetaster satirised by
Boileau).
Here were at any rate some promising elements of
distrust and suspicion.  Voltaire took La Mettrie's communication much to heart, and dwelt upon it in his
correspondence. He made it, with his doubts and reflections thereupon, the subject of a long letter to his niece,
and referred to it more than once afterwards.  "I am
always thinking of the orange-skin. I try not to believe
it, but I fear I am like those betrayed husbands who
force themselves to believe that their wives are very




FREDERICK'S SARCASMS.


155


faithful. The poor people perceive something at the
bdttorn of their hearts which warns them of their disaster."  In December, La Mettrie, who was a young and
robust man, died suddenly from eating, at the close of a
good dinner, a pie supposed to be of pheasant, but in
reality composed, by way of a neat practical joke, of
eagle with the wholesome addition of pork hashed with
ginger. La Mettrie gallantly finished this too-seductive
dish, and died the next day; and Voltaire, after recording the catastrophe (which does not seem to have caused
him very lively regret), observes, "I should have liked
to put to La Mettrie, in the article of death, fresh inquiries about the orange-skin..  That fine soul, on the
point of quitting the world, would not have dared to lie.
There is great reason to suppose that he spoke the truth."
There were other things, hard to bear, about which he
could have no consolatory doubts, that tended to lessen
the charm of his intercourse with the king. It was well
known that Frederick was fond of indulging one of the
ugliest and most impolitic propensities which can afflict
a monarch, or, indeed, anybody-namely, that of saying
things with the intention to wound. This is a propensity
which despotism especially tends to develop, as may be
seen in many a petty household tyrant, endowed, for
mysterious ends, with the terrible combination of a bad
temper and a sharp tongue, whose defenceless wife (or
husband), children, and dependants suffer hourly laceration
from carefully-concocted sarcasms. The allusion to Frederick in a part of Voltaire's panegyric on Louis XIV. cannot be mistaken: "Louis was so far from saying disagreeable things, which are deadly arrows in the hands
of a prince, that he did not even permit himself the most




156


VOLTAIRE.


innocent and agreeable railleries; while there are certain
personages who every day indulge in such as are most
cruel and lamentable." Voltaire long continued to retain
the smart of these. Years after he had left Germany, he
used to allude, in his letters, to Frederick as "Luc "-a
name that for a long time puzzled commentators. One
of his secretaries cleared up the mystery.  It seems that
when Voltaire was living near Geneva, he had a large
monkey who used to attack and bite friends and enemies. This pet one day gave his master three wounds
in the leg, which obliged him for some time to use
crutches. He had named the creature Luc; and in conversation with intimate friends, or in letters to them,
among others to M. d'Alembert, he also designated the
King of Prussia by the name of Luc,-" because," said
he, "Frederick is like my monkey, who bites those who
caress him."
Into the atmosphere of Court-favour and agreeable
supper-parties, already charged with this dangerous matter, an elegmnt which proved ex   ive was introduced
in the course of 1752   The Presid    of the Berlin
Academy wajsi    J    an, the well-known Maupertuis,
whoiad not only felt, but made apparent, much ealousy
of the superior Court-favour of the later-arrived Voltaire,
and wh66ose cer that of a wiseacre than of a
sage-offered to his satirical foe but too-tempting opportunities for reprisal.  Maupertuis had put forth some
scientific theories claiming to be valuable and original,
which one of his academicians proclaimed to be neither.
The President and the Academy, indignant at such a revolt
against authority, expelled the member. Voltaire, believing, as all the world came to believe, that the rebellious




QUARREL WITH MAUPERTUIS.


157


academician was in the right, published, anonymously, a
letter to prove that the treatment he had received was
unjust. Frederick, both as king and disciplinarian, was
disposed to stand by his President; and was so indignant
at the side taken by Voltaire, whose style at once betrayed him, that he, in his turn, wrote (anonymously) a
letter "from an Academician of Berlin to an Academician
of Paris," in which some very rude things were said of
his chamberlain.  However, with full consciousness of
this anonymous warfare, they went on supping together,
till a good understanding was so far restored that Voltaire
read to the king a satire which he had prepared against
MIaupertuis, called the "Diatribe of Doctor Akakia,"
wherein some of the President's favourite theories were
laid hold of and run to their extreme conclusions, which
lay far in the regions of absurdity.  Though he greatly
enjoyed the joke, Frederick laid on its author the strictest
injunctions to let it go no further.  Nevertheless, like so
many of his productions, it was issued from a foreign
press, and set everybody, in Berlin as elsewhere, laughing at the unfortunate President.   The king    was,
naturally, very indignant. Voltaire, as usual, was ready
to disclaim all knowledge of the publication, but was
not believed, and endured the mortification of seeing his
Diatribe burnt by the hangman.  Thereupon he packed
up the symbols of his favour, and returned them to the
king with a verse in which he compared himself to a
lover returning the portrait of his mistress.  Much
negotiation ensued; the king in some degree relented;
and finally, Voltaire, after another brief period of apparent favour, left Berlin in Mlay 1753, as if on a short
leave of absence on account of bad health, to drink the




158


VOLTAIRE.


waters of Plombieres, taking with him his Order, his gold
key, and a volume of the king's poetry.
So far then, the object had been attained of withdrawing from the Prussian Court, if finally, yet without discredit, or obvious dismissal.  But the real end
of Voltaire's connection with the king was to be of
a less pacific character.  Arrived in Saxony, he could
not forbear the opportunity of taking a parting shot or
two at his foe the President-who, in a rage, sent him a
threatening letter, drawing from Voltaire a satirical reply
which once more made poor Maupertuis the laughingstock of Europe. Hereupon the king, considering that
the chamberlain had now forfeited all title to consideration, sent instructions to an official at Frankfort to stop
Voltaire when on his passage to France, and to cause him
to deliver up the cross, the key, and the book of verses.
The poet, on arriving, was much astonished at this new
demand. There was a great deal of ignoble protestation
and squabbling with officials, for personal dignity was
never Voltaire's strong point. On the other hand, the
stupid literalness with which the German agents executed
their orders entailed many unnecessary annoyances and
indignities, such as must have been most grievous to one
of Voltaire's excitable nature, on both him and his niece,
Madame Denis, who had crossed the Rhine to meet him.
At last, bereft of cross, key, and book, but with a new
stock of grievances, he made his final exit from Germany in July 1753. Being by no means the man to sit
patiently under an injury, he relieved his feelings by
composing what he called 'Memoirs of the Life of M.
de Voltaire,' in which all the king's faults and foibles,
real or imaginary, as well as his literary pretensions,




FINAL RELATIONS WITH FREDERICK.         159
were most unsparingly ridiculed. For some years this
composition remained in manuscript, imparted no doubt
to a favoured few; but at length, amid loud disclaimers
of privity or consent on the part of the author, it found
its way into print. With so much to forgive on both
sides, it is more than probable that real friendship never
again subsisted between them: but their alliance was of
a kind that flourishes best outside the sphere of personal
intimacy; and it is to the credit of both these illustrious
men that in a few years they renewed an amicable correspondence, and maintained it, with mutual courtesies
and good offices, till Voltaire's death, when Frederick had
a solemn service performed for him in the Catholic
Cathedral of Berlin, and himself composed, though in
the midst of a campaign, his old servant's eulogy.




160


CHAPTER XXI.
HISTORY.
WHILE he was in Prussia, 'The Age of Louis XIV.'
had been published. It was probably fortunate that he
was absent from France when giving it the last touches.
"I have finished the work," he says, "expressly to make
for myself a way to the esteem of good people. The
matter is so delicate that I believe I could not have dealt
with it except from a distance. History demands such
freedom of truth that an historiographer of France can
only write when out of France."  And again:"I shall finish here [Potsdam] this work, which perhaps
would never have been finished in Paris. The stones with
which I raise this monument in honour of my country would
have served to crush me. A bold word would have been
called unbridled licence-the most innocent things would
have been interpreted with that charity which poisons everything. See what happened to Duclos after his History of
Louis XI. If his  s to be my successor in historiography, as
is reported, I advise him not to write except when he may
make, like me, a little journey out of France."
To the advantage thus gained he joined many others
for the execution of his task.  He had known in his
youthful days many of those men who had rendered




THE AGE OF LOUIS XIV.


