Ent88YGE

1tend, with our utmost vigor, that no improper article be landed. 
2These offices, it would seem, as in the material world, so also 
3in the literary and spiritual, usually fall to the lot of aged, 
4invalided, impoverished, or otherwise decayed persons ; but 
5that is little to the matter. As true British subjects, with 
6ready will, though it may be with our last strength, we are 
7here to discharge that double duty. Movements, we observe, 
8are making along the beach, and signals out seawards, as if 
9these Klingemanns and Milliners were to be landed on our 
10soil : but through the strength of heaven this shall not be 
11done, till the "most thinking people " know what it is that is 
12landing. For the rest, if any one wishes to import that sort 
13of produce, and finds it nourishing for his inward man, let him 
14do so, and welcome. Only let him understand that it is not 
15German Literature he is swallowing, but the froth and scum 
16of German Literature ; which scum, if he will only wait, we can 
17farther promise him that he may, ere long, enjoy in the new, 
18and perhaps cheaper form of sediment. And so let every one 
19be active for himself : 
20
21" Noch ist es Tag, da riihre sich der Mann ; 
22Die Nacht trilt ein, wo niemand wirken kann" 
23
24
25
26VOLTAIRE. 1 
27
28[1829.] 
29
30COULD ambition always choose its own path, and were will 
31in human undertakings synonymous with faculty, all truly 
32ambitious men would be men of letters. Certainly, if we 
33examine that love of power, which enters so largely into most 
34practical calculations, nay which our Utilitarian friends have 
35recognized as the sole end and origin, both motive and reward, 
36of all earthly enterprises, animating alike the philanthropist, 
37the conqueror, the money-changer and the missionary, we 
38shall find that all other arenas of ambition, compared with 
39this rich and boundless one of Literature, meaning thereby 
40whatever respects the promulgation of Thought, are poor, 
41limited and ineffectual. For dull, unreflective, merely instinc- 
42tive as the ordinary man may seem, he has nevertheless, as a 
43quite indispensable appendage, a head that in some degree 
44considers and computes ; a lamp or rushlight of understanding 
45has been given him, which, through whatever dim, besmoked 
46and strangely diffractive media it may shine, is the ultimate 
47guiding light of his whole path : and here as well as there, 
48now as at all times in man's history, Opinion rules the world. 
49
50Curious it is, moreover, to consider in this respect, how 
51different appearance is from reality, and under what singu- 
52lar shape and circumstances the truly most important man of 
53
541 FOREIGN REVIEW, No. 6. Memoires sur Voltaire et sur ses Ouvrages, par 
55Longchamp et Wayniere, ses Secretaires ; suivis de divers Ecrits in6dits de la 
56Marquise du Chatelet, du President Henault, Sfc. tons relatifs a Voltaire. (Me- 
57moirs concerning Voltaire and his Works, by Longchamp and Wagniere, his 
58Secretaries ; with various unpublished Pieces by the Marquise du Chatelet, 
59Ac. all relating to Voltaire.) 2 tomes. Paris, 1826. 
60
61
62
63
64VOLTAIRE 
65
66
67
68VOLTAIRE. 391 
69
70any given period might be found. Could some Asmodeus, by 
71simply waving his arm, open asunder the meaning of the 
72Present, even so far as the Future will disclose it, what a 
73much more marvellous sight should we have, than that mere 
74bodily one through the roofs of Madrid ! For we know not 
75what we are, any more than what we shall be. It is a high, 
76solemn, almost awful thought for every individual man, that 
77his earthly influence, which has had a commencement, will 
78never through all ages, were he the very meanest of us, have 
79an end ! What is done is done ; has already blended itself 
80with the boundless, ever-living, ever-working Universe, and 
81will also work there, for good or for evil, openly or secretly, 
82throughout all time. But the life of every man is as the 
83wellspring of a stream, whose small beginnings are indeed, 
84plain to all, but whose ulterior course and destination, as it 
85winds through the expanses of infinite years, only the Omnis- 
86cient can discern. Will it mingle with neighboring rivulets, 
87as a tributary j or receive them as their sovereign ? Is it to 
88be a nameless brook, and will its tiny waters, among millions 
89of other brooks and rills, increase the current of some world- 
90river ? Or is it to be itself a Ehene or Danaw, whose goings- 
91forth are to the uttermost lands, its flood an everlasting 
92boundary-line on the globe itself, the bulwark and highway of 
93whole kingdoms and continents ? We know not ; only in 
94either case, we know, its path is to the great ocean ; its waters, 
95were they but a handful, are here, and cannot be annihilated 
96or permanently held back. 
97
98As little can we prognosticate, with any certainty, the 
99future influences from the present aspects of an individual. 
100How many Demagogues, Croesuses, Conquerors fill their own 
101age with joy or terror, with a tumult that promises to be 
102perennial; and in the next age die away into insignificance 
103and oblivion! These are the forests of gourds, that overtop 
104the infant cedars and aloe-trees, but, like the Prophet's gourd, 
105wither on the third day. What was it to the Pharaohs of 
106Egypt, in that old era, if Jethro the Midianitish priest and 
107grazier accepted the Hebrew outlaw as his herdsman ? Yet 
108the Pharaohs, with all their chariots of war, are buried deep 
109
110
111
112392 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
113
114in the wrecks of time ; and that Moses still lives, not among 
115his own tribe only, but in the hearts and daily business of all 
116civilized nations. Or figure Mahomet, in his youthful years, 
117"travelling to the horse-fairs of Syria." Nay, to take an 
118infinitely higher instance : who has ever forgotten those lines 
119of Tacitus ; inserted as a small, transitory, altogether trifling 
120circumstance in the history of such a potentate as Nero ? 
121To us it is the most earnest, sad and sternly significant pas- 
122sage that we know to exist in writing : Ergo abolendo rumori 
123Nero subdidit reos, et qucesitissimis poenis affecit, quos per fla- 
124gitia invisos, vulgus CHRISTIANOS appellabat. Auctor nominis 
125ejus CHRISTUS, qui, Tiberio imperitante, per Procuratorem Pon- 
126tium Pilatum supplicio affectus erat. Repressaque in prcesens 
127exitiabilis superstitio rursus erumpebat, non modo per Judceam 
128originem ejus mali, sed per urbem etiam, quo cuncta undique 
129atrocia aut pudenda confluunt celebranturque. " So, for the 
130quieting of this rumor, 1 Nero judicially charged with the 
131crime, and punished with most studied severities, that class, 
132hated for their general wickedness, whom the vulgar called 
133Christians. The originator of that name was one Christ, who, 
134in the reign of Tiberius, suffered death by sentence of the 
135Procurator, Pontius Pilate. The baneful superstition, thereby 
136repressed for the time, again broke out, not only over Judea, 
137the native soil of that mischief, but in the City also, where 
138from every side all atrocious and abominable things collect 
139and flourish." 2 Tacitus was the wisest, most penetrating man 
140of his generation; and to such depth, and no deeper, has he 
141seen into this transaction, the most important that has oc- 
142curred or can occur in the annals of mankind. 
143
144Nor is it only to those primitive ages, when religions took 
145their rise, and a man of pure and high mind appeared not 
146merely as a teacher and philosopher, but as a priest and 
147prophet, that our observation applies. The same uncertainty, 
148in estimating present things and men, holds more or less in 
149all times; for in all times, even in those which seem most 
150trivial, and open to research, human society rests on inscruta- 
151
1521 Of his having set fire to Rome. 
153
1542 Tacit. Annul, xv. 44. 
155
156
157
158VOLTAIRE. 893 
159
160bly deep foundations ; which he is of all others the most mis- 
161taken, who fancies he has explored to the bottom. Neither 
162is that sequence, which we love to speak of as " a chain of 
163causes/' properly to be figured as a " chain " or line, but 
164rather as a tissue, or superficies of innumerable lines, ex- 
165tending in breadth as well as in length, and with a complexity, 
166.which will foil and utterly bewilder the most assiduous com- 
167putation. In fact, the wisest of us must, for by far the most 
168part, judge like the simplest; estimate importance by mere 
169magnitude, and expect that what strongly affects our own 
170generation will strongly affect those that are to follow. In 
171this way it is that Conquerors and political ^Revolutionists 
172come to figure as so mighty in their influences ; whereas truly 
173there is no class of persons creating such an uproar in the 
174world, who in the long-run produce so very slight an impres- 
175sion on its affairs. When Tamerlane had finished building 
176his pyramid of seventy thousand human skulls, and was seen 
177" standing at the gate of Damascus, glittering in steel, with 
178his battle-axe on his shoulder," till his fierce hosts filed out 
179to new victories and new carnage, the pale on-looker might 
180have fancied that Nature was in her death-throes ; for havoc 
181and despair had taken possession of the earth, the sun of 
182manhood seemed setting in seas of blood. Yet, it might be, 
183on that very gala-day of Tamerlane, a little boy was playing 
184ninepins on the streets of Mentz, whose history was more 
185important to men than that of twenty Tamerlanes. The Tar* 
186tar Khan, with his shaggy demons of the wilderness, "passed 
187away like a whirlwind," to be forgotten forever ; and that 
188German artisan has wrought a benefit, which is yet immea- 
189surably expanding itself, and will continue to expand itself 
190through all countries and through all times. What are the 
191conquests and expeditions of the whole corporation of cap- 
192tains, from Walter the Penniless to Napoleon Bonaparte, com- 
193pared with these " movable types " of Johannes Faust ? 
194
195Truly it is a mortifying thing for your Conqueror to reflect, 
196how perishable is the metal which he hammers with such vio- 
197lence : how the kind earth will soon shroud up his bloody 
198footprints ; and all that he_achieved and skilfully piled to- 
199
200
201
202394 CKITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
203
204gether will be but like his own " canvas city " of a camp, 
205this evening loud with life, to-morrow all struck and vanished, 
206" a few earth-pits and heaps of straw ! " For here, as always, 
207it continues true, that the deepest force is the stillest ; that, 
208as in the Fable, the mild shining of the sun shall silently 
209accomplish what the fierce blustering of the tempest has in 
210vain essayed. Above all, it is ever to be kept in mind, that 
211not by material, but by moral power, are men and their ac- 
212tions governed. How noiseless is thought ! No rolling of 
213drums, no tramp of squadrons, or immeasurable tumult of 
214baggage-wagons, attends its movements : in what obscure and 
215sequestered places may the head be meditating, which is one 
216day to be crowned with more than imperial authority; for 
217Kings and Emperors will be among its ministering servants ; 
218it will rule not over, but in, all heads, and with these its soli- 
219tary combinations of ideas, as with magic formulas, bend the 
220world to its will ! The time may come, when Napoleon him- 
221self will be better known for his laws than for his battles ; 
222and the victory of Waterloo prove less momentous than the 
223opening of the first Mechanics' Institute. 
224
225We have been led into such rather trite reflections, by these 
226Volumes of Memoirs on Voltaire ; a man in whose history the 
227relative importance of intellectual and physical power is again 
228curiously evinced. This also was a private person, by birth 
229nowise an elevated one ; yet so far as present knowledge 
230will enable us to judge, it may be said that to abstract Vol- 
231taire and his activity from the eighteenth century, were to 
232produce a greater difference in the existing figure of things, 
233than the want of any other individual, up to this day, could 
234have occasioned. Nay, with the single exception of Luther, 
235there is perhaps, in these modern ages, no other man of a 
236merely intellectual character, whose influence and reputation 
237have become so entirely European as that of Voltaire. In- 
238deed, like the great German Reformer's, his doctrines too, 
239almost from the first, have affected not only the belief of the 
240thinking world, silently propagating themselves from mind 
241to mind ; but in a high degree also, the conduct of the active 
242
243
244
245VOLTAIRE. 395 
246
247and political world ; entering as a distinct element into some 
248of the most fearful civil convulsions which European history 
249has on record. 
250
251Doubtless, to his own contemporaries, to such of them at 
252least as had any insight into the actual state of men's minds, 
253Voltaire already appeared as a noteworthy and decidedly his- 
254torical personage : yet, perhaps, not the wildest of his admir- 
255ers ventured to assign him such a magnitude as he now figures 
256in, even with his adversaries and detractors. He has grown 
257in apparent importance, as we receded from him, as the nature 
258of his endeavors became more and more visible in their re- 
259sults. For, unlike many great men, but like all great agita- 
260tors, Voltaire everywhere shows himself emphatically as the 
261man of his century : uniting in his own person whatever spir- 
262itual accomplishments were most valued by that age ; at the 
263same time, with no depth to discern its ulterior tendencies, 
264still less with any magnanimity to attempt withstanding these, 
265his greatness and his littleness alike fitted him to produce an 
266immediate effect ; for he leads whither the multitude was of 
267itself dimly minded to run, and keeps the van not less by 
268skill in commanding, than by cunning in obeying. Besides, 
269now that we look on the matter from some distance, the 
270efforts of a thousand coadjutors and disciples, nay a series 
271of mighty political vicissitudes, in the production of which 
272these efforts had but a subsidiary share, have all come, natu- 
273rally in such a case, to appear as if exclusively his work ; so 
274that he rises before us as the paragon and epitome of a 
275whole spiritual period, now almost passed away, yet remark- 
276able in itself, and more than ever interesting to us, who 
277seem to stand, as it were, on the confines of a new and better 
278one. 
279
280Nay, had we forgotten that ours is the " Age of the Press," 
281when he who runs may not only read, but furnish us with 
282reading ; and simply counted the books, and scattered leaves, 
283thick as the autumnal in Vallombrosa, that have been written 
284and printed concerning this man, we might almost fancy him 
285the most important person, not of the eighteenth century, but 
286of all the centuries from Noah's Flood downwards. We have 
287
288
289
290396 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
291
292Lives of Voltaire by friend and by foe : Condorcet, Duvernet, 
293Lepan, have each given us a whole ; portions, documents and 
294all manner of authentic or spurious contributions have been 
295supplied by innumerable hands ; of which we mention only 
296the labors of his various Secretaries : Collini's, published some 
297twenty years ago, and now these Two massive Octavos from 
298Longchamp and Wagniere. To say nothing of the Baron de 
299Grimm's Collections, unparalleled in more than one respect ; 
300or of the six-and-thirty volumes of scurrilous eavesdropping, 
301long since printed under the title of Memoires de Bachau- 
302mont ; or of the daily and hourly attacks and defences that 
303appeared separately in his lifetime, and all the judicial pieces, 
304whether in the style of apotheosis or of excommunication, 
305that have seen the light since then ; a mass of fugitive writ- 
306ings, the very diamond edition of which might fill whole 
307libraries. The peculiar talent of the French in all narrative, 
308at least in all anecdotic departments, rendering most of these 
309works extremely readable, still farther favored their circula- 
310tion both at home and abroad : so that now, in most countries, 
311Voltaire has been read of and talked of, till his name and 
312life have grown familiar like those of a village acquaintance. 