161


the earlier part of Louis's reign so splendid, and had
caught the echoes of those resounding times while
witnessing the disasters which clouded, in the king's
last years, the glory and prosperity of France. Now,
removed by age to a stand-point whence he could
view the whole period as in a picture, the historian, while divested of the prejudices and illusions
which beset a contemporary, still possessed, in complete maturity, his judicial faculty and his literary
excellence. A finer subject could not offer itself to a
Frenchman than the long reign in which France, seeming, at a bound, to emerge from a base condition of manners, of public morals, of government, and of policy,
stood forth resplendent in letters, arts, arms, statecraft,
and social refinement. The unerring literary judgment
of Voltaire caused him to feel that in this field his fine
wit and keen satire would be out of place; nor is there
any irreverence in the work, for though it deals severely
with the feuds of sects which hated each other, still, as
he truly says, these are not religion, and he thought he
was doing good service to the human intellect in rendering fanaticism hateful. And the picture he draws of
Louis is especially notable. Though the historian had
suffered so much from despotic power, he does full justice
to the king; and while dwelling strongly and truly on
such dark blots as the religious persecutions which he
authorised, the impolitic wars into which his arrogance
plunged him, and the miserable condition into which he
allowed his people to lapse, yet the celebration of his
great and kingly qualities is so generous as to form a
splendid eulogy. Thus executed, the 'Age of Louis
XIV.' excited less hostility, and evoked more unqualified
F.C.-II.                                 L




162


VOLTAIRE.


praise, than any of his works, and retains its popularity
undiminished at the present day.
Although he recounts with pride, in his History, the
triumphs of the French arms, and often makes feats of
valour the theme of his verse, yet it is singular how
different were his views from those of his own or any
preceding age, on the subject of military glory.
"When I have asked you," he writes to Thiriot, "for
anecdotes about the age of Louis XIV., it is less about his
person than about the arts which have flourished in his time.
I like better details of Racine and Boileau, Quinault, Lulli,
Moliere, Le Brun, Bossuet, Poussin, Descartes, &c., than of
the battle of Steinkirk. Nothing but the name remains of
those who have led battalions and squadrons. The human
race gains nothing by these pitched battles. But the great
men I have mentioned have prepared pure and durable
pleasures for posterity. A canal which joins two seas, a
picture by Poussin, a fine tragedy, a truth discovered, are
a thousand times more precious than all the annals of a
Court, all the records of a campaign. You know that, with
me, the great men come first, the heroes last. I call great
men those who have excelled in the useful or the agreeable;
the pillagers of provinces are mere heroes."
In a similar vein is a little stanza which he wrote, in
old age, to a lady:" A Hero, ravaging our sphere,
To my mind is a monstrous evil;
Far more a Founder I revere,This is a god, but that a devil."
By one of those grotesque caprices which are to be
looked for when absolute power is exercised by a Louis
XV., the author of this fine contribution to French
history had already been deprived of his post of historio



HIS STUDIES AT S]NONES.


163


grapher, while allowed to retain that of gentleman-inordinary. And now, while Frenchmen, in reading these
brilliant annals, felt a new pride in their nationality, the
sullen dislike of the apathetic king kept the annalist
excluded from the country the glory of which he had so
worthily celebrated.  Halting on the Rhine to wait for
that permission which never came, he made Colmar his
headquarters, where he spent nearly six months on a
sick-bed.  The disordered health of which he so frequently complained while in Prussia was due to a
scorbutic affection, which, besides general injury to the
system, deprived him of nearly all the remainder of his
teeth-and from this disease he had not yet recovered.
It was while on his way to drink the waters of Plombieres that he halted at the Abbey of Senones, as already
mentioned.  The Abbot, Calmet, was himself a man of
letters-the library was almost the finest in France, and
especially rich in rare medieval literature; and here, for
a month, Voltaire led the life of a veritable Benedictine,
spending his days in making extracts from these old
books, and sharing the meals of the monks in their
refectory, while the old Abbot constantly pleased himself
with the thought that he was on the point of making a
convert of his sceptical guest.




164


CHAPTER      XXII.
GOLDSMITH AND VOLTAIRE.
{ FINDING that there was no hope of permission to live; in Paris, he bought, in 1754, a pretty country house near
Geneva, which he called " The Delights," from the beauty
of the grounds and the prospects-and, shortly after,
he purchased Monrion, near Lausanne, and also a house
in that town. His constantly increasing fame had made
him a g     ofajower!jthe, tate; the senseless dislike of
the king had made him a ho      P tower; and it was
rather as a formidable rival than as an exiled subject that
he now forged and sent forth his literary bolts from the
frontiers of the monarchy. A more sagacious policy
might have endeavoured to conciliate so active a foe, but:that was not the way of those who ruled France. To
live a gay, easy, irresponsible life; to consider taxation
as the one function of government, the one purpose for
which the people existed; to clap into the Bastille any} body whose notions tended to cast a doubt on the excellence of this kind of administration; to contemplate, as
j possible, the coming of the deluge, but to think it of no
great consequence so that it did not come in their time,f   such was, and had long been, the policy of those who
o.s




GOLDSMITH AND VOLTAIRE.


165


controlled the destinies of the country.  So, for more
than twenty years, the old champion of letters and of
humanity dwelt near the Lake of Geneva, with more real
freedom and comfort and leisure than he had ever enjoyed in his life; and his at length settled residence
now became a point of attraction for pilgrims who desired
to do homage to his fame. Among other noted Englishmen came Goldsmith. English readers know very well
that, as a young man, the author of the "Traveller"
wandered, almost penniless, but always cheerful and
observant, over great part of Europe. In 1759 he undertook to write for a publisher a life of Voltaire, which
appeared in an obscure magazine. In this notice-which
contains, as Goldsmith's biographer, Forster, thinks, the
best account existing of Voltaire's residence in Englandhe says that he was in company with the French poet in
Paris. That, as our readers know, could not have been;
and Forster considers that the passage may have been
tampered with by the editor of the magazine, or may
even have been inadvertently so recorded by Goldsmith
himself, but does not doubt that the meeting, the account
of which thus goes on, took place at "The Delights:""As a companion, no man ever exceeded him when he
pleased to lead the conversation; which, however, was not
always the case. In company which he either disliked or
despised, few could be more reserved than he; but when he
was warmed in discourse, and had got over a hesitating
manner which sometimes he was subject to, it was rapture to
hear him. His meagre visage seemed insensibly to gather
beauty; every muscle in it had meaning, and his eye beamed
with unusual biightness.
"The person who writes this memoir, who had the honour
and the pleasure of being his acquaintance, remembers to




166


VOLTAIRE.


have seen him in a select company of wits of both sexes at
Paris, when the subject happened to turn upon English taste
and learning. Fontenelle, who was of the party, and who
was unacquainted with the language or authors of the
country he undertook to condemn, with a spirit truly vulgar
began to revile both. Diderot, who liked the English, and
knew something of their literary pretensions, attempted to
vindicate their poetry and learning, but with unequal
abilities. The company quickly perceived that Fontenelle
was superior in the dispute, and were surprised at the silence
which Voltaire had preserved all the former part of the night,
particularly as the conversation happened to turn upon one
of his favourite topics. Fontenelle continued his triumph
till about twelve o'clock, when Voltaire appeared at last
roused from his reverie. His whole frame seemed animated.
He began his defence with the utmost elegance mixed with
spirit, and now and then let fall the finest strokes of raillery
upon his antagonist; and his harangue lasted till three in
the morning. I must confess that, whether from national
partiality or from the elegant sensibility of his manner, I
never was so much charmed, nor did I ever remember so
absolute a victory as he gained in this dispute."
In 1760 a false report of Voltaire's death produced,,Xin reply to attacks on  his memory, a eulogy from
Goldsmith, in the character of his Chinese philosopher.
It is most generous and appreciative-he mourns the loss
which the world suffers in the death of a philosopher of
genius such as nature scarcely produces once in a century,
praises his independence, rectitude, and detestation of
sycophancy, and condemns his calumniators:" Should you look for the character of Voltaire among the
journalists and illiterate writers of the age, you will find him
there characterised as a monster, with a head turned to wisdom, and a heart inclining to vice-the powers of his mind
and the baseness of his principles forming a detestable con



GOLDSMITH'S ESTIMATE.              167
trast. But seek for his character among writers like himself,
and you will find him very differently described. You perceive him, in their accounts, possessed of good nature,
humanity, greatness of soul, fortitude, and almost every
virtue: in this description those who might be supposed best
acquainted with his character are unanimous. The royal
Prussian, D'Argens, Diderot, D'Alembert, and Fontenelle
conspire in drawing the picture, in describing the friend of
man, and the patron of every rising geilias."
And (still through the medium of the contemplative
Chinese) Goldsmith thus gently expresses his toleration
of Voltaire's heresies: "I am not displeased with my
brother because he happens to ask our Father for favours
in a different manner from me."