313In England, at least, where for almost a century the study of 
314foreign literature has, we may say, confined itself to that of 
315the French, with a slight intermixture from the elder Italians, 
316Voltaire's writings, and such writings as treated of him, were 
317little likely to want readers. We suppose, there is no literary 
318era, not even any domestic one, concerning which Englishmen 
319in general have such information, at least have gathered so 
320many anecdotes and opinions, as concerning this of Voltaire. 
321Nor have native additions to the stock been wanting, and 
322these of a due variety in purport and kind : maledictions, ex- 
323postulations and dreadful death-scenes painted like Spanish 
324Sanbenitos, by weak well-meaning persons of the hostile class ; 
325eulogies, generally of a gayer sort, by open or secret friends : 
326all this has been long and extensively carried on among us. 
327There is even an English Life of Voltaire ; * nay we remember 
328
3291 "By Frank Hall Standish, Esq." (London, 1821) ; a work which we can 
330recommend only to such as feel themselves in extreme want of information 
331
332
333
334VOLTAIRE. 397 
335
336to have seen portions of his writings cited in terrorem, and 
337with criticisms, in some pamphlet, " by a country gentleman/' 
338either on the Education of the People, or else on the question 
339of Preserving the Game. 
340
341With the " Age of the Press/ 7 and such manifestations of 
342it on this subject, we are far from quarrelling. We have 
343read great part of these thousand-and-first " Memoirs on Vol- 
344taire/ 7 by Longchamp and Wagniere, not without satisfaction ; 
345and can cheerfully look forward to still other " Memoirs " 
346following in their train. Nothing can be more in the course 
347of Nature than the wish to satisfy one's self with knowledge 
348of all sorts about any distinguished person, especially of our 
349own era ; the true study of his character, his spiritual indi- 
350viduality and peculiar manner of existence, is full of instruc- 
351tion for all mankind : even that of his looks, sayings, habi- 
352tudes and indifferent actions, were not the records of them 
353generally lies, is rather to be commended ; nay are not such 
354lies themselves, when they keep within bounds, and the sub- 
355ject of them has been dead for some time, equal to snipe- 
356shooting, or Colburn-Novels, at least little inferior, in the 
357great art of getting done with life, or, as it is technically 
358called, killing time ? For our own part, we say : Would that 
359every Johnson in the world had his veridical Boswell, or 
360leash of Boswells ! We could then tolerate his Hawkins also, 
361though not veridical. With regard to Voltaire, in particular, 
362it seems to us not only innocent but profitable that the whole 
363truth regarding him should be well understood. Surely the 
364biography of such a man, who, to say no more of him, spent 
365his J>est efforts, and as many still think, successfully, in. 
366assaulting the Christian religion, must be a matter of consid- 
367erable import ; what he did, and what he could not do ; how 
368he did it, or attempted it, that is, with what degree of 
369strength, clearness, especially with what moral intents, what 
370
371on this subject, and except in their own language unable to acquire any. It 
372is written very badly, though with sincerity, and not without considerable 
373indications of talent : to all appearance, by a minor ; many of whose state- 
374ments and opinions (for he seems an inquiring, honest-hearted, rather decisive 
375character) must have begun to astonish even himself, several years ago. 
376
377
378
379398 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
380
381theories and feelings on man and man's life, are questions 
382that will bear some discussing. To Voltaire individually, for 
383the last fifty-one years, the discussion has been indifferent 
384enough ; and to us it is a discussion not on one remarkable 
385person only, and chiefly for the curious or studious, but in- 
386volving considerations of highest moment to all men, and 
387inquiries which the utmost compass of our philosophy will be 
388unable to embrace. 
389
390Here, accordingly, we are about to offer some farther obser- 
391vations on this qucestio vexata ; not without hope that the 
392reader may accept them in good part. Doubtless, when we 
393look at the whole bearings of the matter, there seems little 
394prospect of any unanimity respecting it, either now, or within 
395a calculable period: it is probable that many will continue 
396for a long time to speak of this "universal genius," this 
397"apostle of Reason," and "father of sound Philosophy;" 
398and many again, of this "monster of impiety," this "soph- 
399ist," and "atheist," and "ape-demon;" or, like the late Dr. 
400Clarke of Cambridge, dismiss him more briefly with informa- 
401tion that he is " a driveller : " neither is it essential that 
402these two parties should, on the spur of the instant, reconcile 
403themselves herein. Nevertheless, truth is better than error, 
404were it only " on Hannibal's vinegar." It may be expected 
405that men's opinions concerning Voltaire, which is of some mo- 
406ment, and concerning Voltairism, which is of almost bound- 
407less moment, will, if they cannot meet, gradually at every 
408new comparison approach towards meeting ; and what is still 
409more desirable, towards meeting somewhere nearer the truth 
410than they actually stand. 
411
412With honest wishes to promote such approximation, there 
413is one condition, which above all others in this inquiry we 
414must beg the reader to impose on himself : the duty of fair- 
415ness towards Voltaire, of tolerance towards him, as towards all 
416men. This, truly, is a duty which we have the happiness to 
417hear daily inculcated ; yet which, it has been well said, no 
418mortal is at bottom disposed to practise. Nevertheless, if we 
419really desire to understand the truth on any subject, not 
420merely, as is much more common, to confirm our already exist- 
421
422
423
424VOLTAIKE. 899 
425
426ing opinions, and gratify this and the other pitiful claim of 
427vanity or malice in respect of it, tolerance may be regarded 
428as the most indispensable of all prerequisites ; the condition, 
429indeed, by which alone any real progress in the question be- 
430comes possible. In respect of our fellow-men, and all real 
431insight into their characters, this is especially true. No char- 
432acter, we may affirm, was ever rightly understood till it had 
433first been regarded with a certain feeling, not of tolerance only, 
434but of sympathy. For here, more than in any other case, it 
435is verified that the heart sees farther than the head. Let us 
436be sure, our enemy is not that hateful being we are too apt to 
437paint him. His vices and basenesses lie combined in far other 
438order before his own mind than before ours ; and under colors 
439which palliate them, nay perhaps exhibit them as virtues. 
440Were he the wretch c* our imagining, his life would be a 
441burden to himself : for it is not by bread alone that the basest 
442mortal lives ; a certain approval of conscience is equally essen- 
443tial even to physical existence ; is the fine all-pervading cement 
444by which that wondrous union, a Self, is held together. Since 
445the man, therefore, is not in Bedlam, and has not shot or 
446hanged himself, let us take comfort, and conclude that he is one 
447of two things : either a vicious dog in man's guise, to be muzzled 
448and mourned over, and greatly marvelled at ; or a real man, 
449and consequently not without moral worth, which is to be en- 
450lightened, and so far approved of. But to judge rightly of his 
451character, we must learn to look at it, not less with his eyes, 
452than with our own ; we must learn to pity him, to see him as 
453a fellow-creature, in a word, to love him ; or his real spiritual 
454nature will ever be mistaken by us. In interpreting Voltaire, 
455accordingly, it will be needful to bear some things carefully in 
456mind, and to keep many other things as carefully in abeyance. 
457Let us forget that our opinions were ever assailed by him, or 
458ever defended ; that we have to thank him, or upbraid him, 
459for pain or for pleasure ; let us forget that we are Deists or 
460Millennarians, Bishops or Radical Reformers, and remember 
461only that we are men. This is a European subject, or there 
462never was one ; and n, ast, if we would in the least compre- 
463hend it, be looked at neither from the parish belfry, nor any 
464
465
466
467400 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
468
469Peterloo platform ; but, if possible, from some natural and 
470infinitely higher point of vision. 
471
472It is a remarkable fact, that throughout the last fifty years 
473of his life Voltaire was seldom or never named, even by his 
474detractors, without the epithet " great " being appended to 
475him ; so that, had the syllables suited such a junction, as they 
476did in the happier case of Charle-Magne, we might almost have 
477expected that, not Voltaire, but Voltaire-ce-grand-homme would 
478be his designation with posterity. However, posterity is much 
479more stinted in its allowances on that score ; and a multitude 
480of things remain to be adjusted, and questions of very dubious 
481issue to be gone into, before such coronation-titles can be con- 
482ceded with any permanence. The million, even the wiser part 
483of them, are apt to lose their discretion, when " tumultuously 
484assembled ; " for a small object, near at hand, may subtend a 
485large angle ; and often a Pennenden Heath has been mistaken 
486for a Field of Runnymede ; whereby the couplet on that im- 
487mortal Dalhousie proves to be the emblem of many a man's 
488real fortune with the public : 
489
490" And thou, Dalhousie, the great God of "War, 
491Lieutenant-Colonel to the Earl of Mar ; " 
492
493the latter end corresponding poorly with the beginning. To 
494ascertain what was the true significance of Voltaire's history, 
495both as respects himself and the world ; what was his specific 
496character and value as a man ; what has been the character 
497and value of his influence on society, of his appearance as an 
498active agent in the culture of Europe : all this leads us into 
499much deeper investigations ; on the settlement of which, how- 
500ever, the whole business turns. 
501
502To our own view, we confess, on looking at Voltaire's life, 
503the chief quality that shows itself is one for which adroitness 
504seems the fitter name. Greatness implies several conditions, 
505the* existence of which in his case it might be difficult to de- 
506monstrate ; but of his claim to this other praise there can be 
507no disputing. Whatever be his aims, high or low, just or the 
508contrary, he is, at all times and to the utmost degree, expert in 
509
510
511
512VOLTAIRE. 401 
513
514pursuing them. It is to be observed, moreover, that his aims 
515in general were not of a simple sort, and the attainment of 
516them easy : few literary men have had a course so diversified 
517with vicissitudes as Voltaire's. His life is not spent in a cor- 
518ner, like that of a studious recluse, but on the open theatre of 
519the world ; in an age full of commotion, when society is rending 
520itself asunder, Superstition already armed for deadly battle 
521against Unbelief ; in which battle he himself plays a dis- 
522tinguished part. From his earliest years, we find him in per- 
523petual communication with the higher personages of his time, 
524often with the highest : it is in circles of authority, of reputa- 
525tion, at lowest of fashion and rank, that he lives and works. 
526Ninon de 1'Enclos leaves the boy a legacy to buy books ; he is 
527still young, when he can say of his supper companions, " We 
528are all Princes or Poets." In after-life he exhibits himself in 
529company or correspondence with all manner of principalities 
530and powers, from Queen Caroline of England to the Empress 
531Catherine of Russia, from Pope Benedict to Frederick the 
532Great. Meanwhile, shifting from side to side of Europe, hid- 
533ing in the country, or living sumptuously in capital cities, he 
534quits not his pen ; with which, as with some enchanter's rod, 
535more potent than any king's sceptre, he turns and winds the 
536mighty machine of European Opinion ; approves himself, as 
537his schoolmaster had predicted, the Coryphee du Deisme ; and, 
538not content with this elevation, strives, and nowise ineffec- 
539tually, to unite with it a poetical, historical, philosophic and 
540even scientific pre-eminence. Nay, we may add, a pecuniary 
541one ; for he speculates in the funds, diligently solicits pensions 
542and promotions, trades to America, is long a regular victualling- 
543contractor for armies ; and thus, by one means and another, 
544independently of literature which would never yield much 
545money, raises his income from 800 francs a year to more than 
546centuple that sum. 1 And now, having, besides all this com- 
547mercial and economical business, written some thirty quartos, 
548the most popular that were ever written, he returns after long 
549exile to his native city, to be welcomed there almost as a re- 
550ligious idol ; and closes a life, prosperous alike in the building 
5511 See Tome ii. p. 328 of these Memoiret. 
552
553VOL. XII 
554
555
556
557402 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
558
559of country-seats, anc( the composition of Henriades and 
560Philosophical Dictionaries, by the most appropriate demise, 
561by drowning, as it were, in an ocean of applause ; so 
562that as he lived for fame, he may be said to hare died 
563of it. 
564
565Such various, complete success, granted only to a small por- 
566tion of men in any age of the world, presupposes at least, 
567with every allowance for good fortune, an almost unrivalled 
568expertness of management. There must have been a great 
569talent of some kind at work here; a cause proportionate to 
570the effect. It is wonderful, truly, to observe with what per- 
571fect skill Voltaire steers his course through so many conflict- 
572ing circumstances : how he weathers this Cape Horn, darts 
573lightly through that Mahlstrom ; always either sinks his 
574enemy, or shuns him ; here waters, and careens, and traffics 
575with the rich savages ; there lies land-locked till the hurricane 
576is overblown ; and so, in spite of all billows, and sea-monsters, 
577and hostile fleets, finishes his long Manilla voyage, with 
578streamers flying, and deck piled with ingots ! To say nothing 
579of his literary character, of which this same dexterous address 
580will also be found to be a main feature, let us glance only at 
581the general aspect of his conduct, as manifested both in his 
582writings and actions. By turns, and ever at the right season, 
583he is imperious and obsequious ; now shoots abroad, from the 
584mountain-tops, Hyperion-like, his keen innumerable shafts ; 
585anon, when danger is advancing, flies to obscure nooks ; or, 
586if taken in the fact, swears it was but in sport, and that he 
587is the peaceablest of men. He bends to occasion; can, to 
588a certain extent, blow hot or blow cold ; and never attempts 
589force, where cunning will serve his turn. The beagles of the 
590Hierarchy and of the Monarchy, proverbially quick of scent 
591and sharp of tooth, are out in quest of him ; but this is a lion- 
592fox which cannot be captured. By wiles and a thousand 
593doublings, he utterly distracts his pursuers ; he can burrow in 
594the earth, and all trace of him is gone. 1 With a strange sys- 
595
5961 Of one such " taking to cover " we have a curious and rather ridiculous 
597account in this Work, by Longchamp. It was with the Duchess du Maine 
598that he sought shelter, and on a very slight occasion : nevertheless he had 
599
600
601
602VOLTAIRE. 403 
603
604tern of anonymity and publicity, of denial and assertion, of 
605Mystification in all senses, has Voltaire surrounded himself. 
606He can raise no standing armies for his defence, yet he too 
607is a "European Power," and not undefended; an invisible, 
608impregnable, though hitherto unrecognized bulwark, that of 
609Public Opinion, defends him. With great art, he maintains 
610this stronghold ; though ever and anon sallying out from it, 
611far beyond the permitted limits. But he has his coat of dark- 
612ness, and his shoes of swiftness, like that other Killer of 
613Giants. We find Voltaire a supple courtier, or a sharp satir- 
614ist ; he can talk blasphemy, and build churches, according to 
615the signs of the times. Frederick the Great is not too high 
616for his diplomacy, nor the poor Printer of his Zadig too low ; l 
617he manages the Cardinal Fleuri, and the Cure of St. Sulpice ; 
618and laughs in his sleeve at all the world. We should pro- 
619nounce him to be one of the best politicians on record ; as we 
620have said, the adroitest of all literary men. 
621
622At the same time, Voltaire's worst enemies, it seems to us, 
623will not deny that he had naturally a keen sense for rectitude, 
624indeed for all virtue : the utmost vivacity of temperament 
625characterizes him ; his quick susceptibility for every form of 
626beauty is moral as well as intellectual. Nor was his practice 
627without indubitable and highly creditable proofs of this. To 
628the help-needing he was at all times a ready benefactor : many 
629were the hungry adventurers who profited of his bounty, and 
630then bit the hand that had fed them. If we enumerate his 
631generous acts, from the case of the Abbe Desfontaines down 
632to that of the Widow Galas, and the Serfs of Saint Claude, we 
633shall find that few private men have had* so wide a circle of 
634charity, and have watched over it so well. Should it be ob- 
635jected that love of reputation entered largely into these pro- 
636ceedings, Voltaire can afford a handsome deduction on that 
637head: should the uncharitable even calculate that love of 
638
639to lie perdue, for two months, at the Castle of Sceaux ; and, with closed 
640windows, and burning candles in daylight, compose Zadig, Babouc, Memnon, 
641frc. for his amusement. 
642
6431 See in Longchamp (pp. 154-163) how, by natural legerdemain, a knave 
644may be caught, and the change rendu a des imprimeurs infideles. 
645
646
647
648404 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
649
650reputation was the sole motive, we can only remind them that 
651love of such reputation is itself the effect of a social, humane 
652disposition; and wish, as an immense improvement, that all 
653men were animated with it. IVoltaire was nob without his 
654experience of human baseness ; but he still had a fellow-feeling 
655for human sufferings ; and delighted, were it only as an honest 
656luxury, to relieve theni7 His attachments seem remarkably 
657constant and lasting : eVen such sots as Thiriot, whom nothing 
658but habit could have endeared to him, he continues, and after 
659repeated injuries, to treat and regard as friends. Of his equals 
660we do not observe him envious, at least not palpably and 
661despicably so ; though this, we should add, might be in him, 
662who was from the first so paramountly popular, no such hard 
663attainment. Against Montesquieu, perhaps against him alone, 
664he cannot help entertaining a small secret grudge ; yet ever 
665in public he does him the amplest justice ; I'Arleyuin-Grotius of 
666the fireside becomes, on all grave occasions, the author of 
667the Esprit des Lois. Neither to his enemies, and even betrayers, 
668is Voltaire implacable or meanly vindictive : the instant of 
669their submission is also the instant of his forgiveness ; their 
670hostility itself provokes only casual sallies from him ; his 
671heart is too kindly, indeed too light, to cherish any rancor, 
672any continuation of revenge. If he has not the virtue to for- 
673give, he is seldom without the prudence to forget : if, in his 
674life-long contentions, he cannot treat his opponents with any 
675magnanimity, he seldom, or perhaps never once, treats them 
676quite basely ; seldom or never with that absolute unfairness, 
677which the law of retaliation might so often have seemed to 
678justify. We would say that, if no heroic, he is at all times a 
679perfectly civilized man ; which, considering that his war was 
680with exasperated theologians, and a " war to the knife " on 
681their part, may be looked upon as rather a surprising circum- 
682stance. He exhibits many minor virtues, a due appreciation 
683of the highest ; and fewer faults than, in his situation, might 
684have been expected, and perhaps pardoned. 
685
686All this is well, and may fit out a highly expert and much- 
687esteemed man of business, in the widest sense of that term : 
688but is still far from constituting a " great character." In fact, 
689
690
691
692VOLTAIRE. 405 
693
694there is one deficiency in Voltaire's original structure, which, 
695it appears to us, must be quite fatal to such claims for him : 
696we mean his inborn levity of nature, his entire want of Ear- 
697nestness. Voltaire was by birth a Mocker, and light Pococu- 
698rante; which natural disposition his way of life confirmed 
699into a predominant, indeed all-pervading habit. Far be it 
700from us to say, that solemnity is an essential of greatness ; 
701that no great man can have other than a rigid vinegar aspect 
702of countenance, never to be thawed or warmed by billows of 
703mirth ! There are things in this world to be laughed at, as 
704welljis things to be admired j and his is no complete mind, 
705that_cannot give to each sort its due. Nevertheless, contempt 
706is a dangerous element to sport in ; a deadly one, if we habit- 
707ually live in it. How, indeed, to take the lowest view of this 
708matter, shall a man accomplish great enterprises ; enduring 
709all toil, resisting temptation, laying aside every weight, 
710unless he zealously love what he pursues ? The faculty of 
711love, of admiration, is to be regarded as the sign and the 
712measure of high souls : unwisely directed, it leads to many 
713evils ; but without it, there cannot be any good. Kidicule, on 
714the other hand, is indeed a faculty much prized by its posses- 
715sors ; yet, intrinsically, it is a small faculty ; we may say, the 
716smallest of all faculties that other men are at the pains to 
717repay with any esteem. It is directly opposed to Thought, to 
718Knowledge, properly so called ; its nourishment and essence is 
719Denial, which hovers only on the surface, while Knowledge 
720dwells far below. Moreover, it is by nature selfish and mor- 
721ally trivial ; it cherishes nothing but our Vanity, which may 
722in general be left safely enough to shift for itself. Little 
723" discourse of reason," in any sense, is implied in Kidicule : a 
724scoffing man is in no lofty mood, for the time ; shows more of 
725the imp than of the angel. This too when his scoffing is what 
726we call just, and has some foundation on truth ; while again 
727the laughter of fools, that vain sound said in Scripture to 
728resemble the " crackling of thorns under the pot " (which they 
729cannot heat, but only soil and begrime), must be regarded, in 
730these latter times, as a very serious addition to the sum of 
731human wretchedness j nor perhaps will it always, when the 
732
733
734
735406 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
736
737" Increase of Crime in the Metropolis" comes to be debated 
738again, escape the vigilance of Parliament as hitherto. 
739
740We have, oftener than once, endeavored to attach some 
741meaning to that aphorism, vulgarly imputed to Sbaftesbury, 
742which, however, we can find nowhere in his works, that ridi- 
743cule is the test of truth. But of all chimeras that ever advanced 
744themselves in the shape of philosophical doctrines, this is to 
745us the most formless and purely inconceivable. Did or could 
746the unassisted human faculties ever understand it, much more 
747believe it ? Surely, so far as the common mind can discern, 
748laughter seems to depend not less on the laugher than on the 
749laughee : and now, who gave laughers a patent to be always 
750just, and always omniscient ? If the philosophers of Nootka 
751Sound were pleased to laugh at the manosuvres of Cook's sea- 
752men, did that render these manoeuvres useless ; and were the 
753seamen to stand idle, or to take to leather canoes, till the 
754laughter abated ? Let a discerning public judge. 
755
756But, leaving these questions for the present, we may observe 
757at least that all great men have been careful to subordinate 
758this talent or habit of ridicule ; nay, in the ages which we con- 
759sider the greatest, most of the arts that contribute to it have 
760been thought disgraceful for freemen, and confined to the ex- 
761ercise of slaves. With Voltaire, however, there is no such 
762subordination visible : by nature, or by practice, mockery has 
763grown to be the irresistible bias of his disposition ; so that for 
764him, in all matters, tl^g first question is, not what is true, but 
765what is false ; not what isto be~Toved,lind held fast, and ear- 
766nestly laid to heart, but what is to be contemned,, and derided. 
767and sportfully cast out of doors. Here truly he earns abun 
768dant triumph as an image-breaker, but pockets little real wealth. 
769Vanity, with its adjuncts, as we have said, finds rich solace- 
770ment ; but for aught better there is not much. Eeverence, 
771the highest feeling that man's nature is capable of, the crown 
772of his whole moral manhood, and precious, like fine gold, were 
773it in the rudest forms, he seems not to understand, or have 
774heard of even by credible tradition. The glory of knowing 
775and believing is all but a stranger to him ; only with that of 
776questioning and qualifying is he familiar. Accordingly, he 
777
778
779
780VOLTAIRE. 407 
781
782sees but a little way into Nature : the mighty All, in its 
783beauty, and infinite mysterious grandeur, humbling the small 
784Me into nothingness, has never even for moments been re- 
785vealed to him ; only this or that other atom of it, and the dif- 
786ferences and discrepancies of these two, has he looked into 
787and noted down. His theory of the world, his picture of man 
788and man's life, is little ; for a Poet and Philosopher, even 
789pitiful. Examine it in its highest developments, you find it 
790an altogether vulgar picture ; simply a reflex, with more or 
791fewer mirrors, of Self and the poor interests of Self. " The 
792Divine Idea, that which lies at the bottom of Appearance," 
793was never more invisible to any man. He reads History not 
794with the eye of a devout seer, or even of a critic ; but through 
795a pair of mere anti-catholic spectacles. It is not a mighty 
796drama, enacted on the theatre of Infinitude, with Suns for 
797lamps, and Eternity as a background ; whose author is God, 
798and whose purport and thousand-fold moral lead us up to the 
799" dark with excess of light " of the Throne of God j but a poor 
800wearisome debating-club dispute, spun through ten centuries, 
801between the Encyclopedic and the Sorbonne. Wisdom or folly, 
802nobleness or baseness, are merely superstitious or unbelieving : 
803God's Universe is a larger Patrimony of St. Peter, from which 
804it were well and pleasant to hunt out the Pope. 
805
806In this way, Voltaire's nature, which was originally vehe- 
807ment rather than deep, came, in its maturity, in spite of all 
808bis wonderful gifts, to be positively shallow. We find no 
809heroism of character in him, from first to last ; nay there is 
810not, that we know of, one great thought in all his six-and- 
811thirty quartos. The high worth implanted in him by Nature, 
812and still often manifested in his conduct, does not shine there 
813like a light, but like a coruscation. The enthusiasm, proper 
814to such a mind, visits him ; but it has no abiding virtue in his 
815thoughts, no local habitation and no name. There is in him a 
816rapidity, but at the same time a pettiness ; a certain violence, 
817and fitful abruptness, which takes from him all dignity. Of 
818his emportemens, and tragi-comical explosions, a thousand anec- 
819dotes are on record ; neither is he, in these cases, a terrific 
820volcano, but a mere bundle of rockets. He is nigh shooting 
821
822
823
824408 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
825
826poor Dorn, the Frankfort constable ; actually fires a pistol, 
827into the lobby, at him ; and this, three days after that melan- 
828choly business of the " (Euvre de Poeshie du Roi mon Maitre " 
829had been finally adjusted. A bookseller, who, with the natural 
830instinct of fallen mankind, overcharges him, receives from this 
831Philosopher, by way of payment at sight, a slap on the face. 
832Poor Longchamp, with considerable tact, and a praiseworthy 
833air of second-table respectability, details various scenes of this 
834kind : how Voltaire dashed away his combs, and maltreated 
835his wig, and otherwise fiercely comported himself, the very 
836first morning : how once, having a keenness of appetite, sharp- 
837ened by walking and a diet of weak tea, .he became uncom- 
838monly anxious for supper ; and Clairaut and Madame du 
839Chatelet, sunk in algebraic calculations, twice promised to 
840come down, but still kept the dishes cooling, and the Philoso- 
841pher at last desperately battered open their locked door with 
842his foot; exclaiming, " Vous etes done de concert pour me 
843faire mourir?" And yet Voltaire had a true kindness of 
844heart ; all his domestics and dependents loved him, and con- 
845tinued with him. He has many elements of goodness, but 
846floating loosely ; nothing is combined in steadfast union. It 
847is true, he presents in general a surface of smoothness, of cul- 
848tured regularity ; yet, under it, there is not the silent rock- 
849bound strength of a World, but the wild tumults of a Chaos 
850are ever bursting through. He is a man of power, but not of 
851beneficent authority ; we fear, but cannot reverence him ; we 
852feel him to be stronger, not higher. 
853
854Much of this spiritual shortcoming and perversion might be 
855due to natural defect ; but much of it also is due to the age into 
856which he was cast. It was an age of discord and division ; 
857the approach of a grand crisis in human affairs. Already we 
858discern in it all the elements of the French Revolution ; and 
859wonder, so easily do we forget how entangled and hidden the 
860meaning of the present generally is to us, that all men did not 
861foresee the comings-onof that fearful convulsion. On the one 
862hand, a high all-attempting activity of Intellect ; the most 
863peremptory spirit of inquiry abroad on every subject ; things 
864human and things divine alike cited without misgivings before 
865
866
867
868
869
870
871VOLTAIRE. 409 
872
873the same boastful tribunal of so-called Reason, which means 
874here a merely argumentative Logic ; the strong in mind ex- 
875cluded from his regular influence in the state, and deeply con- 
876scious of that injury. On the other hand, a privileged few, 
877strong in the subjection of the many, yet in itself weak ; a 
878piebald, and for most part altogether decrepit battalion of 
879Clergy, of purblind Nobility, or rather of Courtiers, for as yet 
880the Nobility is mostly on the other side : these cannot fight 
881with Logic, and the day of Persecution is well-nigh done. The 
882whole force of law, indeed, is still in their hands ; but the far 
883deeper force, which alone gives efficacy to law, is hourly pass- 
884ing from them. Hope animates one side, fear the other ; and 
885the battle will be fierce and desperate. For there is wit with- 
886out wisdom on the part of the self-styled Philosophers ; fee- 
887bleness with exasperation on the part of their opponents ; pride 
888enough on all hands, but little magnanimity ; perhaps nowhere 
889any pure love of truth, only everywhere the purest, most 
890ardent love of self. 
891
892In such a state of things, there lay abundant principles of 
893discord : these two influences hung like fast-gathering electric 
894clouds, as yet on opposite sides of the horizon, but with a 
895malignity of aspect, which boded, whenever they might meet, 
896a sky of fire and blackness, thunder-bolts to waste the earth ; 
897and the sun and stars, though but for a season, to be blotted 
898out from the heavens. For there is no corfducting medium 
899to unite softly these hostile elements ; there is no true virtue, 
900no true wisdom, on the one side or on the other. Never per- 
901haps was there an epoch, in the history of the world, when 
902universal corruption called so loudly for reform ; and they who 
903undertook that task were men intrinsically so worthless. Not 
904by Gracchi but by Catilines, not by Luthers but by Aretines, 
905was Europe to be renovated. The task has been a long and 
906bloody one ; and is still far from done. 