168


CHAPTER XXII.
POEM ON THE EARTHQUAKE, AND CANDIDE.
IN the year 1755 occurred the great earthquake of
Lisbon, which destroyed that capital and a vast number
of its inhabitants. Such a visitation could not but produce a profound impression throughout Europe; but no
one so strongly evinced his feelings on the occasion as
Voltaire. He had always been revolted by the form of
philosophy called Optimism, which regards everything
that takes place in the universe as inevitably right, because forming part of a general divine plan. Many
years before, it had been expounded, after a not too intelligible fashion, by the philosopher Leibnitz. Shaftesbury,
followed by Bolingbroke, had maintained it in England;
and Pope, following both, had versified it in his "Essay
on Man," condensing it in the well-known couplet" And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,
One truth is clear, whatever is is right."
This doctrine appeared to Voltaire not only illogical as
making evil an element of good, not only irreverent as
making crime and suffering part of the intention of Providence, but of injurious effect on humanity as tending to




ON OPTIMISM.


169


inculcate an inert resignation to those ills which it is
man's duty to endeavour to remedy.    In the article in
his 'Philosophical Dictionary' entitled "Bien. tout est
bien," he thus sets forth a part of his argument:"I pray you, gentlemen, to explain to me your ' all is
good,' for I do not understand it.
"Does this signify all is arranged, all is ordained, just as in
the theory of moving forces? I understand and concur in
that.
" Or, do you mean that every one is well-off, has wherewithal to live, and that nobody suffers?  You know very
well that is false.
" Or, is it your notion that the lamentable calamities which
afflict the earth are good in relation to God, and rejoice Him?
I do not believe this horror, nor do you.
"'There are no evils,' says Pope in his Fourth Epistle
on the ' All is for the best;' 'if there are particular evils
they make up the general good.' A strange general good!-  -
composed of all diseases, all crimes, all sufferings, death and
perdition..
"This system of 'all for the best' represents the Author of
nature as a ruler powerful and evil, who does not trouble
Himself that a multitude of men should perish, and that
others should drag out their days in want and in tears, sof
long as His designs are accomplished. The opinion thaf this
is the best of all possible worlds, far from being consolatory,
is well calculated to reduce the philosophers who embrace it  j
to despair. The question of good and evil remains a hopeless
chaos for those who examine it in good faith; and for disputants it is merely an intellectual game —they are galley
slaves, who sport with their chains."
His thoughts on the subject underwent a sudden and
strong concentration at the news of the unparalleled horrors of the earthquake. Moved, as he always was, to re



170


VOLTAIRE.


produce his strongest feelings in some literary form, he
cast his protest against Optimism into the two very different shapes of the " Poem on the Disaster of Lisbon " and
the novel of 'Candide,' which both testify to what his
other writings so frequently evince-namely, that beneath
the mental activity, the vivacity, and the satirical gaiety
of Voltaire, lay the profoundest sense of the hapless
condition of humanity, and the liveliest sympathy with
its sorrows. --
The poem begins with a picture of the ruined city;
and the poet asks what the mangled inhabitants had done,
more than the populations of London and Paris, to merit
such a visitation. He invites the Optimist to contemplate
the scene, and asks him if the universe would have been
in a worse condition without this infernal gulf which had
swallowed Lisbon? and if he would so limit the Supreme
Power as to forbid it to exercise clemency? WVill it, he
asks, console the wretched inhabitants of the desolated
city to be told that they suffer for the good of the
world, that other hands will rebuild their shattered
homes, that the towns of the north will be enriched by
their ruin, and that all their sufferings are a benefit in
the general scheme of law?  These unchangeable laws
of necessity the poet does not believe in: God, he says,
holds in His hand the chain which binds the system of
the universe, and is not Himself bound by it; He is free,
just, and not implacable. Why, then, do we suffer under
His rule?-ah! there is the fatal knot which we want
untied.
The elements, the animal world, the human race, all
are at war, and Evil has sway on the earth. Does it
come from the Author of all good? Or is He opposed




POEM ON THE EARTHQUAKE.


171


by a Principle of Evil, like the Persian Ariman    The
poet refuses to believe in such odious monsters, of whom
the trembling world once made gods, and pursues his
argument thus:
Can we conceive a God beneficent
Upon His children's happiness intent,
Yet on them nsrrows sparing not to heap?
What eye can penetrate designs so deep?
Through the All-perfect how can ill befall?
Yet how have other source, since lHe rules all?
Still evil's everywhere: Confusion dense!
Sad puzzle, far too hard for human sense!
A God came down to shed some balm around,
'Surveyed the earth, and left it as He found!
His power to mend, the sophist loud denies;
He wanted but the will, another cries:
And while the disputants their views proclaim,
Lisbon is perishing in gulfs of flame,
And thirty towns with ashes strew the lea
From Tagus' ravaged borders to the sea.
"Does God with evil scourge a guilty race?
Or does the Lord of Being and of Space,
Unswayed by pity's touch, or anger's force,
Of His fixed will just watch the changeless course?
Does formless matter, rebel to its Lord,
Bear in itself the seeds of disaccord?
Maybe God proves us, and our sojourn here
Is but a passage to the eternal sphere.
Fleeting, though sharp, the griefs that on us press;
And death, in ending them, but comes to bless,
Yet, when we issue from his dreadful gate,
Who may presume to claim a happier fate?
"Tremble we must, howe'er the riddle's read,
And, knowing nothing, we have all to dread.
Nature is mute, we question her in vain,




172


VOLTAIRE.


And feel that God alone can make all plain.
None other can expound His mysteries,
Console the feeble and illume the wise.
Left guideless, erring, where no way is seen,
Man seeks in vain some reeds on which to lean.
What of all this can wisest minds explain
Nothing-the book of fate nust closed remain.
What am I, whence have come, and whither go?
This men still ask, and this can never know.
Atoms, tormented on this heap of earth,
Whom death devours, whom fate finds stuff for mirth,
Yet atoms that can think, whose daring eyes,
Guided by thought, have measured out the skies.
Depths of the infinite our spirits sound,
But never pierce the veil that wraps us round.
" This scene of pride and error and distress,
With wretches swarms who prate of happiness;
Wailing, they comfort seek —none wish to quit
This life, nor, quitting, would re-enter it.
Sometimes while sighing our sad hours away,
We find some joy that sheds a passing ray;
But pleasure, wavering shadow, rests not long,
While griefs and failures come in endless throng.
Mournful the past, the present veiled in gloom,
If life and thought be ended in the tomb.
" One day all will be well-our hope there see!
All is well now-behold a phantasy!
Humble in plaint, and patient to endure,
I doubt not Providence because obscure.
In strains less mournful did I erewhile raise
As gentle Pleasure's bard the song of praise;
But time brings change. Taught by my lengthening span,
Sharing the feebleness of feeble man,
Amid thick darkness seeking still for day,
I only know to suffer and' obey.




CANDIDE.


173


" Once on a time, a Caliph, nigh to death,
To Heaven thus offered his expiring breath:
I bring thee, O sole King, almighty Lord!
All that thy boundless realm can ne'er afford;
Sins, ignorance, regrets, and efforts vain.'
He might have added ' hope,' to cheer the train."
These views being set forth in solemn guise in the
poem, ' Candide' was written to show the grotesque side
of the same argument, and to indulge another and equally
characteristic mood of the writer.  To take a professor
of optimism and his disciple, and to cause them to pass
through such a series of misfortunes as the conditions of
the world in Voltaire's time might bring upon them,
constituted the whole plan of the piece; and it is obvious
that, to render the satire effective, the evils of the world,
and the sufferings of the characters, should be treated
with the indifference which an optimist would naturally
feel for them. But Madame de Stael, actuated by the
desire which so many of Voltaire's critics seem to feel, to
say something forcible and original about him and his
writings, without much regard for clearness or justice of
application, thus delivers herself on the subject of 'Candide.' " Voltaire took a singular dislike to final causes,
optimism, free-will" (which is not the fact), "in fine, to all
philosophical opinions which raise the dignity of man;
and he wrote ' Candide,' that work, the gaiety of which
may be styled infernal, for it seems written by a being
of a nature other than ours, indifferent to our lot, satisfied with our sufferings, and laughing like a demon or an
ape at the miseries of the human race, with which he has
nothing in common."   As if this mode of treatment had
not been specially adopted to exhibit optimism in a ridi



174


VOLTAIRE.