907
908In this condition of affairs, what side such a man as Vol- 
909taire was to take could not be doubtful. Whether he ought 
910to have taken either side ; whether he should not rather have 
911stationed himself in the middle ; the partisan of neither, per- 
912haps hated by both; acknowledging and forwarding, and 
913
914
915
916410 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
917
918striving to reconcile, what truth was in each ; and preaching 
919forth a far deeper truth, which, if his own century had 
920neglected it, had persecuted it, future centuries would have 
921recognized as priceless : all this was another question. Of no 
922man, however gifted, can we require what he has not to give : 
923but Voltaire called himself Philosopher f jiay the Philosopher. 
924And such has often, indeed generally, been the fate of great 
925men, and Lovers of Wisdom : their own age and country have 
926treated them as of no account ; in the great Corn-Exchange of 
927the world, their pearls have seemed but spoiled barley, and 
928been ignominiously rejected. Weak in adherents, strong only 
929in theii- faith, in their indestructible consciousness of worth 
930and well-doing, they have silently, or in words, appealed to 
931coming ages, when their own ear would indeed be shut to the 
932voice of love and of hatred, but the Truth that had dwelt in 
933them would speak with a voice audible to all. Bacon left his 
934works to future generations, when some centuries should have 
935elapsed. " Is it much for me," said Kepler, in his isolation, 
936and extreme need, " that men should accept my discovery ? 
937If the Almighty waited six thousand years for one to see 
938what He had made, I may surely wait two hundred for one to 
939understand what I have seen ! " All this, and more, is im- 
940plied in love of wisdom, in genuine seeking of truth: the 
941noblest function that can be appointed for a man, but requir- 
942ing also the noblest man to fulfil it. 
943
944With Voltaire, however, there is no symptom, perhaps there 
945was no conception, of such nobleness ; the high call for which 
946indeed, in the existing state of things, his intellect may have 
947had as little the force to discern, as his heart had the force to 
948obey. He follows a simpler course. Heedless of remoter 
949issues, he adopts the cause of his own party ; of that class 
950with whom he lived, and was most anxious to stand well : he 
951enlists in their ranks, not without hopes that he may one day 
952rise to be their general. A resolution perfectly accordant 
953with his prior habits, and temper of mind ; and from which 
954his whole subsequent procedure, and moral aspect as a man, 
955naturally enough evolves itself. Not that we would say, 
956Voltaire was a mere prize-fighter; one of " Heaven's Swiss," 
957
958
959
960VOLTAIRE. 411 
961
962contending for a cause which he only half, or not at all ap- 
963proved of. Far from it. Doubtless hejove^touth, doubtless 
964he partially felt himself to be advocating truth ; nay we know 
965not that he has ever yet, in a single instance, been convicted 
966of wilfully perverting his belief; of uttering, in all his con- 
967troversies, one deliberate falsehood. Nor should this negative 
968praise seem an altogether slight one ; for greatly were it to be 
969wished that even the best of his better-intentioned opponents 
970had always deserved the like. Nevertheless, his love of 
971truth is not that deep infinite love, which beseems a Phi- 
972losopher ; which many ages have been fortunate enough to 
973witness ; nay, of which his own age had still some examples. 
974It is a far inferior love, we should say, to that of poor Jean 
975Jacques, half-sage, half-maniac as he was ; it is more a pru- 
976dent calculation than a passion. Voltaire loves Truth, but 
977chiefly gf the trmmphant sort : we have no instance of his 
978fighting for a quite discrowned and outcast Truth ; it is chiefly 
979when she walks abroad, in distress it may be, but still with 
980queenlike insignia, and knighthoods and renown are to be 
981earned in her battles, that he defends her, that he charges 
982gallantly against the Cades and Tylers. Nay, at all times, 
983belief itself seems, with him, to be less the product of Medi- 
984tation than of Argument. His first question with regard to 
985any doctrine, perhaps his final test of its worth and genuine- 
986ness is : Can others be convinced of this ? Can I truck it in 
987the market for power ? " To such questioners/' it has been 
988said, " Truth, who buys not, and sells not, goes on her way, 
989and makes no answer." 
990
991In fact, if we inquire into Voltaire's ruling motive, we shall 
992find that it was at bottom but a vulgar one : ambition, the 
993desire of ruling, by such means as he had, over other men. 
994He acknowledges no higher divinity than Public Opinion ; for 
995whatever he asserts or performs, the number of votes is the 
996measure of strength and value. Yet let us be just to him ; 
997let us admit that he in some degree estimates his votes, as 
998well as counts them. If love of fame, which, especially for 
999such a man, we can only call another modification of Vanity, 
1000is always his ruling passion, he has a certain taste in grati- 
1001
1002
1003
1004412 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
1005
1006fying it. His vanity, which cannot be extinguished, is ever 
1007skilfully concealed ; even his just claims are never boisterously 
1008insisted on ; throughout his whole life he shows no single fea- 
1009ture of the quack. Nevertheless, even in the height of his 
1010glory, he has a strange sensitiveness to the judgment of the 
1011world : could he have contrived a Dionysius' Ear, in the Eue 
1012Traversiere, we should have found him watching at it, night 
1013and day. Let but any little evil-disposed Abbe, any Freron 
1014or Piron, 
1015
1016" Pauvre Piron, qui ne fut jamais rien, 
1017Pas meme Academicien," 
1018
1019write a libel or epigram on him, what a fluster he is in ! We 
1020grant he forbore much, in these cases ; manfully consumed his 
1021own spleen, and sometimes long held his peace ; but it was 
1022his part to have always done so. Why should such a man 
1023ruffle himself with the spite of exceeding small persons ? 
1024Why not let these poor devils write ; why should not they 
1025earn a dishonest penny, at his expense, if they had no readier 
1026way ? But Voltaire cannot part with his " voices," his " most 
1027sweet voices : " for they are his gods ; take these, and what 
1028has he left ? Accordingly, in literature and morals, in all his 
1029comings and goings, we find him striving, with a religious 
1030care, to sail strictly with the wind. In Art, the Parisian 
1031Parterre is his court of last appeal : he consults the Cafe de 
1032Procope, on his wisdom or his folly, as if it were a Delphic 
1033Oracle. The following adventure belongs to his fifty-fourth 
1034year, when his fame might long have seemed abundantly 
1035established. We translate from the Sieur Longchamp's thin, 
1036half-roguish, mildly obsequious, most lackey-like Narrative : 
1037
1038"Judges could appreciate the merits of Semiramis, which 
1039has continued on the stage, and always been seen there with 
1040pleasure. Every one knows how the two principal parts in 
1041this piece contributed to the celebrity of two great trage- 
1042dians, Mademoiselle Dumesnil and M. le Kain. The enemies 
1043of M. de Voltaire renewed their attempts in the subsequent rep- 
1044resentations ; but it only the better confirmed his triumph. 
1045Piron, to console himself for the defeat of his party, had 
1046
1047
1048
1049VOLTAIRE. 413 
1050
1051ecourse to his usual remedy ; pelting the piece with some 
1052paltry epigrams, which did it no harm. 
1053
1054"Nevertheless, M. de Voltaire, who always loved to correct 
1055his works, and perfect them, became desirous to learn, more 
1056specially and at first hand, what good or ill the public were 
1057saying of his Tragedy ; and it appeared to him that he could 
1058nowhere learn it better than in the Cafe de Procope, which was 
1059also called the Antre (Cavern) de Procope, because it was very 
1060dark even in full day, and ill-lighted in the evenings ; and be- 
1061cause you often saw there a set of lank, sallow poets, who had 
1062somewhat the air of apparitions. In this Cafe, which fronts 
1063the Comedie Fran$aise, had been held, for more than sixty 
1064years, the tribunal of those self -called Aristarchs, who fancied 
1065they could pass sentence without appeal, on plays, authors and 
1066actors. M. de Voltaire wished to compear there, but in dis- 
1067guise and altogether incognito. It was on coming out from the 
1068playhouse that the judges usually proceeded thither, to open 
1069what they called their great sessions. On the second night of 
1070Semiramis he borrowed a clergyman's clothes ; dressed him- 
1071self in cassock and long cloak : black stockings, girdle, bands, 
1072breviary itself ; nothing was forgotten. He clapt on a large 
1073peruke, unpowdered, very ill-combed, which covered more than 
1074the half of his cheeks, and left nothing to be seen but the 
1075end of a long nose. The peruke was surmounted by a large 
1076three-cornered hat, corners half bruised in. In this equipment, 
1077then, the author of Semiramis proceeded on foot to the Cafe 
1078de Procope, where he squatted himself in a corner ; and wait- 
1079ing for the end of the play, called for a bavaroise, a small 
1080roll of bread and the Gazette. It was not long till those 
1081familiars of the Parterre and tenants of the Cafe stept in. 
1082They instantly began discussing the new Tragedy. Its parti- 
1083sans and its adversaries pleaded their cause with warmth; 
1084each giving his reasons. Impartial persons also spoke their 
1085sentiment ; and repeated some fine verses of the piece. Dur- 
1086ing all this time, M. de Voltaire, with spectacles on nose, head 
1087stooping over the Gazette which he pretended to be reading, 
1088was listening to the debate ; profiting by reasonable observa- 
1089tions, suffering much to hear very absurd ones, and not answer 
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094414 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
1095
1096them, which irritated him. Thus, during an hour and a half, 
1097had he the courage and patience to hear Semiramis talked of 
1098and babbled of, without speaking a word. At last, all these 
1099pretended judges of the fame of authors having gone their 
1100ways, without converting one another, M. de Voltaire also 
1101went off; took a coach in the Hue Mazarine, and returned 
1102home about eleven o'clock. Though I knew of his disguise, I 
1103confess I was struck and almost frightened to see him accou- 
1104tred so. I took him for a spectre, or shade of Ninus, that was 
1105appearing to me ; or, at least, for one of those ancient Irish 
1106debaters, arrived at the end of their career, after wearing them- 
1107selves out in school-syllogisms. I helped him to doff all that 
1108apparatus, which I carried next morning to its true owner, a 
1109Doctor of the Sorbonne." 
1110
1111This stroke of art, which cannot in anywise pass for sub- 
1112lime, might have its uses and rational purpose in one case, 
1113and only in one: if Semiramis was meant to be a popular 
1114show, that was to live or die by its first impression on the idle 
1115multitude ; which accordingly we must infer to have been its 
1116real, at least its chief destination. In any other case, we can- 
1117not but consider this Haroun-Alraschid visit to the Cafe de 
1118Procope as questionable, and altogether inadequate. If Semi- 
1119ramis was a Poem, a living Creation, won from the empyrean 
1120by the silent power and long-continued Promethean toil of its 
1121author, what could the Cafe de Procope know of it, what could 
1122all Paris know of it, " on the second night " ? Had it been 
1123a Milton's Paradise Lost, they might have despised it till after 
1124the fiftieth year ! True, the object of the Poet is, and must 
1125be, to '* ^nstruct by pleasing/' yet not by pleasing this man and 
1126that man ; only by pleasing^m^m, by speaking to the pure na- 
1127ture of man, can any real "instruction," in this sense, be con- 
1128veyed. Vain does it seem to search for a judgment of this 
1129kind in the largest Cafe in the largest Kingdom, " on the 
1130second night." The deep, clear consciousness of one mind 
1131comes infinitely nearer it, than the loud outcry of a million 
1132that have no such consciousness ; whose " talk," or whose 
1133" babble," but distracts the listener ; and to most genuine 
1134Poets has, from of old, been in a great measure indifferent. 
1135
1136
1137
1138VOLTAIRE. 415 
1139
1140For the multitude of voices is no authority; a thousand 
1141voices may not, strictly examined, amount to one vote. Man- 
1142kind in this world are divided into flocks, and follow their sev- 
1143eral bell-wethers. Now, it is well known, let the bell-wether 
1144rush through any gap, the rest rush after him, were it into 
1145bottomless quagmires. Nay, so conscientious are sheep in this 
1146particular; as a quaint naturalist and moralist has noted, "if 
1147you hold a stick before the wether, so that he is forced to 
1148vault in his passage, the whole flock will do the like when 
1149the stick is withdrawn ; and the thousandth sheep shall be 
1150seen vaulting impetuously over air, as the first did over an 
1151otherwise impassable barrier ! " A farther peculiarity which, 
1152in consulting Acts of Parliament, and other authentic records, 
1153not only as regards " Catholic Disabilities," but many other 
1154matters, you may find curiously verified in the human species 
1155also! On the whole, we must consider this excursion to 
1156Procope's literary Cavern as illustrating Voltaire in rather 
1157pleasant style ; but nowise much to his honor. Fame seems a 
1158far too high, if not the highest object with him ; nay some- 
1159times even popularity is clutched at: we see no heavenly 
1160polestar in this voyage of his ; but only the guidance of a pro- 
1161verbially uncertain wind. 
1162
1163Voltaire reproachfully says of St. Louis, that he " ought to 
1164have been above his age ; " but in his own case we can find few 
1165symptoms of such heroic superiority. The same perpetual 
1166appeal to his contemporaries, the same intense regard to repu- 
1167tation, as he viewed it, prescribes for him both his enterprises 
1168and his manner of conducting them. LHis aim is to please the 
1169more enlightened, at least the politer part of the world ; and he 
1170offers them simply what they most wish for, be it in theatri- 
1171cal shows for their pastime, or in sceptical doctrines for their 
1172edificatio_nj For this latter purpose, Ridicule is. thp. weapon 
1173he^-aalects^ and it suits him well. This was not the age of 
1174deep thoughts ; no Due de Richelieu, no Prince Conti, no 
1175Frederick the Great would have listened to such : only sport- 
1176ful contempt, and a thin conversational logic will avail. There 
1177may be wool-quilts, which the lath-sword of Harlequin will 
1178pierce, when the club of Hercules has rebounded from them in 
1179
1180
1181
1182416 CKITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
1183
1184vain. As little was this an age for high, virtues ; no heroism, 
1185in any form, is required, or even acknowledged j but only, in 
1186all forms, a certain bienseance. 
1187
1188To this rule also Voltaire readily conforms; indeed, he 
1189finds no small advantage in it. For a lax public morality 
1190not only allows him the indulgence of many a little private 
1191vice, and brings him in this and the other windfall of menus 
1192plaisirs, but opens him the readiest resource in many enter- 
1193prises of danger. Of all men, Voltaire has the least dispo- 
1194sition to increase the Army of Martyrs. No testimony will 
1195he seal with his blood ; scarcely any will he so much as sign 
1196with ink. His obnoxious doctrines, as we have remarked, he 
1197publishes under a thousand concealments ; with underplots, 
1198and wheels within wheels ; so that his whole track is in dark- 
1199ness, only his works see the light. No Proteus is so nimble, 
1200or assumes so many shapes : if, by rare chance, caught sleep- 
1201ing, he whisks through the smallest hole, and is out of sight, 
1202while the noose is getting ready. Let his judges take him to 
1203task, he will shuffle and evade ; if directly questioned, he will 
1204even lie. In regard to this last point, the Marquis de Con- 
1205dorcet has set up a defence for him, which has at least the 
1206merit of being frank enough. 
1207
1208"The necessity of lying in order to disavow any work," 
1209says he, " is an extremity equally repugnant to conscience and 
1210nobleness of character : but the crime lies with those unjust 
1211men, who render such disavowal necessary to the safety of 
1212him whom they force to it. If you have made a crime of 
1213what is not one ; if, by absurd or by arbitrary laws, you have 
1214infringed the natural right, which all men have, not only to 
1215form an opinion, but to render it public ; then you deserve 
1216to lose the right which every man has of hearing the truth 
1217from the mouth of another ; a right which is the sole basis 
1218of that rigorous obligation, not to lie. If it is not permitted 
1219to deceive, the reason is, that to deceive any one, is to do him 
1220a wrong, or expose yourself to do him one ; but a wrong sup- 
1221poses a right ; and no one has the right of seeking to secure 
1222himself the means of committing an injustice." l 
12231 Vie de Voltaire, p. 32. 
1224
1225
1226
1227VOLTAIRE. 417 
1228
1229It is strange, how scientific discoveries do maintain them- 
1230selves : here, quite in other hands, and in an altogether dif- 
1231ferent dialect, we have the old Catholic doctrine, if it ever 
1232was more than a Jesuitic one, " that faith need not be kept 
1233with heretics." Truth, it appears, is too precious an article 
1234for our enemies ; is fit only for friends, for those who will 
1235pay us if we tell it them. It may be observed, however, 
1236that granting Condorcet's premises, this doctrine also must 
1237be granted, as indeed is usual with that sharp-sighted writer. 
1238If the doing of right depends on the receiving of it ; if our 
1239fellow-men, in this world, are not persons, but mere things, 
1240that for services bestowed will return services, steam-en- 
1241gines that will manufacture calico, if we put in coals and 
1242water, then doubtless, the calico ceasing, our coals and 
1243water may also rationally cease ; the questioner threatening 
1244to injure us for the truth, we may rationally tell him lies. 
1245But if, on the other hand, our fellow-man is no steam-engine, 
1246but a man ; united with us, and with all men, and with the 
1247Maker of all men, in sacred, mysterious, indissoluble bonds, 
1248in an All-embracing Love, that encircles alike the seraph 
1249and the glow-worm; then will our duties to him rest on 
1250quite another basis than this very humble one of quid pro 
1251quo; and the Marquis de Condorcet's conclusion will be 
1252false; and might, in its practical extensions, be infinitely 
1253pernicious. 
1254
1255Such principles and habits, too lightly adopted by Voltaire, 
1256acted, as it seems to us, with hostile effect on his moral nature, 
1257not originally of the noblest sort, but which, under other in- 
1258fluences, might have attained to far greater nobleness. As it 
1259is, we see in him simply a Man of the World, such as Paris 
1260and the eighteenth century produced and approved of: a 
1261polite, attractive, most cultivated, but essentially self-inter- 
1262ested man ; riot without highly amiable qualities ; indeed, 
1263with a general disposition which we could have accepted 
1264without disappointment in a mere Man of the World, but 
1265must find very defective, sometimes altogether out of place, 
1266in a Poet and Philosopher. Above this character of a Parisian 
1267" nonorable man," he seldom or iievei rises ; nay sometimes 
1268
1269VOL. XIII. 27 
1270
1271
1272
1273418 CKITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
1274
1275we find him hovering on the very lowest boundaries of it, 01 
1276perhaps even fairly below it. We shall nowise accuse him of 
1277excessive regard for money, of any wish to shine by the in- 
1278fluence of mere wealth : let those commercial speculations, 
1279including even the victualling-contracts, pass for laudable 
1280prudence, for love of independence, and of the power to do 
1281good. But what are we to make of that hunting after pen- 
1282sions, and even after mere titles ? There is an assiduity 
1283displayed here, which sometimes almost verges towards sneak- 
1284ing. Well might it provoke the scorn of Alfieri ; for there 
1285is nothing better than the spirit of " a French plebeian " ap- 
1286parent in it. Much, we know, very much should be allowed 
1287for difference of national manners, which in general mainly 
1288determine the meaning of such things : nevertheless, to our 
1289insular feelings, that famous Trajan est-il content? especially 
1290when we consider who the Trajan was, will always remain 
1291an unfortunate saying. The .more so, as Trajan himself 
1292turned his back on it, without answer ; declining, indeed, 
1293through life, to listen to the voice of this charmer, or disturb 
1294his own " dme paisible" for one moment, though with the best 
1295philosopher in Nature. Nay, Pompadour herself was applied 
1296to ; and even some considerable progress made, by that under- 
1297ground passage, had not an envious hand too soon and fatally 
1298intervened. D'Alembert says, there are two things that can 
1299reach the top of a pyramid, the eagle and the reptile. Ap- 
1300parently, Voltaire wished to combine both methods ; and he 
1301had with one of them but indifferent success. 
1302
1303The truth is, we are trying Voltaire by too high a standard , 
1304comparing him with an ideal, which he himself never strove 
1305after, perhaps never seriously aimed at. He is no great Man, 
1306but only a great Persifleur a man for whom life, and all that 
1307pertains to it, has, at best, but a despicable meaning ; who 
1308meets its difficulties not with earnest force, but with gay 
1309agility ; and is found always at the top, less by power in 
1310swimming, than by lightness in floating. Take him in his 
1311character, forgetting that any other was ever ascribed to him, 
1312and we find that he enacted it almost to perfection. Never 
1313
1314
1315
1316VOLTAIRE. 419 
1317
1318man better understood the whole secret of Persiflage y mean* 
1319ing thereby not only the external faculty of polite contempt, 
1320but that art of general inward contempt, by which a man oi 
1321this sort endeavors to subject the circumstances of his Destiny 
1322to his Volition, and be, what is the instinctive effort of all 
1323men, though in the midst of material Necessity, morally Free. 
1324Voltaire's latent derision is as light, copious and all-pervading 
1325as the derision which he utters. Nor is this so simple an at- 
1326tainment as we might fancy ; a certain kind and degree of 
1327Stoicism, or approach to Stoicism, is necessary for the com- 
1328pleted Persifleur; as for moral, or even practical completion, 
1329in any other way. The most indifferent-minded man is not 
1330by nature indifferent to his own pain and pleasure : this is an 
1331indifference which he must by some method study to acquire, 
1332or acquire the show of j and which, it is fair to say, Voltaire 
1333manifests in a rather respectable degree. 
1334
1335Without murmuring, he has reconciled himself to most 
1336things : the human lot, in this lower world, seems a strange 
1337business, yet, on the whole, with more of the farce in it than 
1338of the tragedy ; to him it is nowise heartrending that this 
1339Planet of ours should be sent sailing through Space, like 
1340a miserable aimless Ship-of-Fools, and he himself be a fool 
1341among the rest, and only a very little wiser than they. He 
1342does not, like Bolingbroke, "patronize Providence," though 
1343such sayings as Si Dieu n'existait pas, il faudrait Vinventer, 
1344seem now and then to indicate a tendency of that sort : but, 
1345at all events, he never openly levies war against Heaven ; well 
1346knowing that the time spent in frantic malediction, directed 
1347thither, might be spent otherwise with more profit. There is, 
1348truly, no Werterism in him, either in its bad or its good sense. 
1349If he sees no unspeakable majesty in heaven and earth, 
1350neither does he ee any unsufferable horror there. His view 
1351of the world is a cool, gently scornful, altogether prosaic one : 
1352his sublimest Apocalypse of Nature lies in the microscope and 
1353telescope ; the Earth is a place for producing corn ; the Starry 
1354Heavens are admirable as a nautical timekeeper. Yet, like 
1355a prudent man, he has adjusted himself to his condition, such 
1356as it is: he does not chant any Miserere over human life, cal 
1357
1358
1359
1360420 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
1361
1362culating that no charitable dole, but only laughter, would be 
1363the reward of such an enterprise ; does not hang or drown him- 
1364self, clearly understanding that death of itself will soon save 
1365him that trouble. Affliction, it is true, has not for him any 
1366precious jewel in its head ; on the contrary, it is an unmixed 
1367nuisance ; yet, happily, not one to be howled over, so much as 
1368one to be speedily removed out of sight: if he does not learn 
1369from it Humility, and the sublime lesson of Resignation, 
1370neither does it teach him hard-heartedness and sickly discon- 
1371tent ; but he bounds lightly over it, leaving both the jewel and 
1372the toad at a safe distance behind him. 
1373
1374Nor was Voltaire's history without perplexities enough to 
1375keep this principle in exercise ; to try whether in life, as in 
1376literature, the ridiculum were really better than the acre. We 
1377must own, that on no occasion does it altogether fail him ; 
1378never does he seem perfectly at a nonplus ; no adventure is 
1379so hideous, that he cannot, in tke long-run, find some means 
1380to laugh at it, and forget it. Take, for instance, that last 
1381ill-omened visit of his to Frederick the Great. This was, 
1382probably, the most mortifying incident in Voltaire's whole 
1383life : an open experiment, in the sight of all Europe, to ascer- 
1384tain whether French Philosophy had virtue enough in it to 
1385found any friendly union, in such circumstances, even between 
1386its great master and his most illustrious disciple ; and an ex- 
1387periment which answered in the negative. As was natural 
1388enough ; for Vanity is of a divisive, not of a uniting nature ; 
1389and between the King of Letters and the King of Armies 
1390there existed no other tie. They should have kept up an 
1391interchange of flattery, from afar: gravitating towards one 
1392another like celestial luminaries, if they reckoned themselves 
1393such ; yet always with a due centrifugal force ; for if either 
1394shot madly from his sphere, nothing but collision, and con- 
1395cussion, and mutual recoil, could be the consequence. On the 
1396whole, we must pity Frederick, environed with that cluster 
1397of Philosophers : doubtless he meant rather well ; yet the 
1398French at Eossbach, with guns in their hands, were but a 
1399small matter, compared with these French in Sans-Souci. 
1400Maupertuis sits sullen, monosyllabic ; gloomy like the bear 
1401
1402
1403
1404VOLTAIKE. 421 
1405
1406of his own arctic zone : Voltaire is the mad piper that will 
1407make him dance to tunes and amuse the people. In this royal 
1408circle, with its parasites and bashaws, what heats and jeal- 
1409ousies must there not have been ; what secret heart-burnings, 
1410smooth-faced malice, plottings, counter-plottings, and laurel- 
1411water pharmacy, in all its branches, before the ring of eti- 
1412quette fairly burst asunder, and the establishment, so to speak, 
1413exploded ! 
1414
1415Yet over all these distressing matters Voltaire has thrown 
1416a soft veil of gayety ; he remembers neither Dr. Akakia, nor 
1417Dr. Akakia's patron, with any animosity ; but merely as actors 
1418in the grand farce of life along with him, a new scene of which 
1419has now commenced, quite displacing the other from the stage. 
1420The arrest at Frankfort, indeed, is a sour morsel ; but this too 
1421he swallows, with, an effort. Frederick, as we are given to 
1422understand, had these whims by kind ; was, indeed, a wonder- 
1423ful scion from such a stock ; for what could equal the avarice, 
1424malice and rabid snappishness of old Frederick William the 
1425father ? 
1426
1427" He had a minister at the Hague, named Luicius," says the 
1428wit : " this Luicius was, of all royal ministers extant, the worst 
1429paid. The poor man, with a view to warm himself, had a 
1430few trees cut down, in the garden of Honslardik, then belong- 
1431ing to the House of Prussia ; immediately thereafter he re- 
1432ceived despatches from the King his master, keeping back a 
1433year of his salary. Luicius, in despair, cut his throat with 
1434the only razor he had (avec le seul rasoir qu'il eut) : an old 
1435lackey came to his assistance, and unfortunately saved his 
1436life. At an after period, I myself saw his Excellency at the 
1437Hague, and gave him an alms at the gate of that Palace 
1438called La Vieille Cour, which belongs to the King of Prussia, 
1439where this unhappy Ambassador had lived twelve years." 
1440
1441With the Roi-Philosophe himself Voltaire in a little while 
1442recommences correspondence ; and, to all appearance, proceeds 
1443quietly in his office of " buckwasher," that is, of verse-corrector 
1444to his Majesty, as if nothing whatever had happened. 
1445
1446Again, what human pen can describe the troubles this 
1447unfortunate philosopher had with his women? A gadding, 
1448
1449
1450
1451422 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
1452
1453feather-brained, capricious, old-coquettish, embittered and em- 
1454bittering set of wantons from the earliest to the last ! Widow 
1455Denis, for example, that disobedient Niece, whom he rescued 
1456from furnished lodgings and spare diet, into pomp and plenty, 
1457how did she pester the last stage of his existence, for twenty- 
1458four years long ! Blind to the peace and roses of Ferney , 
1459ever hankering and fretting after Parisian display ; not with- 
1460out flirtation, though advanced in life ; losing money at play, 
1461and purloining wherewith to make it good ; scolding his ser- 
1462vants, quarrelling with his secretaries, so that the too indul- 
1463gent uncle must turn off his beloved Collini, nay almost be 
1464run through the body by him, for her sake ! The good Wag- 
1465niere, who succeeded this fiery Italian in the secretaryship, 
1466and loved Voltaire with a most creditable affection, cannot, 
1467though a simple, humble and philanthropic man, speak of 
1468Madame Denis without visible overflowings of gall. He 
1469openly accuses her of hastening her uncle's death by her 
1470importunate stratagems to keep him in Paris, where was 
1471her heavenj Indeed it is clear that, his goods and chattels 
1472once made sure of, her chief care was that so fiery a patient 
1473might die soon enough ; or, at best, according to her own con- 
1474fession, " how she was to get him buried." We have known 
1475superannuated grooms, nay effete saddle-horses, regarded with 
1476more real sympathy in their home, than was the best of uncles 
1477by the worst of nieces. Had not this surprising old man 
1478retained the sharpest judgment, and the gayest, easiest tem- 
1479per, his last days and last years must have been a continued 
1480scene of violence and tribulation. 