culous light; and as if the author of the Poem on the
Disaster of Lisbon could be characterised as indifferent
to the sufferings of humanity! But Voltaire has suffered
many things of many critics.
'Candide' seems to have been but little understood
on its first appearance, being regarded as a mere narrative
of adventure; but it has come to be considered by many
as the writer's cleverest work. A few extracts will serve
to show how the plan was executed:" He was named Candide because he had, with a sound
judgment, a simple mind. He was supposed to be the
nephew of the Baron with whom he lived, and who was one
of the most powerful lords in Westphalia, for his chateau had
a door and windows. The preceptor Pangloss, the oracle of
the house, taught the metaphysico-theologo-cosmolonigologie.
' It is demonstrable,' said he, ' that things could not be otherwise; for all being done for an end, all is necessarily for the
best end. Observe well that noses are nmale to carry spectacles-and we have spectacles. Legs are visibly instituted
for breeches —and we have breeches. Stones have been formed
to be hewed and to make chateaus-and my lord the Baron
has a very fine chateau; pigs were made to be eaten-and we
eat pork all the year round: consequently those who have
affirmed that all is well have uttered a folly; what ought to
be said is, that all is the best.'"
From this best of all possible chateaus Candide is expelled for making love to Miss Cunegonde, the baron's
daughter, and is presently inveigled into enlisting in the
service of the King of Bulgaria; and after undergoing
some dreadful military punishments,
"he had already a little skin, and could march again, when
the King of the Bulgarians gave battle to the King of the
Abares.
" Nothing could be so fine, so smart, so brilliant, so well




CANDIDE.


175


ordered as the two armies. The trumpets, the fifes, the hautboys, the drums, the cannon, formed a harmony such as is
not to be met with out of hell. The artillery first tumbled
over nearly six thousand on each side; then the musketry
rid the best of worlds of about nine or ten thousand other
rascals who infested its surface. The bayonet was the sufficient reason of the death of several thousand more. The
total might amount to about thirty thousand souls. Candide,
who trembled like a philosopher, hid himself as well as he
could during this heroic butchery."
"At last, while the two kings caused the 'Te deum' to
be sung, each in his camp," Candide found the opportunity of running away. He meets a beggar all covered
with sores, the end of his nose corroded, his mouth on
one side, his teeth black, tormented with a violent cough,
and spitting out a tooth at each paroxysm. The phantom looks fixedly at him, and then leaps on his neck:
"'Alas!' said this wretch to the other, 'don't you
recognise your dear Pangloss'?"   The philosopher recounts the misfortunes which have brought him into
this condition, but is none the less persuaded that
they were all for the best, and that this is the best
of all possible worlds. He gets cured, and "only lost
one eye and one ear."     They are shipwrecked near
Lisbon-all perish except the two adventurers and the
greatest rascal in the ship; and they come to land just
in time to see the city destroyed by an earthquake:"Some falling stones had hurt Candide: he was stretched
in the street covered with rubbish. He called to Pangloss'Oh, get me a little wine and oil-I am a dead man.' 'This
earthquake is nothing new,' said Pangloss: 'the city of Lima
experienced similar shocks last year-like causes, like effects:;here is certainly a train of sulphur underground from Lima
to Lisbon.' ' Nothing more likely,' said Candide; 'but, for
0  V.7~lII   H~L  III\CU




176


VOLTAIRE.


heaven's sake, a little oil and wine!' 'How-likely?' returned the philosopher, 'I maintain the thing is demonstrated.' Candide lost consciousness, and Pangloss brought
him a little water."
Pangloss's philosophy gets him into trouble with the
familiars of the Holy Inquisition:" After the earthquake, which had destroyed three-fourths
of Lisbon, the sages of the land had found no more effectual
means of preventing total ruin than to give the people a fine
auto-da-fe: it was decided by the University of Coimbra
that the spectacle of many persons burnt at a slow fire, with
grand ceremonies, was an infallible mode of preventing
earthquakes.
" Consequently, a Biscayan had been seized who was convicted of having married his godmother, and two Portuguese
who, in eating a pullet, had put aside the bacon. Dr Pangloss and his disciple were bound together, the one for having
spoken, the other for having listened with an air of approbation. They were conducted separately to apartments of an
extreme freshness, into which the sun never intruded. A
week afterwards they were dressed each in a sanbenito and
their heads ornamented with paper mitres. Candide's mitre
and sanbenito were painted with inverted flames and with
devils destitute of tails or claws; but the devils of Pangloss
had both claws and tails, and the flames were upright. Thus
apparelled they marched in procession, and listened to a very
pathetic sermon, followed by fine music in counterpoint.
During the singing, Candide was whipt in time to the music;
the Biscayan, and the two men who did not like bacon with
their fowl, were burnt, and Pangloss was hanged. The same
day there was a fresh earthquake with a dreadful noise.
"Candide, terrified, speechless, bleeding, palpitating, said
to himself: 'If this is the best of all possible worlds, what
can the rest be '"


He meets again with Cunegonde; and such adventures




CANDIDE ON ADMIRAL BYNG'S DEATH.  177


befall both, that they agree in thinking it a pity that
Pangloss should have been hanged,-" he would have said
the most admirable things to us about the physical and
moral evil that cover the earth," said Cunegonde, "and
I should have found strength sufficient to dare to raise
some respectful objections."
Among his other adventures Candide approaches the
English coast and enters the haruooor of Portsmouth.
He there sees the execution, on board a neighbouring
ship, of Admiral Byng:"'Why put this admiral to death?' "Tis because he has
not killed people enough-he fought a French admiral, and
it is considered that he did not get near enough to him.' ' But,'
said Candide, 'the French admiral kept as far from him as he
from the French admiral.' 'That is not to be disputed,' was
the reply; but in this country it is good to put an admiral
to death from time to time, to encourage the others.'"
He meets at Venice a number of dethroned monarchsamong others, King Stanislaus; but it is not necessary to
pursue his adventures further, as the extracts given appear sufficiently to indicate the plan and style.


PC. -U.


M




178


CHAPTER XXIV.
THE ENCYCLOPEDIA.
A MEMORABLE work, in which Voltaire was greatly
interested, was at this time attracting public attention.
The 'French Encyclopedia,' which counts for something
more than a great literary achievement, had its origin in a
translation of the 'English Encyclopedia' of Chambers,
published in 1728. Some of the most eminent men of
letters in France took part in the French work, forming
a body that came to be known as the Encyclopedists-a
title which in its later acceptation signified enunciators
of bold and subversive modes of thought. D'Alembert,
a man of science, and a friend of Voltaire, whose junior
he was by more than twenty years, and Diderot, already
famous in philosophy and letters, first gave distinct form
to the project, which was to bring together in one work
full information respecting all the sciences, and all the
arts, in their existing stages and conditions, and thus
to render it a delineation of the progress of the human
mind and of civilisation.  The extent and numerous
branches of this design rendered necessary the co-operation of many skilled writers: some of the most noted men
of science and of letters in France took part, as Helvetius,




THE ENCYCLOPEDIA.


179


author of the once celebrated book on 'L'Esprit;' Buffon,
the famous naturalist; Turgot, afterwards Minister of
Finance; and Condorcet. Except Turgot, all these philosophers were free-thinkers, and were convinced that the
policy and abuses of the Church in France were the great
obstacles to the enlightenment of the nation. But the time
had by no means-arrived when they could venture to be
completely outspoken. The authorities both of Church and
State felt instinctively that their power rested mainly on
the ignorance of the people, of whose welfare, temporal
and spiritual, they took small thought; and their interest
in science and literature was almost entirely of a repressive kind. It was necessary, therefore, for the Encyclopedists to insinuate their theories, whether of science or
theology, in a covert or apologetic way. Nevertheless,
the jealousy of the priesthood was aroused, the early
volumes were suppressed, and it was only after many
conflicts with authority, which tended to increase its
popularity and fame, that the 'Encyclopedia' attained to
a far more than national celebrity. None of the views
therein set forth would be considered extreme in the
present day. On the contrary, works of philosophy and
religion that bring their authors high repute and esteem
are published every day, which seem to have made a
starting-point of the theories of the French philosophers.
It might even be possible to name English divines who
would be puzzled to define the points in which they
differ from those unorthodox theologians. But things
are to be considered with reference to their time:
these views then excited hatred and fear; and on the
school, and Voltaire the head of the school, obloquy
was so lavishly poured that the stains have never left




180


VOLTAIRE.


them.   All the enjoyers of privilege and authority,-all
the lesser people whose interest it was to propitiate
these-all who, knowing nothing of the questions,
wished to obtain a cheap repute for orthodoxy and
loyalty,-joined with those who honestly believed in the
mischievous tendencies of free thought to denounce its
advocates. They were charged with being not only the
enemies of Church and State, which they were, but of
morality and order, which they were not. But at the
same time there were great numbers of people, especially
in England, who lamented the condition of the French
nation, and who regarded Voltaire and his disciples as
its benefactors. Thus no cold medium was observed in
estimating him; all were either persecutors or proselytes,
and he stood aloft in all the prominence of a symbol of
conflict.
As the sharer, or inspirer, of the views of the Encyclopedists, and the intimate friend of D'Alembert, the editor,
Voltaire took an ardent interest in their work, and contributed many articles on a great diversity of subjects.
Finding, at length, that, though this was an excellent
mode of expression for himself, articles were often inserted of which he did not approve, he established an
independent outlet of thought, of a similar kind, in his
'Philosophical Dictionary,' in which, following the alphabetical form of arrangement, he brought together a vast
variety of short essays on subjects of literature, politics,
theology, grammar, and physical science, written in styles
which, always attractive, were various as their matter.
It may serve to rescue him from a common and ignorant
accusation to give here a few extracts from the article
"Atheist," in which is set forth, probably for the first




ON ATHEISM.


181


time, the idea that though to have no religion is very
)ad, yet to have a cruel and immoral religion is worse.:.
"There have been many atheists among Christians; their
number is now much diminished. What looks like a paradox, but which on examination will prove to be a truth, is
that theology has often precipitated minds into atheism,
while philosophy has rescued them from it. It was in fact
pardonable in men to doubt of a Divinity, when the only
persons who asserted it disputed as to its nature. The first
Fathers of the Church nearly all represented the Supreme
Power as corporeal; others followed who, giving it no more
extent, lodged it in a certain part of the sky: according to
some the Deity had created the world in time; according to
others He had created time."
After enumerating some hotly-disputed points of theology, such as even now agitate the Catholic world, he
goes on:"When the confidants of the Divinity were seen to agree
so little among themselves, and to pronounce curses against
each other from age to age, while all agreed in their uncontrolled thirst for riches and grandeur; when, in another
direction, the view rests on the prodigious number of crimes
and misfortunes with which the earth was beset, and of which
so many were caused by the disputes of these very masters of
souls,-it must be confessed that it seemed permissible to a
reasonable man to doubt the reality of a being so strangely
announced, and to a sympathetic man to imagine that a God
who had voluntarily created so many unfortunates could have
no existence.
"A philosopher has been given to the world, who has dis.
covered by what simple and sublime laws all the celestial
bodies move in the abyss of space. Thus the work of the
universe, better known, shows a workman; and so many laws,
always constant, prove a legislator. Sound philosophy has
thus destroyed that atheism to which an obscure theology
lent weapons."




182


VOLTAIRE.


After producing many of the arguments used by
atheists, and discussing them, he says: —
"The philosopher who recognises a God has with him a
crowd of prolabilities equivalent to certainty, while the
atheist has nothing but doubts.        It is evident that,
in morals, it is most important to recognise a deity. It is
certainly for the interest of all men that there should be a
divinity who punishes what human justice cannot repress;
but it is also clear that it is better not to recognise a God
than to adore a barbarous deity, to whom human beings are
sacrificed, as has been done by so many nations.... It
is certain that atheism is not taught in the schools of China,
yet many scholars there are atheists, because they are only
imperfect philosophers. But it is certainly much better to live
with them at Pekin, enjoying all the gentleness of their manners and laws, than to be liable in Goa to groan in chains in
the prisons of the Inquisition, and to be brought from them,
arrayed in a robe of brimstone colour embroidered with devils,
to die at the stake."
And he thus sums up his conclusions:" Atheism and fanaticism are two monsters, which rend
and devour society; but the atheist, in his error, preserves
the reason which cuts his claws, while those of the fanatic
are sharpened in the incessant madness which afflicts him."
It is easy to understand that neither Jesuits nor Jansenists would approve of writings which dealt thus with
their quarrels, any more than the Romish clergy generally
would like his ridicule of such modern miracles as, even
now, an amazed world is sometimes called on to credit.
Talking of a chronicler of these marvels he says:" He assures us that a little monk was so much accustomed
to perform miracles that the Prior forbade him to exercise his
talent. The little monk obeyed; but seeing a poor tiler fall
from a roof he hesitated between the desire to save his life




ON FANATICISM.


183


and the holy law of obedience. He therefore only ordained
that the tiler should remain in the air to await fresh orders,
and ran to report the state of things to his Prior. The Prior
gave him absolution for the sin which he had committed in
beginning a miracle without permission, and allowed him to
finish it, provided he ended there, and did not repeat the
practice."
And, in a vein equally likely to conciliate the clergy,
he thus speaks "of Fanaticism.: " —
" Some one spreads a rumour in the world that there is a
giant in existence 70 feet high. Very soon all the doctors
discuss the questions what colour his hair must be, what is
the size of his thumb, what the dimensions of his nails;
there is outcry, caballing, fighting; those who maintain that
the giant's little finger is only an inch and a half in diameter,
bring those to the stake who affirm that the little finger is a
foot thick.  But, gentlemen, does your giant exist?' says a
bystander, modestly. ' What a horrible doubt!' cry all the
disputants; 'what blasphemy! what absurdity!' Then they
all make a little truce to stone the bystander, and, after having assassinated him in due form, in a manner the most edifying, they fight among themselves, as before, on the subject
of the little finger and the nails."




184


CHAPTER XXV.
LIFE AT LAUSANNE AND FERNEY.
A GLIMPSE of Voltaire, while he lived at Lausanne in
1757-58, is afforded by the historian Gibbon, then a
youth of twenty, who had been sent thither to complete
his education, and who thus records their acquaintance
in his Autobiography:"Before I was recalled from Switzerland, I bad the satisfaction of seeing the most extraordinary man of the age,-a
poet, a historian, a philosopher, who has filled thirty quartos
of prose and verse with his various productions, often excellent, and always entertaining. Need I add the name of Voltaire? After forfeiting, by his own misconduct, the friendship of the first of kings, he retired, at the age of sixty, with
a plentiful fortune, to a free and beautiful country, and resided two winters (1757 and 1758) in the town and neighbourhood of Lausanne. My desire of beholding Voltaire,
whom I then rated above his real magnitude, was easily
gratified. He received me with civility as an English youth,
but I cannot boast of any peculiar notice or distinction,Virgilium vidi tantum.
" The ode which he composed on his first arrival on the
banks of the Leman Lake, ' 0 Maison d'Aristippe! 0 Jardin
dEpicure,' &c., had been imparted as a secret to the gentleman by whom I was introduced. He allowed me to read it




LIFE AT LAUSANNE.


185


twice; I knew it by heart; and as my discretion was not
equal to my memory, the author was soon displeased by the
circulation of a copy. In writing this trivial anecdote, I
wished to observe whether my memory was impaired, and I
have the comfort of finding that every line of the poem is
still engraved in fresh and indelible characters. The highest
gratification which I derived from Voltaire's residence at
Lausanne was the uncommon circumstance of hearing a great
poet declaim his own productions on the stage. He had
formed a company of gentlemen and ladies, some of whom
were not destitute of talents.  A decent theatre was framed
at Monrepos,1 a country house at the end of a suburb; dresses
and scenes were provided at the expense of the actors; and
the author directed the rehearsals with the zeal and attention
of paternal love. In two successive winters his tragedies of
'Zaire,' 'Alzire,' 'Zulime, and his sentimental comedy
of the 'Enfant Prodigue,' were played at the theatre of Monrepos. Voltaire represented the characters best adapted to
his years,-Lusignan, Alvarez, Benassar, Enphemon. His
declamation was fashioned to the pomp and cadence of the
old stage, and he expressed the enthusiasm of poetry rather
than the feelings of nature. My ardour, which soon became
conspicuous, seldom failed of procuring me a ticket. The
habits of pleasure fortified my taste for the French theatre,
and that taste has perhaps abated my idolatry for the gigantic
genius of Shakespeare, which is inculcated from our infancy
as the first duty of an Englishman. The wit and philosophy
of Voltaire, his table and theatre, refiled, in a visible degree, the manners of Lausanne; and, however addicted to
study, I enjoyed my share of the amusements of society.
After the representation of Monrepos, I sometimes supped
with the actors."
This taste for directing   theatrical representations
Voltaire had in common with one who, perhaps, may
alone contest his pre-eminence in the field of letters,
1 Gibbon's misnomer for Monrion.