1481
1482Little better, worse in several respects, though at a time 
1483when he could better endure it, was the far-famed Marquise 
1484du Chatelet. Many a tempestuous day and wakeful night 
1485had he with that scientific and too-fascinating shrew. She 
1486speculated in mathematics and metaphysics ; but was an adept 
1487also in far, very far different acquirements. Setting aside 
1488its whole criminality, which, indeed, perhaps went for little 
1489there, this literary amour wears but a mixed aspect ; short sun- 
1490gleams, with long tropical tornadoes ; touches of guitar-music, 
1491soon followed by Lisbon earthquakes. Marmontel, we remem' 
1492
1493
1494
1495VOLTAIRE. 423 
1496
1497ber, speaks of knives being used, at least brandished, and for 
1498quite other purposes than carving. Madame la Marquise was 
1499no saint, in any sense ; but rather a Socrates's spouse, who 
1500would keep patience, and the whole philosophy of gayety, 
1501in constant practice. Like Queen Elizabeth, if she had the 
1502talents of a man, she had more than the caprices of a woman. 
1503
1504We shall take only one item, and that a small one, in this 
1505mountain of misery : her strange habits and methods of loco- 
1506motion. She is perpetually travelling : a peaceful philosopher 
1507is lugged over the world, to Cirey, to Luneville, to that pied a 
1508terre in Paris ; resistance avails not ; here, as in so many other 
1509cases, il faut se ranger. Sometimes, precisely on the eve of 
1510such a departure, her domestics, exasperated by hunger and 
1511ill-usage, will strike work, in a body ; and a new set has to be 
1512collected at an hour's warning. Then Madame has been known 
1513to keep the postilions cracking and sacre-ing at the gate from 
1514dawn till dewy eve, simply because she was playing cards, 
1515and the games went against her. But figure a lean and vivid- 
1516tempered philosopher starting from Paris at last ; under cloud 
1517of night ; during hard frost ; in a huge lumbering coach, or 
1518rather wagon, compared with which, indeed, the generality 
1519of modern wagons were a luxurious conveyance. With four 
1520starved, and perhaps spavined hacks, he slowly sets forth, 
1521" under a mountain of bandboxes : " at his side sits the wan- 
1522dering virago ; in front of him a serving-maid, with additional 
1523bandboxes " et divers effets de sa maitresse." At the next stage, 
1524the postilions have to be beat up ; they come out swearing. 
1525Cloaks and fur-pelisses avail little against the January cold ; 
1526" time and hours " are, once more, the only hope ; but, lo, at 
1527the tenth mile, this Tyburn-coach breaks down ! One many- 
1528voiced discordant wail shrieks through the solitude, making 
1529night hideous, but in vain ; the axletree has given way, the 
1530vehicle has overset, and marchionesses, chambermaids, band- 
1531boxes and philosophers, are weltering in inextricable chaos. 
1532
1533" The carriage was in the stage next Nangis, about half-way 
1534to that town, when the hind axletree broke, and it tumbled on 
1535the road, to M. de Voltaire's side : Madame du Chatelet, and 
1536her maid, fell above him, with all their bundles and bandboxes, 
1537
1538
1539
1540424 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
1541
1542for these were not tied to the front, but only piled up on both 
1543hands of the maid ; and so, observing the laws of equilibrium 
1544and gravitation of bodies, they rushed towards the corner 
1545where M. de Voltaire lay squeezed together. Under so many- 
1546burdens, which half-suffocated him, he kept shouting bitterly 
1547(poussait des cris aigus) ; but it was impossible to change 
1548place ; all had to remain as it was, till the two lackeys, one 
1549of whom was hurt by the fall, could come up, with the pos< 
1550tilions, to disencumber the vehicle ; they first drew out all 
1551the luggage, next the women, then M. de Voltaire. Nothing 
1552could be got out except by the top, that is, by the coach-door, 
1553which now opened upwards : one of the lackeys and a postil- 
1554ion clambering aloft, and fixing themselves on the body of 
1555the vehicle, drew them up, as from a well ; seizing the first 
1556limb that came to hand, whether arm or leg ; and then passed 
1557them down to the two stationed below, who set them finally 
1558on the ground." l 
1559
1560What would Dr. Kitchiner, with his Traveller's Oracle, have 
1561said to all this ? For there is snow on the ground : and four 
1562peasants must be roused from a village half a league off, before 
1563that accursed vehicle can so much as be lifted from its beam- 
1564ends ! Vain it is for Longchamp, far in advance, sheltered in 
1565a hospitable though half-dismantled chateau, to pluck pigeons 
1566and be in haste to roast them : they will never, never be eaten 
1567to supper, scarcely to breakfast next morning! Nor is it now 
1568only, but several times, that this unhappy axletree plays them 
1569foul ; nay once, beggared by Madame's gambling, they have 
1570not cash to pay for mending it, and the smith, though they 
1571are in keenest flight, almost for their lives, will not trust 
1572them. 
1573
1574We imagine that these are trying things for any philosopher. 
1575Of the thousand other more private and perennial grievances ; 
1576of certain discoveries and explanations, especially, which it 
1577still seems surprising that human philosophy could have toler- 
1578ated, we make no mention ; indeed, with regard to the latter, 
1579few earthly considerations could tempt a Reviewer of sensi- 
1580bility to mention them in this place, 
1581i Vol. ii.'p. 166. 
1582
1583
1584
1585VOLTAIKE. 425 
1586
1587The Marquise du Chatelet, and lier husband, have been 
1588much wondered at in England: the calm magnanimity with 
1589which M. le Marquis conforms to the custom of the country, 
1590to the wishes of his helpmate, and leaves her, he himself 
1591meanwhile fighting, or at least drilling, for his King, to range 
1592over Space, in quest of loves and lovers ; his friendly dis- 
1593cretion, in this particular; no less so, his blithe benignant 
1594gullibility, the instant a contretems de famille renders his 
1595countenance needful, have had all justice done them among 
1596us. His lady too is a wonder ; offers no mean study to psy- 
1597chologists : she is a fair experiment to try how far that Deli- 
1598cacy, which we reckon innate in females, is only incidental 
1599and the product of fashion ; how far a woman, not merely im- 
1600modest, but without the slightest fig-leaf of common decency 
1601remaining, with the whole character, in short, of a male de- 
1602bauchee, may still have any moral worth as a woman. We 
1603ourselves have wondered a little over both these parties ; and 
1604over the goal to which so strange a " progress of society " might 
1605be tending. But still more wonderful, not without a shade of 
1606the sublime, has appeared to us the cheerful thraldom of this 
1607maltreated philosopher ; and with what exhaustless patience, 
1608not being wedded, he endured all these forced-marches, 
1609whims, irascibilities, delinquencies and thousand-fold unrea- 
1610sons ; braving " the battle and the breeze," on that wild Bay 
1611of Biscay, for such a period. Fifteen long years, and was not 
1612mad, or a suicide at the end of them ! But the like fate, it 
1613would seem, though worthy D'Israeli has omitted to enumerate 
1614it in his Calamities of Authors, is not unknown in literature. 
1615Pope also had his Mrs. Martha Blount ; and, in the midst of 
1616that warfare with united Duncedom, his daily tale of Egyp- 
1617tian bricks to bake. Let us pity the lot of genius, in this 
1618sublunary sphere ! 
1619
1620Every one knows the earthly termination of Madame la 
1621Marquise; and how, by a strange, almost satirical Nemesis, 
1622she was taken in her own nets, and her worst sin became her 
1623final punishment. To no purpose was the unparalleled credu- 
1624lity of M. le Marquis ; to no purpose, the amplest toleration, 
1625and even helpful knavery of M. de Voltaire ; " les assiduites de 
1626
1627
1628
1629426 CRITICAL AXD MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
1630
1631M. de Saint-Lambert" and the unimaginable consultations to 
1632which, they gave rise at Cirey, were frightfully parodied in 
1633the end. The last scene was at Luneville, in the peaceable 
1634court of King Stanislaus. 
1635
1636" Seeing that the aromatic vinegar did no good, we tried to 
1637recover her from the sudden lethargy by rubbing her feet, 
1638and striking in the palms of her hands ; but it was of no use : 
1639she had ceased to be. The maid was sent off to Madame de 
1640Boufflers's apartment, to inform the company that Madame du 
1641Chatelet was worse. Instantly they all rose from the supper- 
1642table : M. du Chatelet, M. de Voltaire, and the other guests, 
1643rushed into the room. So soon as they understood the truth, 
1644there was a deep consternation; to tears, to cries succeeded a 
1645mournful silence. The husband was led away, the other indi- 
1646viduals went out successively, expressing the keenest sorrow. 
1647M. de Voltaire and M. de Saint-Lambert remained the last by 
1648the bedside, from which they could not be drawn away. At 
1649length, the former, absorbed in deep grief, left the room, and 
1650with difficulty reached the main door of the Castle, not know- 
1651ing whither he went. Arrived there, he fell down at the foot 
1652of the outer stairs, and near the box of a sentry, where his 
1653head came on the pavement. His lackey, who was following, 
1654seeing him fall and struggle on the ground, ran forward and 
1655tried to lift him. At this moment, M. de Saint Lambert, re- 
1656tiring by the same way, also arrived ; and observing M. de 
1657Voltaire in that situation, hastanel to assist the lackey. No 
1658sooner was M. de Voltaire on his feet, than opening his eyes, 
1659dimmed with tears, and recognizing M. de Saint-Lambert, he 
1660said to him, with sobs and the most pathetic accent : ' Ah, 
1661my friend, it is you that have killed her ! ' Then, all on a 
1662sudden, as if he were starting from a deep sleep, he exclaimed 
1663in a tone of reproach and despair : l Eh! mon Dieu ! Mon- 
1664sieur, de quoi vous avisiez-vous de lui faire un enfant ? ' They 
1665parted thereupon, without adding a single word ; and retired 
1666to their several apartments, overwhelmed and almost annihi- 
1667lated by the excess of their sorrow." a 
1668
1669Ajnong all threnetical discourses on record, this last, between 
16701 Vol. ii. p. 250. 
1671
1672
1673
1674VOLTAIRE. 427 
1675
1676men overwhelmed and almost annihilated by the excess of 
1677their sorrow, has probably an unexampled character. Some 
1678days afterwards, the first paroxysm of "reproach and despair" 
1679being somewhat assuaged, the sorrowing widower, not the glad 
1680legal one, composed this quatrain : 
1681
1682" L'univers a perdu la sublime Emille. 
1683EUe aima les plaisirs, les arts, la ve'rite ; 
1684Les dieux, en lui dormant leur dme et leur ge"nie, 
1685N*avaient garde" pour eux que I'immoi-talitk" 
1686
1687After which, reflecting, perhaps, that with this sublime Emilia, 
1688so meritoriously singular in loving pleasure, "his happiness 
1689had been chiefly on paper," he, like the bereaved Universe, 
1690consoled himself, and went on his way. 
1691
1692Woman, it has been sufficiently demonstrated, was given to 
1693man as a benefit, and for mutual support ; a precious ornament 
1694and staff whereupon to lean in many trying situations : but to 
1695Voltaire she proved, so unlucky was he in this matter, little 
1696else than a broken reed, which only ran into his hand. We 
1697confess that, looking over the manifold trials of this poor 
1698philosopher with the softer, or as he may have reckoned it, 
1699the harder sex, from th^e Dutchwoman who published his 
1700juvenile letters, to the Niece Denis who as good as killed him 
1701with racketing, we see, in this one province, very great 
1702scope for almost all the cardinal virtues. And to these 
1703internal convulsions add an incessant series of controversies 
1704and persecutions, political, religious, literary, from without; 
1705and we have a life quite rent asunder, horrent with asperi- 
1706ties and chasms, where even a stout traveller might have 
1707faltered. Over all which Chamouni-lSreedles and Staubbach- 
1708Falls the great Persifleur skims along in this his little poetical 
1709air-ship, more softly than if he travelled the smoothest of 
1710merely prosaic roads. 
1711
1712Leaving out of view the worth or worthlessness of such a 
1713temper of mind, we are bound, in all seriousness, to say, both 
1714that it seems to have been Voltaire's highest conception of 
1715moral excellence, and that he has pursued and realized it with 
1716no small success. One great praise therefore he deserves, 
1717that of unity with himself ; that of having an aim, and stead- 
1718
1719
1720
1721428 CRITICAL 'AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
1722
1723fastly endeavoring after it, nay, as we have found, of attaining 
1724it ; for his ideal Voltaire seems, to an unusual degree, mani- 
1725fested, made practically apparent in the real one. There can 
1726be no doubt but this attainment of Persifleur, in the wide 
1727sense we here give it, was of all others the most admired and 
1728sought after in Voltaire's age and country ; nay, in our own 
1729age and country we have still innumerable admirers of it, and 
1730unwearied seekers after it, on every hand of us ; nevertheless, 
1731we cannot but believe that its acme is past; that the best 
1732sense of our generation has already weighed its significance, 
1733and found it wanting. Voltaire himself, it seems to us, were 
1734he alive at this day, would find other tasks than that of 
1735mockery, especially of mockery in that style : it is not by 
1736Derision and Denial, but by far deeper, more earnest, diviner 
1737means that aught truly great has been effected for mankind ; 
1738that the fabric of man's life has been reared, through long 
1739centuries, to its present height. If we admit that this chief 
1740of Persifleur s had a steady conscious aim in life, the still 
1741higher praise of having had a right or noble aim cannot be 
1742conceded him without many limitations, and may, plausibly 
1743enough, be altogether denied. 
1744
1745At the same time, let it not be forgotten, that amid all these 
1746blighting influences, Voltaire maintains a certain indestructible 
1747humanity of nature ; a soul never deaf to the cry of wretched- 
1748ness ; never utterly blind to the light of truth, beauty, good- 
1749ness. It is even, in some measure, poetically interesting to 
1750observe this fine contradiction in him : the heart acting with- 
1751out directions from the head, or perhaps against its directions ; 
1752the man virtuous, as it were, in spite of himself. For, at all 
1753events, it will be granted that, as a private man, his existence 
1754was beneficial, not hurtful, to his fellow-men : the Calases, 
1755the Sirvens, and so many orphans and outcasts whom he 
1756cherished and protected, ought to cover a multitude of sins. 
1757It was his own sentiment, and to all appearance a sincere 
1758one 
1759
1760" JTai fait un pea de bien : c'est mon meilleur ouvrage." 
1761
1762Perhaps there are few men, with such principles and such 
1763temptations as his were, that could have led such a life ; few 
1764
1765
1766
1767VOLTAIRE. 429 
1768
1769that could have done his work, and come through it with 
1770cleaner hands. If we call him the greatest of all Persifleurs, 
1771let us add that, morally speaking also, he is the best : if he 
1772excels all men in universality, sincerity, polished clearness of 
1773Mockery, he perhaps combines with it as much worth of heart 
1774as, in any man, that habit can admit of. 