186


VOLTAIRE.


and who gave so much of his time and interest tc
the theatre at Weimar.   On acquiring the estate of
Ferney in 1759, on the western shore of the lake, he built
a theatre, the ruins of which still exist, and the conduct
of which continued to afford him extraordinary delight.
"On one occasion, while seated watching the performance
of "Zaire" from the side-scenes, he became so excited as the
catastrophe approached, that he wheeled his arm-chair on
to the stage, and continued unconsciously to press forward till he got between the actors, so that Orosman was
unable to stab the heroine. This or any other fancy he
could well afford to indulge, for his income was great, and
far beyond his expenses. He had about ~7000 a-yeas,a princely revenue in those days; and one of Is Parisian
visitors observed that he was the only man in France who
really lived like a grand seigneur. He kept an extremely hospitable and well-supplied table, habitually entertaining a great number of guests, and maintaining a large
establishment of servants. The audience at his plays were
always entertained at supper, and the repast was sometimes
followed by a ball. Besides building a theatre, he pulled
down the ruinous church of Ferney and replaced it with
another at his own cost, which bore the inscription, Deo
erexit Voltaire.  "The church that I have built," he
wrote, "is the only church in the universe that is dedicated to God alone-all the others are dedicated to saints.
For my part, I would rather build for the master than
the valets." He built also the chateau of Ferney, and
surrounded it with gardens in the English taste, and
drained and improved the surrounding land. The neighbouring hamlet, in which a few miserable labourers inhabited dilapidated cottages, gave place to a small town,




HIS GENEROSITY.


187


built at his cost, and tenanted by skilful workmen, whose
branch of industry he encouraged and rendered prosperous.  "Fifteen years ago," says a guest, writing when
Voltaire was eighty-four, "there were barely at Ferney
three or four cottages, and forty inhabitants; now it is
astonishing to see a numerous and civilised colony, a
theatre, and more than a hundred pretty houses." His
charities were munificent.  When the order of Jesuits
was suppressed he took one of the body, Father Adam,
into his house, and made him his almoner, a post which
was far from being a sinecure. He also received into his
family Mademoiselle Corneille, the grandniece of the poet,
whom he thus rescued from poverty: "It is giving," he
said, " to an old soldier the opportunity of being useful to
the daughter of his general."  He welcomed her warmly,
always spoke of her with praise, treated her like a
young relation, and gave her for a marriage portion the
profits of his "Commentaries on Corneille."
A description is given of him in his last days at
Ferney, seated under a vine, on the occasion of a fete,
and receiving the congratulations and complimentary
gifts of his tenantry and neighbours, when a young lady,
whom he had adopted, brought him in a basket a pair of
white doves with pink beaks, as her offering.  He afterwards entertained about 200 guests at a splendid repast,
followed by illuminations, songs, and dances, and was
himself so carried away in an access of gaiety as to throw
his hat into the air. But his merriment ended in a
tempest of wrath; for learning, in the course of the
evening, that the two doves which had figured so
prettily in the fete had been killed for the table, his
indignation at the stolid cruelty which could shed the




188


VOLTAIRE.


blood of the creatures they had all just admired and
caressed, knew no bounds.
He constituted himself the champion of those whom
he considered oppressed. His remark on the death of
Admiral Byng, that he had been executed " to encourage
the others," is well knvwn; it is not, perhaps, so well
known that he interfered actively to prevent the catastrophe. The commander of the successful expedition
which Byng was expected to frustrate was Voltaire's
friend, the Duke of Richelieu, and from him he begged
for such a letter as might exonerate the unfortunate
Admiral, then on his trial. After the evidence given
at the court-martial was closed, a letter from Voltaire
to Byng, written in English, was read: "Sir, though
I am almost unknown to you, I think 'tis my duty to
send you the copy of the letter which I have just received from the Marshal Duc de Richelieu; honour,
humanity, and equity order me to convey it to your
hands. The noble and unexpected testimony from one
of the most candid, as well as most generous, of my
countrymen, makes me presume your judges will do you
justice."
t"   Hie  endeavoured, in a succession of cases, to obtain
stice for the victims of judicial blunders. A young
man, named Calas, had committed suicide by hanging
himself. A ridiculous charge was brought against his
father, a Calvinist, of having hanged him in order to
prevent him from becoming a Roman Catholic. The
mob, sagacious and tender as mobs usually are, credited
the accusation and clamoured for his execution; the
clergy were willing to see a useful example made; the
parliament of Toulouse gave judgment against him, and




HIS PHILANTHROPY.


189


he was broken on the wheel. His case was thus beyond
the reach of remedy; but the same judgment had condemned his fanily to infamy.    Voltaire, utterly disbelieving even the possibility of the alleged crime, used
his credit, his friends, and his money il behalf of the
family, employed advocates, and himself urged their
innocence in various appeals. He thus obtained a revision and reversal of the sentence. In a similar case,
that of Sirven, he saved the life, by his indefatigable
efforts, of the accused man; and afterwards obtained the
acquittal of a woman whose husband had, on an incredible charge, been broken on the wheel, and who had
been condemned with him. The case of Lally, who was
executed in Paris under circumstances of atrocious injustice, is also well known: in this instance Voltaire's
efforts failed of success, yet he had the satisfaction,
many years afterwards, of seeing the sentence condemned,
on a revision obtained by the victim's son. Other cases
are recorded in which his sympathy with the oppressed
had impelled him to untiring efforts in their behalf.
It must be admitted that, though he alone can be called
perfectly good who fulfils two orders of duties, one of
these, his duty to his fellow-man, was performed with
unusual spirit by Voltaire.
All this time the increasing weight of years by no
means diminished the activity of his pen. In 1757 the
whole of his works were for the first time published in
an authorised and complete edition, under his direction
at Geneva. He wrote in this last epoch of his life the
Essay on the "Philosophy of History," from which extracts have been already given; added a sketch of thiB
"Age of Louis XV." to its predecessor; wrote a history




190


VOLTAIRE.


of "Peter the Great" to please his admirer and correspondent the Empress Catherine; employed himself- at
intervals on his 'Philosophical Dictionary;' produced
many fresh tragedies (not always equal to the earlier
ones) and four comedies; innumerable tales and satires
in verse, and many occasional poems; many novelettes,
too, in the style of " Zadig;" and a host of papers in prose.
Several of the most telling satires were prompted by a
personal attack which had been made on Voltaire., A
M. Le Franc de Pompignan had been elected to the
French Academy, and had conceived the uiluc.- idlea of
giving point to his inaugural discourse by -c0nsorious
remarks on the philosopher and some of his-,, 3ciples,
who were also members of the Academy.    Or '-earning
this, Voltaire discharged on the aggressor such a deluge
of ridicule that he never again dared to show his face in
the Academy, and, instead of vanishing quietly from the
world, has remained pickled for posterity.  And, all the
time, flowed on in full stream that copious correspondence, never intended for publication, but which is
esteemed as a most precious example of letter-writing,
and which of itself would seem to constitute the labour
of an industrious life.
In the correspondence with his friend and brotherphilosopher, D'Alembert, is seen more clearly than elsewhere what it was that he had all his life considered it
his mission to battle against. The nature of his creed
will have been recognised in the extracts from his works
already given, and he would probably have considered
Pope's " Universal Prayer" as exactly expressing it.
The morality of the New Testament was altogether in




HIS HOSTILITY TO THE CLERGY.


191


unison with that creed and with his own frequentlyexpressed views of the obligations which man's conscience enjoins; but he put no faith in the morality of
the Old Testament, nor in the miracles of Scripture. He
had the strongest belief in the elevating effects of developing the human intellect: to this he considered the
Catholic Church and Clergy as systematically opposed;
and hence his unceasing hostility to them. While the
mind of the time saw before it the prospects, so full of
promise, which the great movements of the sixteenth.cent-r- l ad opened, the dominant religious body opposed
a rigid oar to progress, not only hi the doctrines which
it inc.ated, *but in its system  of education, which,
dealing well and thoroughly with the learning of the
past, sought to arrest, in all directions, the advance of
thought.  It is in writing to D'Alembert that he frequently insists on the necessity of putting an end to
what he designates as " the Infamous:"" I want you to crush the Infamous-that is the great
point. It must be reduced to the position which it occupies
in England: 'tis the greatest service that can be rendered to
the human race. You will perceive that I speak only of
superstition; as for religion, I love and respect it as you
do."
Afterwards, D'Alembert, in a letter to Voltaire, defines
very clearly the views of both:"For me, who see everything just now in a rose-coloured
alght, I think I behold the Jansenists perishing next year,
after having, this year, brought the Jesuits to a violent endtoleration established, the Protestants recalled, priests mar



192                 VOLTAIRE.
ried, confession abolished, and fanaticism crushed without
one being aware of it."
Had these mutineers been Englishmen they would
have found nothing to quarrel with, and would never
have made themselves conspicuous for hostility to
any system of faith.




193


CHAPTER XXVL
HIS LAST YEARS.
As years went on and found him still by the Lake, he
became known as "the Patriarch of Ferney;" and as he
kept himself incessantly before the public by his writings,
and with constantly increasing fame, the tide of visitors
continued to augment in numbers and importance. It
became necessary for people with intellectual pretensions
to make at least one pilgrimage to the modern Mecca,
where they might have the advanta(ge of hearing the
prophet explain his own doctrines; and the learned and
the great, men of all professions and beliefs, literary
ladies and fashionable ladies, came to render their incessant homage, or to gratify their ardent curiosity.  It
must have been in the year 1764, or 1765, that he
received a very remarkable visitor indeed; no less a
person  than Boswell. who had then undergone the
anguish of separation from his revered friend, whom he
had left "rolling his majestick frame in his usual manner" on the pier at Harwich, in order to make a tour on
the Continent. He quite appreciated Voltaire's celebrity,
if not his genius, and referred afterwards, in his conversations with Johnson, to " when I was at Ferney; " where
F.C.-nI.                                N




194


VOLTAIRE.


it appears that the patriarch, affecting, says Boswell, the
English style of expression, characterised the illustrious
sage of Fleet Street as " a superstitious dog," but, after
hearing a disparaging remark of Johnson's about Frederick
the Great, he exclaimed, "An honest fellow "   This,
with a remark about Pope and Dryden, is all the record
that the prince of recorders brought away from Ferney.
Had there been room in his very exclusive Pantheon for
more than one deity, we might have learned much about
Voltaire which now will never be known, but which the
irrepressible interest of Boswell would easily have extracted,-as thus: "Finding my illustrious host in a
specially communicative humour, I ventured to say, 'The
world, sir, would be very glad to know why you call
yourself Voltaire,' "-or, " Talking, at dinner, of his confinement in the Bastille, I expressed my wonder that
notwithstanding the injuries he had received from the
Government he had never attacked it, but only the priesthood; to which he replied,"-what can now only be
matter of speculation.
It was several years after this that Doctor Burney,
father of the once famous authoress of 'Evelina,' paid
a diffident visit to Ferney, having no introduction.
After describing the scenery, the church, the theatre, the
buildings, and the chateau itself, into which he was
allowed to penetrate, " a very neat and elegant house,
not large nor affectedly decorated," he had sight of the
great man:"He was going to his workmen. My heart leaped at the
sight of so extraordinary a man. He had just then quitted
his garden, and was crossing the court before his house. Seeing my chaise, and me on the point of mounting it, he made




VISITED BY DOCTOR BURNEY.


195


a sign to his servant, who had been my cicerone, to go to him;
in order, I suppose, to inquire who I was.  After they had
exchanged a few words together he approached the place
where I was standing motionless, in order to contemplate his
person as much as I could while his eyes were turned from
me; but on seeing him move towards me, I found myself
drawn by some irresistible power towards him; and without
knowing what I did, I insensibly met him half-way.  It is
not easy to conceive it possible for life to subsist in a form
so nearly composed of mere skin and bone as that of M. de'
Voltaire. He complained of decrepitude (he was then 76)
and said, He supposed I was anxious to form an idea of the
figure of one walking after death. However, his eyes and
whole countenance are still full of fire; and though so
emaciated, a more lively expression cannot be imagined."
He then inquired after English news, and talked of
our poets of the day.
"During this conversation, we approached the buildings
that he was constructing near the road to his chateau. ' These,'
said he, pointing to them, 'are the most innocent, and perhaps
the most useful, of all my works.' I observed that he had
other works, which were of far more extensive use, and
would be much more durable, than those.    He was so
obliging as to show me several farm-houses that he had
built, and the plans of others: after which I took my leave."
After a lapse of several more years we have another
glimpse of him at the age of eighty-two. A clergyman
named Sherlock, provided with an introduction, paid
him a long morning visit, and dined with him next day.
The patriarch's dress is thus described:" On the two days I saw him, he wore white cloth shoes,
white woollen stockings, red breeches, with a nightgown and
waistcoat of blue linen, flowered, and lined with yellow. He
had on a grizzled wig with three ties, and over it a silk nightcap, embroidered with gold and silver."




196


VOLTAIRE.


As we learn from other authority that he was in the
habit of driving out in a carriage adorned with gold stars
on a blue ground, and with carved and gilded mountings,
few philosophers, in any age, when taking the air, could
have presented a more splendid appearance. But to return to Mr Sherlock:"He met me in the hall; his nephew, M. d'Hornoi,
Counsellor in the Parliament of Paris, held him by the arm.
He said to me, with a very weak voice, 'You see a very old
man, who makes a great effort to have the honour of seeing
you. Will you take a walk in my garden? It will please
you, for it is in the English taste; it was I who introduced
that taste into France, and it has become universal. But the
French parody your gardens-they put your thirty acres into
three.'
"From his gardens you see the Alps, the Lake, the city of
Geneva and its environs, which are very pleasant. He said,
'It is a beautiful prospect.'  He pronounced these words
tolerably well. Sherlock-' How long is it since you were in
England?'  Voltaire-' Fifty years, at least.' We then
talked of literature; and from that moment he forgot his
age and infirmities, and spoke with the warmth of a man of
thirty. He said some shocking things against Moses and
against Shakespeare.
" D'Hornoi-' There, Monsieur, is a village which M. de
Voltaire has built.' Voltaire-' Yes, we have our freedom
here. Cut off a little corner and we are out of France. I
asked some privileges for my children here, and the king'
(or rather Voltaire's friend, Turgot, then finance minister)
'has granted me all that I asked, and has declared the
Pays de Gex exempt from all taxes of the Farmer-General;
so that salt, which formerly sold for ten sous a pound,
now sells for four. I have nothing more to ask, except to
live.'
" The next day as we sat down to dinner, he said in English,
tolerably pronounced, 'We are here for liberty and property!




ANOTHER ENGLISH VISITOR.


197


This gentleman, whom let me present to Monsieur Sherlock,
is a Jesuit-he wears his hat; I am a poor invalid-I wear
my nightcap.'
In the course of dinner, Mr Sherlock asked how he
had found la chere Anglaise?-which may be translated
either " the English fare," or " the dear Englishwoman."
The reverend gentleman's question of course related to
the diet; but the gay Voltaire, taking it mischievously
in the other sense, replied, " I found her very fresh and
white."
Many subjects were talked of pleasantly, English and
French; and Voltaire remarked, When I see an Englishman subtle and fond of lawsuits, I say, " There is a Norman,
who came in with William the Conqueror;" when I see a
man good-natured and polite, "That is one who came with
the Plantagenets;" a brutal character, " That is a Dane:"
for your nation, Monsieur, as well as your language, is a
medley of many others.'
"After dinner, passing through a little parlour, he took me
by the arm and stopped me. 'Do you know this bust?' (of
Sir Isaac Newton.) ' It is the greatest genius that ever existed.
If all the geniuses of the universe were assembled, he should
lead the band.'                                      *
It was of Newton, and of his own works, that M. de Vol- s
taire always spoke with the greatest warmth.".^
Not only did work of a cast suited to the gravity of
age continue to occupy the last years of his long life,
but those lighter pieces, products of the exuberant fertility and impulsive fancy which are the attributes of
youth, were as numerous as ever. Only they took a
deeper tone, and one always deepening as he consciously
drew nearer and nearer to that close which for him,
steadfastly gazing on it, was wrapt in impenetrable




198


VOLTAIRE.


darkness.  In the end of 1773 he wrote the following
stanzas, erroneously headed in his works as "to Madame
du Defiant;" they were indeed sent to her for perusal,
but were addressed to some lady still possessed of so
much youth and beauty as to render the case of the
Delia of the poem applicable to herself:"You wonder how time ne'er subdues
(Tho' eighty years have left their chill)
My superannuated muse,
That hums a quavering measure still.
In wintry wolds a tuft of bloom
Will sometimes thro' the snow-drifts smile,
Consoling nature in her gloom,
But withering in a little while.
A bird will trill a chirping note,
Tho' summer's leaves and light be o'er,
But melody forsakes his throatHe sings the song of love no more.
'Tis thus I still my harp entune,
Whose strings no more my touch obey;
'Tis thus I lift my voice, tho' soon
That voice will silent be for aye.
Tibullus to his mistress said' I would thus breathe my last adieu,
My eyes still with your glances fed,
My dying hand caressing you.'
But when this world grows all remote,
When with the life the soul must go,
Can yet the eye on Delia1 dote?
The hand a lover's touch bestow?
1 Delia was the name of Tibullus's mistress.