1775
1776It is now well-nigh time that we should quit this part of our 
1777subject : nevertheless, in seeking to form some picture of Vol- 
1778taire's practical life, and the character, outward as well as 
1779inward, of his appearance in society, our readers will not 
1780grudge us a few glances at the last and most striking scene 
1781he enacted there. To our view, that final visit to Paris has 
1782a strange half -frivolous, half-fateful aspect; there is, as it 
1783were, a sort of dramatic justice in this catastrophe, that he, 
1784who had all his life hungered and thirsted after public favor, 
1785should at length die by excess of it ; should find the door of 
1786his Heaven-on-earth unexpectedly thrown wide open, and enter 
1787there, only to be, as he himself said, " smothered under roses. 7 ' 
1788Had Paris any suitable theogony or theology, as Rome and 
1789Athens had, this might almost be reckoned, as those Ancients 
1790accounted of death by lightning, a sacred death, a death from 
1791the gods , from their many-headed god, POPULARITY. In the 
1792benignant quietude of Ferney, Voltaire had lived long, and as 
1793his friends calculated, might still have lived long, but a series 
1794of trifling causes lures him to Paris, and in three months he is 
1795no more. At all hours of his history, he might have said with 
1796Alexander: "0 Athenians, what toil do I undergo to please 
1797you ! " and the last pleasure his Athenians demand of him is, 
1798that he would die for them. 
1799
1800Considered with reference to the world at large, this jour- 
1801ney is farther remarkable, 'it is the most splendid triumph 
1802of that nature recorded in these ages ; the loudest and showi- 
1803est homage ever paid to what we moderns call Literature ; to 
1804a man that had merely thought, and published his thoughts. 
1805Much false tumult, no doubt, there was in it ; yet also a cer- 
1806tain deeper significance. It is interesting to see how universal 
1807and eternal in man is love of wisdom j how the highest and 
1808
1809
1810
1811430 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
1812
1813the lowest, how supercilious princes, and rude peasants, and 
1814all men must alike show honor to Wisdom, or the appearance 
1815of Wisdom ; nay, properly speaking, can show honor to noth- 
1816ing else. For it is not in the power of all Xerxes' hosts to 
1817bend one thought of our proud heart : these " may destroy 
1818the case of Anaxarchus ; himself they cannot reach : " only to 
1819spiritual worth can the spirit do reverence ; only in a soul 
1820deeper and better than ours can we see any heavenly mystery, 
1821and in humbling ourselves feel ourselves exalted. That the 
1822so ebullient enthusiasm of the French was in this case per- 
1823fectly well directed, we cannot undertake to say : yet we 
1824rejoice to see and know that such a principle exijtj peren- 
1825nially in man's inmost bosom ; that there is no heart so 
1826sunk and stupefied, none so withered and pampered, but the 
1827felt presence of a nobler heart will inspire it and lead it 
1828captive. 
1829
1830Few royal progresses, few Roman triumphs, have equalled 
1831this long triumph of Voltaire. On his journey, at Bourg-en- 
1832Bresse, "he was recognized," says Wagniere, " while the horses 
1833were changing, and in a few moments the whole town crowded 
1834about the carriage ; so that he was forced to lock himself for 
1835some time in a room of the inn." The Maitre-de-poste ordered 
1836his postilion to yoke better horses, and said to him with a 
1837broad oath: " Vabon train, creve mes chevaux, je m'enf ; tu 
1838menes M. de Voltaire!" At Dijon, there were persons of 
1839distinction that wished even to dress themselves as waiters, 
1840that they might serve him at supper, and see him by this 
1841stratagem. 
1842
1843" At the barrier of Paris," continues Wagniere, '' the officers 
1844asked if we had nothing with us contrary to the King's regula- 
1845tions : ' On my word, gentlemen, Ma foi, Messieurs,' replied 
1846M. de Voltaire, ' I believe there is nothing contraband here 
1847except myself.' I alighted from the carriage, that the inspec- 
1848tor might more readily examine it. One of the guards said to 
1849his comrade : C'est pardieu I M. de Voltaire. He plucked at 
1850the coat of the person who was searching, and repeated the 
1851same words, looking fixedly at me. I could not help laugh- 
1852ing ; then all gazing with the greatest astonishment mingled 
1853
1854
1855
1856VOLTAIRE. 431 
1857
1858with respect, begged M. de Voltaire to pass on whither he 
1859pleased." l 
1860
1861Intelligence soon circulated over Paris ; scarcely could the 
1862arrival of Kien-Long, or the Grand Lama of Thibet, have 
1863excited greater ferment. Poor Longchamp, demitted, or rather 
1864dismissed from Voltaire's service eight-and-twenty years be- 
1865fore, and now, as a retired map-dealer (having resigned in 
1866favor of his son), living quietly "dans un petit logement a 
1867part," a fine smooth, garrulous old man, heard the news 
1868next morning in his remote logement, in the Estrapade ; and 
1869instantly huddled on his clothes, though he had not been out 
1870for two days, to go and see what truth was in it. 
1871
1872" Several persons of my acquaintance, whom I met, told me 
1873that they had heard the same. I went purposely to the Cafe 
1874Procope, where this news formed the subject of conversation 
1875among several politicians, or men of letters, who talked of it 
1876with warmth. To assure myself still farther, I walked thence 
1877towards the Quai des Theatins, where he had alighted the 
1878night before, and, as was said, taken up his lodging in a man- 
1879sion near the church. Coming out from the Rue de la Seine, 
1880I saw afar off a great number of people gathered on the Quai, 
1881not far from the Pont-Eoyal. Approaching nearer, I observed 
1882that this crowd was collected in front of the Marquis de Vil- 
1883lette's Hotel, at the corner of the Rue de Beaune. I inquired 
1884what the matter was. The people answered me, that M. de 
1885Voltaire was in that house ; and they were waiting to see him 
1886when he came out. They were not sure, however, whether he 
1887would come out that day ; for it was natural to think that an 
1888old man of eighty-four might need a day or two of rest. From 
1889that moment, I no longer doubted the arrival of M. de Vol- 
1890taire in Paris." 2 
1891
1892By dint of address, Longchamp, in process of time, contrived 
1893to see his old master ; had an interview of ten minutes j was 
1894for falling at his feet; and wept with sad presentiments at 
1895parting. Ten such minutes were a great matter ; for Voltaire 
1896had his levees and couchees, more crowded than those of any 
1897Emperor; princes and peers thronged his antechamber; and 
1898
18991 Vol. i. p. 121. 2 Vol. ii. p. 353. 
1900
1901
1902
1903432 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
1904
1905when he went abroad, his carriage was as the nucleus of a 
1906comet, whose train extended over whole districts of the city. 
1907He himself, says Wagniere, expressed dissatisfaction at mucli 
1908of this. Nevertheless, there were some plaudits which, as he 
1909confessed, went to his heart. Condorcet mentions that once a 
1910person in the crowd, inquiring who this great man was, a poor 
1911woman answered, " C'est le sauveur des Calas" Of a quite, 
1912different sort was the tribute paid him by a quack, in the 
1913Place Louis Quinze, haranguing a mixed multitude on the art 
1914of juggling with cards : " Here, gentlemen," said he, " is a 
1915trick I learned at Ferney, from that great man who makes so 
1916much noise among you, that famous M. de Voltaire, the mas- 
1917ter of us all ! " In fact, mere gaping curiosity, and even ridi- 
1918cule, was abroad, as well as real enthusiasm. The clergy too 
1919were recoiling into ominous groups ; already some Jesuitic 
1920drums ecclesiastic had beat to arms. 
1921
1922Figuring the lean, tottering, lonely old man in the midst of 
1923all this, how he looks into it, clear and alert, though no longer 
1924strong and calm, we feel drawn towards him by some tie of 
1925affection, of kindly sympathy. Longchamp says, he appeared 
1926" extremely worn, though still in the possession of all his 
1927senses, and with a very firm voice." The following little 
1928sketch, by a hostile journalist of the day, has fixed itself 
1929deeply with us : 
1930
1931" M. de Voltaire appeared in full dress, on Tuesday, for the 
1932first time since his arrival in Paris. He had on a red coat 
1933lined with ermine ; a large peruke, in the fashion of Louis 
1934XIV., black, unpowdered; and in which his withered visage 
1935was so buried that you saw only his two eyes shining like car- 
1936buncles. His head was surmounted by a square red cap in 
1937the form of a crown, which seemed only laid on. He had in 
1938his hand a small nibbed cane ; and the public of Paris, not 
1939accustomed to see him in this accoutrement, laughed a good 
1940deal. This personage, singular in all, wishes doubtless to 
1941have nothing in common with ordinary men." l 
1942
1943This head this wondrous microcosm in the grande per" 
1944ruque a la Louis XIV. was so soon to be distenanted of all 
1945
19461 Vol. ii. p. 466. 
1947
1948
1949
1950VOLTAIRE. 433 
1951
1952its cunning gifts; these eyes, shining like carbuncles, were 
1953so soon to be closed in long night! We must now give the 
1954coronation ceremony, of which the reader may have heard so 
1955much : borrowing from this same sceptical hand, which, how- 
1956ever, is vouched for by Wagniere ; as, indeed, La Harpe's more 
1957heroical narrative of that occurrence is well known, and hardly 
1958differs from the following, except in style : 
1959
1960" On Monday, M. de Voltaire, resolving to enjoy the triumph 
1961which had been so long promised him, mounted his carriage, 
1962that azure-colored vehicle, bespangled with gold stars, which a 
1963wag called the chariot of the empyrean ; and so repaired to 
1964the Academie Franchise, which that day had a special meet- 
1965ing. Twenty-two members were present. None of the pre- 
1966lates, abbes or other ecclesiastics who belong to it, would 
1967attend, or take part in these singular deliberations. The sole 
1968exceptions were the Abbes de Boismont and Millot ; the one a 
1969court rake-hell (roue), with nothing but the guise of his pro- 
1970fession ; the other a varlet (cuistre), having no favor to look 
1971for, either from the Court or the Church. 
1972
1973" The Academie went out to meet M. de Voltaire : he was 
1974led to the Director's seat, which that office-bearer and the 
1975meeting invited him to accept. His portrait had been hung 
1976up above it. The company, without drawing lots, as is the 
1977custom, proceeded to work, and named him, by acclamation, 
1978Director for the April quarter. The old man, once set a-going, 
1979was about to talk a great deal ; but they told him, that they 
1980valued his health too much to hear him, that they would 
1981reduce him to silence. M. d'Alembert accordingly occupied 
1982the session, by reading his Eloge de Despreaux, which had 
1983already been communicated on a public occasion, and where he 
1984had inserted various flattering things for the present visitor. 
1985
1986" M. de Voltaire then signified a wish to visit the Secretary 
1987of the Academie, whose apartments are above. With this 
1988gentleman he stayed some time ; and at last set out for the 
1989Comedie FranQaise. The court of the Louvre, vast as it is, was 
1990full of people waiting for him. So soon as his notable vehicle 
1991came in sight, the cry arose, Le voila ! The Savoyards, the 
1992apple-women, all the rabble of the quarter had assembled there \ 
1993
1994VOL. XIII. 
1995
1996
1997
1998434 CKITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
1999
2000and the acclamations, Vive Voltaire! resounded as if they 
2001would never end. The Marquis de Villette, who had arrived 
2002before, came to hand him out of his carriage, where the Pro- 
2003cureur Clos was seated beside him : both these gave him their 
2004arms, and could scarcely extricate him from the press. On his 
2005entering the playhouse, a crowd of more elegance, and seized 
2006with true enthusiasm for genius, surrounded him : the ladies, 
2007above all, threw themselves in his way, and stopped it, the 
2008better to look at him ; some were seen squeezing forward to 
2009touch his clothes ; some plucking hair from his fur. M. le 
2010Due de Chartres, 1 not caring to advance too near, showed, 
2011though at a distance, no less curiosity than others. 
2012" The saint, or rather the god, of the evening, was to oc- 
2013cupy the box belonging to the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, 2 
2014opposite that of the Comte d'Artois. Madame Denis and 
2015Madame de Villette were already there ; and the pit was in 
2016convulsions of joy, awaiting the moment when the poet should 
2017appear. There was no end till he placed himself on the front 
2018seat, beside the ladies. Then rose a cry : La Couronne ! and 
2019Brizard, the actor, came and put the garland on his head. " Ah, 
2020Heaven ! will you kill me, then ? (Ah, Dieu ! vous voulez done 
2021me faire mourir ?)" cried M. de Voltaire, weeping with joy, 
2022and resisting this honor. He took the crown in his hand, 
2023and presented it to Belle-et-Bonne : 8 she withstood ; and the 
2024Prince de Beauvau, seizing the laurel, replaced it on the head 
2025of our Sophocles, who could refuse no longer. 
2026
2027" The piece (Irene) was played, and with more applause than 
2028usual, though scarcely with enough to correspond to this tri- 
2029umph of its author. Meanwhile the players were in straits 
2030as to what they should do ; and during their deliberations the 
2031tragedy ended ; the curtain fell, and the tumult of the people 
2032was extreme, till it rose again, disclosing a show like that of 
2033the Centenaire. M. de Voltaire's bust, which had been placed 
2034shortly before in the foyer (green-room) of the Comedie Fran- 
2035<;aise, had been brought upon the stage, and elevated on a 
2036
20371 Afterwards Egalite. 
2038
20392 He himself, as is perhaps too well known, was one. 
20408 Th Marquise de Villette, a foster-child of his. 
2041
2042
2043
2044VOLTAIRE. 435 
2045
2046pedestal ; the whole body of comedians stood round it in a semi- 
2047circle, with palms and garlands in their hands ; there was a 
2048crown already on the bust. The pealing of musical flour- 
2049ishes, of drums, of trumpets, had announced the ceremony ; 
2050and Madame Vestris held in her hand a paper, which was soon 
2051understood to contain verses, lately composed by the Marquis de 
2052Saint-Marc. She recited them with an emphasis proportioned 
2053to the extravagance of the scene. They ran as follows : 
2054
2055' Aux yeux de Paris enchante, 
2056Re$ois en ce jour un hommage, 
2057Que confirmera d'dge en age 
2058La severe posterite ! 
2059
2060'Nan, tu n'as pa r '-"soin d'atteindre au noir rivage 
2061Pourjouir des ,._../ieurs de I'immortalite ! 
2062
2063' VOLTAIRE, recois la couronne 
2064Que I'on vient de te presenter ; 
2065II est beau de la mriter, 
2066Quand c'est la France gui la donne ! * 1 
2067
2068This was encored : the actress recited it again. Next, each of 
2069them went forward and laid his garland round the bust. Made- 
2070moiselle Fanier, in a fanatical ecstasy, kissed it, and all the 
2071others imitated her. 