LXST VISIT TO PARIS.


199


Death changes, as we pass his gate,
WThat in our days of strength we knew:
Who would with joy anticipate
At his last gasp love's rendezvous?
And Delia, in her turn, no less
Must pass into eternal night,
Oblivious of her loveliness,
Oblivious of her youth's delight.
We enter life, we play our part,
We die-nor learn the reason here;
Front out the unknown void we start,
And whither bound?-God knows, my dear."
It seems likely that the extraordinary old man might
have continued for some years to enjoy his work and his
comforts at Ferney, but for an unlucky visit to Paris in
1778. His niece, Madame Denis, had lived with him
ever since'6eea   e beeei mi the niihbourhood of Geneva;
a short, fat woman, vulgar, unfeeling, extravagant, and
very fond of gaiety. Notwithstanding that she had never
been handsome, and was far from young, she spent so
much time at her toilette that Voltaire seldom saw her
till dinner; she was very grasping and exacting, very
anxious that nobody should obtain any influence over
him, and quarrelled with all his secretaries; in fact,
seems to have devoted herself generally to promote his
\ unhappiness.  Voltaire, who, though in some respects
frtitable, was in many ways exceptionally indulgent,
humoured her, even praised and flattered her, indemnifying himself occasionally with a little ridicule. It
occurred to this lady, then about sixty-six, that her residence at Ferney was rather dull, and that Parisian life i
was much better suited to her style and temperament.




200


VOLTAIRE.


Full of this idea she began to manocuvre for its realisation. Voltaire had a new tragedy about to appear; she
tried to persuade him that it never would receive justice
unless he should superintend its production on the
stage: other arguments were used and persisted in, until
the poor old man was brought reluctantly to consent.
Immediately on entering Paris he received a shock in the
news that his friend Le Kain, the actor, had been buried
the day before. As soon as his arrival was known, vast
numbers of visitors poured in to pay their respects to
him; all Paris was delighted except the Court and the
clergy-and the expected displeasure of these, of which
signs appeared, caused him  much anxiety.   In the
midst of all this excitement he was engaged in completing
still another new tragedy (" Agathocle "), and also his
part of a French dictionary which he had planned, and
of which he had taken the letter A for his share. Ben
jamin Franklin came to see him, bringing his grandson,
whom he desired to kneel for the patriarch's blessing.
Pronouncing in English the words, " God, liberty, tolerance," "this," said Voltaire, " is the most suitable benediction for the grandson of Franklin." A still more
notable interview was that with the Marquise de Gouvernet, the Suzanne de Livry of yore, now a widow. Again
he appeared at the doors of that hotel, his repulse from
which had produced, as rejoinder, the poem, " Les Vous
et les Tu." It was like the meeting of two ghosts in
another world when the aged pair, both past eighty-four,
tottered towards each other, trying in vain to reconcile
what they beheld with what they remembered; while from
the wall, Voltaire's portrait, preserved by the Marquise
for sixty years, looked down with that mocking smile




RECEPTION AT THE THEATRE.


201


which was not an irrelevant commentary.    IHe came
home greatly agitated from this interview.  " I am returning," he said, "from one bank of the Styx to the
other."  The next day the Marquise sent back his portrait;1 and the day after his death she, too, descended
to the grave.
A  fortnight after he came to Paris the unwonted
excitement.he had undergone brought on a dangerous
attack of haemorrhage from the lungs.  Mindful of the
fate of his frie0nd "i I'riie Ie' Couvreur, he expressed
piteously his wish that his body should not be cast
into the highway; and, in the hope of avertig'"at
doom, confessed to a priest, and signed a paper asking
pardon if he had offended the Church.- A day or two
afteic'ards his secretary, being alone with him, begged
him to state exactly what his views still continued to be
at a time when he believed himself dying; and received
this written declaration: "I die adoring God, loving I
my friends, not hating my enemies, and detesting superstition.-Voltaire."
From this attack, however, he so far recovered that,*
month later, he was present at the representation of his
new tragedy " Irne," when his costume was well calculated to do honour to that or any other occasion, rivalling in splendour that which he wore at Ferney:"He had made a grand toilet; he wore a red velvet coat
trimmed with ermine, a large perruque of the time of Louis
XIV., black and unpowdered, and in which his meagre face
was so buried that only his eyes could be seen, which seemed
1 It came, with Ferney, into the possession of the Marquis de
Villette; and at the death of the last possessor of that title was sold,
some years ago, for about ~250.




202


VOLTAIRE.


to emit sparks. His head was surmounted with a square, red
cap, in form of a crown. He had in his hand a little cane,
with a top like a crow's beak."
It was a moment of extraordinary triumph for the returned exile.  The whole theatre rose to receive him
amidst long-continued applause; between the pieces his
bust was crowned with laurel on the stage by the entire
company; verses were recited in his honour; he was
carried to his coach on the shoulders of his admirers, and
attended to his hotel by an immense concourse. Turning on the steps, he said, " You wish, then, to stifle me
with roses!"-and entered the house, which he did not
quit again. IHe bore his last grievous illness with fortitude, and, on the 30th May 1778, met death with
equanimity. But he was not held to have duly made
the amende honorable to the Church, and the clergy of
Paris denied him sepulture. His body, embalmed, was
taken by his nephew, the Ab1lqT1"gno6tto the Abbey
of Scellieres in Champagne, and there intered with the
rites of the Church. Next day a mandate arrived from
the bsniop of the diocese to forbid the burial, but the
prohibition was then ineffectual
Thirteen years afterwards the Revolutionists, claiming in.him a champion of their cause, toqoli'.  his body
and transported it to the Pantheoin,1o lie among tiose
whom they judged worthy of honour.    But his companions there were men whose doctrin:s and pic-  a
wouild, in life, have revolted hi;,  eside him was laid
the iwre& Marat, whom ba w     ld Iava. loathed and
denounced. The violent overturning of the old monarchy, the proscriptions, the massacres, the guillotinethese would have received no countenance from him,




HIS FAME AS A WRITER.


203


and found no warrant in his writings, which had always
inculcated those principles of toleration and justice that
were no more respected by the Revolutionary Government than by the despotism which it destroyed.
In spite of this-in spite, too, of the fact that he had
never been an assailant of the system of the monarchy
-writers have gone on, down to this time, repeating,! some in praise, some in blame, that he was a chief author
of the Revolution.  It is a matter impossible either of
proof or of disproof; it must rest rather on opinion than
evidence. What is more apparent is, that when a
people have been so long and grievously misgoverned
and oppressed, and find their relations with the Government so changed as they were when Louis XVI. and
the people's representatives assumed towards each other
such novel attitudes, the impending convulsion is not so
much to be ascribed to the influence of this or that man,
as to the constant accumulation of destructive force on
the one side, and the constant diminution of repressive
power on the other.
However this may be, it is chiefly as a literary phenomenon that Voltaire is now interesting to us. In that
light it appears to the present writer that no inconsiderable part of his extraordinary fame was owing to the circumstances of the period, and the conditions in which
he wrote, and has reasonably vanished with the lapse
of time. That he still retains so eminent a position in
France is due, in great measure, to those gifts of expression which do not much aid in extending a writer's
reputation beyond his owp country. But, after the
winnowings of generations, a wide and deep repute
still remains to him; nor will any diminution which it




204


VOLTAIRE.


may have suffered be without compensation, for, with
the fading of old prejudices, and with better knowledge,
his name will be regarded with increased liking and
respect. Yet it must not be supposed that he is here
held up as a pattern man. He was, indeed, an infinitely
better one than the religious bigots of the time.  He believed, with far better effect on his practice than they
could boast, in a Supreme Ruler. He was the untiring
and eloquent advocate, at the bar of the Universe, of the
rights of humanity.  He recognised and lamented all
the evils permitted by Providence.   But he forgot,
except sometimes in theory, to return thanks for the
blessings which are showered along with those evils on
the earth, and thus the great intellect and the high purpose are left without the crowning grace of reverence.
END OF VOLTAIRE.


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