2072
2073"This long ceremony, accompanied with infinite vivats, being 
2074over, the curtain again dropped ; and when it rose for Nanine, 
2075one of M. de Voltaire's comedies, his bust was seen on the 
2076right-hand side of the stage, where it remained during the 
2077whole play. 
2078
2079" M. le Comte d'Artois did not choose to show himself too 
2080openly; but being informed, according to his orders, as soon 
2081as M. de Voltaire appeared in the theatre, he had gone thither 
2082incognito ; and it is thought that the old man, once when he 
2083went out for a moment, had the honor of a short interview 
2084with his Royal Highness. 
2085
2086" Nanine finished, comes a new hurly-burly ; a new trial for 
2087the modesty of our philosopher ! He had got into his carriage, 
2088
20891 As Dryden said of Swift, so may we say : Our cousin Saint-Marc ha* no 
2090turn for poetry. 
2091
2092
2093
2094436 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
2095
2096but the people would not let him go ; they threw themselves 
2097on the horses, they kissed them : some young poets even cried 
2098out to unyoke these animals, and draw the modern Apollo 
2099home with their own arms ; unhappily, there were not enthu- 
2100siasts enough to volunteer this service, and he at last got leave 
2101to depart, not without vivats, which he may have heard on the 
2102Pont-B/oyal, and even in his own house. . . . 
2103
2104" M. de Voltaire, on reaching home, wept anew ; and mod- 
2105estly protested that if he had known the people were to play 
2106so many follies, he would not have gone. 7 ' 
2107
2108On all these wonderful proceedings we shall leave our readers 
2109to their own reflections ; remarking only, that this happened 
2110on the 30th of March (1778), and that on the 30th of May, 
2111about the same hour, the object of such extraordinary adula- 
2112tion was in the article of death ; the hearse already prepared 
2113to receive his remains, for which even a grave had to be stolen. 
2114" He expired/ 7 says Wagniere, " about a quarter past eleven at 
2115night, with the most perfect tranquillity, after having suffered 
2116the cruelest pains, in consequence of those fatal drugs, which 
2117his own imprudence, and especially that of the persons who 
2118should have looked to it, made him swallow. Ten minutes 
2119before his last breath, he took the hand of Morand, his valet- 
2120de-chambre, who was watching by him ; pressed it, and said, 
2121' Adieu, mon cher Morand, je me meurs, Adieu, my dear Morand, 
2122I am gone. 7 These are the last words uttered by M. de Vol- 
2123taire. 77 1 
2124
21251 On this sickness of Voltaire, and his death-bed deportment, many foolish 
2126books have been written ; concerning which it is not necessary to say anything. 
2127The conduct of the Parisian clergy, on that occasion, seems totally unworthy 
2128of their cloth ; nor was their reward, so far as concerns these individuals, in- 
2129appropriate : that of finding themselves once more bilked, once more persiftes 
2130by that strange old man, in his last decrepitude, who, iii his strength, had 
2131wrought them and others so many griefs. Surely the parting agonies of a 
2132fellow-mortal, when the spirit of our brother, rapt in the whirlwinds and 
2133thick ghastly vapors of death, clutches blindly for help, and no help is there, 
2134are not the scenes where a wise faith would seek to exult, when it can no 
2135longer hope to alleviate ! For the rest, to touch farther on those their idle 
2136tales of dying horrors, remorse and the like ; to write of such, to believe them, 
2137or disbelieve them, or in anywise discuss them, were but a continuation of the 
2138same ineptitude. He who, after the imperturbable exit of so many Cartouches 
2139
2140
2141
2142VOLTAIRE. 437 
2143
2144We have still to consider this man in his specially intel- 
2145lectual capacity ; which, as with every man of letters, is to be 
2146regarded as the clearest, and, to all practical intents, the most 
2147important aspect of him. Voltaire's intellectual endowment 
2148and acquirement, his talent or genius as a literary man, lies 
2149opened to us in a series of Writings, unexampled, as we believe, 
2150in two respects, their extent, and their diversity. Perhaps 
2151there is no writer, not a mere compiler, but writing from his 
2152own invention or elaboration, who has left so many volumes 
2153behind him ; and if to the merely arithmetical, we add a criti- 
2154cal estimate, the singularity is still greater ; for these volumes 
2155are not written without an appearance of due care and prepa- 
2156ration ; perhaps there is not one altogether feeble and confused 
2157treatise, nay one feeble and confused sentence, to be found in 
2158them. As to variety, again, they range nearly over all human 
2159subjects ; from Theology down to Domestic Economy ; from the 
2160Familiar Letter to the Political History ; from the Pasquinade 
2161to the Epic Poem. Some strange gift, or union of gifts, must 
2162have been at work here ; for the result is, at least, in the highest 
2163degree uncommon, and to be wondered at, if not to be admired. 
2164
2165If, through all this many-colored versatility, we try to deci- 
2166
2167and Thurtells, in every age of the world, can continue to regard the manner 
2168of a man's death as a test of his religious orthodoxy, may boast himself im- 
2169pregnable to merely terrestrial logic. Voltaire had enough of suffering, and 
2170of mean enough suffering to encounter, without any addition from theological 
2171despair. His last interview with the clergy, who had been sent for by his 
2172friends, that the rites of burial might not be denied him, is thus described by 
2173Wagniere, as it has been by all other credible reporters of it : 
2174
2175" Two days before that mournful death, M. 1'Abbe Mignot, his nephew, 
2176went to seek the Cure of Saint- Sulpice and the Abbe Guatier, and brought 
2177them into his uncle's sick-room ; who, being informed that the Abbe Guatier 
2178was there, ' Ah, well ! ' said he, ' give him my compliments and my thanks.' 
2179The Abbe' spoke some words to him, exhorting him to patience. The Cure 
2180of Saint-Sulpice then came forward, having announced himself, and asked of 
2181M. de Voltaire, elevating his voice, if he acknowleged the divinity of our Lord 
2182Jesus Christ ? The sick man pushed one of his hands against the Cure's calotte 
2183(coif), shoving him back, and cried, turning abruptly to the other side, ' Let 
2184me die in peace (Laissez-moi mourir enpaix) ! ' The Cure' seemingly considered 
2185his person soiled, and his coif dishonored, by the touch of a philosopher. He 
2186made the sick-nurse give him a little brushing, and then went out with the 
2187Abbe Guatier." Vol. i. p. 161. 
2188
2189
2190
2191438 CKITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
2192
2193pher the essential, distinctive features of Voltaire's intellect, 
2194it seems to us that we find there a counterpart to our theory 
2195of his moral character ; as, indeed, if that theory was accurate, 
2196we must do : for the thinking and the moral nature, distin- 
2197guished by the necessities of speech, have no such distinction 
2198in themselves ; but, rightly examined, exhibit in every case 
2199the strictest sympathy and correspondence, are, indeed, but 
2200different phases of the same indissoluble unity, a living 
2201mind. In life, Voltaire was found to be without good claim 
2202to the title of philosopher ; and now, in literature, and for 
2203similar reasons, we find in him the same deficiencies. Here 
2204too it is not greatness, but the very extreme of expertness, 
2205that we recognize ; not strength, so much as agility ; not depth, 
2206but superficial extent. That truly surprising ability seems 
2207rather the unparalleled combination of many common talents, 
2208than the exercise of any finer or higher one : for here too the 
2209want of earnestness, of intense continuance, is fatal to him. 
2210He has the eye of a lynx; sees deeper, at the first glance, 
2211than any other man ; but no second glance is given. Thus 
2212Truth, which to the philosopher, has from of old been said to 
2213live in a well, remains for the most part hidden from him ; 
2214we may say forever hidden, if we take the highest, and only 
2215philosophical species of Truth ; for this does not reveal itself 
2216to any mortal, without quite another sort of meditation than 
2217Voltaire ever seems to have bestowed on it. In fact, his 
2218deductions are uniformly of a forensic, argumentative, imme- 
2219diately practical nature ; often true, we will admit, so far as 
2220they go ; but not the whole truth ; and false, when taken for 
2221the whole. In regard to feeling, it is the same with him : he 
2222is, in general, humane, mildly affectionate, not without touches 
2223of nobleness ; but light, fitful, discontinuous ; " a smart free- 
2224thinker, all things in an hour." He is no Poet and Philoso- 
2225pher, but a popular sweet Singer and Haranguer : in all senses, 
2226and in all styles, a Concionator, which, for the most part, will 
2227turn out to be an altogether different character. It is true, in 
2228this last province he stands unrivalled ; for such an audience, 
2229the most fit and perfectly persuasive of all preachers : but in 
2230many far higher provinces, he is neither perfect nor unrivalled ; 
2231
2232
2233
2234VOLTAIRE. 439 
2235
2236has been often surpassed ; was surpassed even in his own age 
2237and nation. For a decisive, thorough-going, in any measure 
2238gigantic force of thought, he is far inferior to Diderot : with 
2239all the liveliness he has not the soft elegance, with more than 
2240the wit he has but a small portion of the wisdom, that belonged 
2241to Fontenelle : as in real sensibility, so in the delineation of 
2242it, in pathos, loftiness and earnest eloquence, he cannot, 
2243making all fair abatements, and there are many, be compared 
2244with Rousseau. 
2245
2246Doubtless, an astonishing fertility, quickness, address ; an 
2247openness also, and universal susceptibility of mind, must have 
2248belonged to him. As little can we deny that he manifests an 
2249assiduous perseverance, a capability of long-continued exertion, 
2250strange in so volatile a man; and consummate skill in hus- 
2251banding and wisely directing his exertion. The very knowl- 
2252edge he had amassed, granting, which is but partly true, that 
2253it was superficial remembered knowledge, might have distin- 
2254guished him as a mere Dutch commentator. From Newton's 
2255Principia to the Shaster and Vedam, nothing has escaped him : 
2256he has glanced into all literatures and all sciences ; nay studied 
2257in them, for he can speak a rational word on all. It is known, 
2258for instance, that he understood Newton when no other man 
2259in France understood him : indeed, his countrymen may call 
2260Voltaire their discoverer of intellectual England; a dis- 
2261covery, it is true, rather of the Curtis than of the Columbus 
2262sort, yet one which in his day still remained to be made. Nay 
2263from all sides he brings new light into his country : now, for 
2264the first time, to the upturned wondering eyes of Frenchmen 
2265in general, does it become clear that Thought has actually a 
2266kind of existence in other kingdoms ; that some glimmerings 
2267of civilization had dawned here and there on the human 
2268species, prior to the Siecle de Louis Quatorze. Of Voltaire's 
2269acquaintance with History, at least with what he called His- 
2270tory, be it civil, religious, or literary ; of his innumerable, 
2271indescribable collection of facts, gathered from all sources, 
2272from European Chronicles and State Papers, from eastern 
2273Zends and Jewish Talmuds, we need not remind any reader. 
2274It has been objected that his information was often borrowed 
2275
2276
2277
2278440 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
2279
2280at second-hand ; that he had his plodders and pioneers, whom, 
2281as living dictionaries, he skilfully consulted in time of need. 
2282This also seems to be partly true, but deducts little from our 
2283estimate of him : for the skill so to borrow is even rarer than 
2284the power to lend. Voltaire's knowledge is not a mere show- 
2285room of curiosities, but truly a museum for purposes of 
2286teaching ; every object is in its place, and there for its uses : 
2287nowhere do we find confusion or vain display; everywhere 
2288intention, instructiveness and the clearest order. 
2289
2290Perhaps it is this very power of Order, of rapid, perspicu- 
2291ous Arrangement, that lies at the root of Voltaire's best gifts ; 
2292or rather, we should say, it is frhnt, kppr> 1 accurate intellectual 
2293vision, from which, to a mind of any intensity. Order naturally 
2294arises. The clear quick vision, and the methodic arrangement 
2295which springs from it, are looked upon as peculiarly French 
2296qualities ; and Yftltaivp, a.f, p.11 t.iinepj ma.m'fpat.g f.Vi^m in a more 
2297than French degree. Let him but cast his eye over any sub- 
2298ject, in a moment he sees, though indeed only to a short depth, 
2299yet with instinctive decision, where the main bearings of it 
2300for that short depth lie ; what is, or appears to be, its logical 
2301coherence ; how causes connect themselves with effects ; how 
2302the whole is to be seized, and in lucid sequence represented 
2303to his own or to .other minds. In this respect, moreover, it is 
2304happy for him that, below the short depth alluded to, his view 
2305does not properly grow dim, but altogether terminates : thus 
2306there is nothing farther to occasion him misgivings ; has he 
2307not already sounded into that basis of bottomless Darkness 
2308on which all things firmly rest ? What lies below is delusion, 
2309imagination, some form of Superstition or Folly ; which he, 
2310nothing doubting, altogether casts away. Accordingly, he is 
2311the most intelligible of writers ; everywhere transparent at a 
2312glance. There is no delineation or disquisition of his, that 
2313has not its whole purport written on its forehead ; all is pre- 
2314cise, all is rightly adjusted ; that keen spirit of Order shows 
2315itself in the whole, and in every line of the whole. 
2316
2317If we say that this power of Arrangement, as applied both 
2318to the acquisition and to the communication of ideas, is Vol- 
2319taire's most serviceable faculty in all his enterprises, we say 
2320
2321
2322
2323VOLTAIRE. 441 
2324
2325nothing singular : for take the word in its largest acceptation, 
2326and it comprehends the whole office of Understanding, logi- 
2327cally so called ; is the means whereby man accomplishes what- 
2328ever, in the way of outward force, has been made possible for 
2329him ; conquers all practical obstacles, and rises to be the " king 
2330of this lower world." It is the organ of all that Knowledge 
2331which can properly be reckoned synonymous with Power ; for 
2332hereby man strikes with wise aim, into the infinite agencies 
2333of Nature, and multiplies his own small strength to unlimited 
2334degrees. It has been said also that man may rise to be the 
2335" god of this lower world 5 " but that is a far loftier height, 
2336not attainable by such power-knowledge, but by quite an- 
2337other sort, for which Voltaire in particular shows hardly any 
2338aptitude. 
2339
2340In truth, readily as we have recognized his spirit of Method, 
2341with its many uses, we are far from ascribing to him any per- 
2342ceptible portion of that greatest praise in thinking, or in writ- 
2343ing, the praise of philosophic, still less of poetic Method; 
2344which, especially the latter, must be the fruit of deep feeling 
2345as well as of clear vision, of genius as well as talent ; and 
2346is much more likely to be found in the compositions of a 
2347Hooker or a Shakspeare than of a Voltaire. The Method dis- 
2348cernible in Voltaire, and this on all subjects whatever, is a 
2349purely business Method. The order that arises from it is 
2350not Beauty, but, at best, Regularity. His objects do not lie 
2351round him in pictorial, not always in scientific grouping; but 
2352rather in commodious rows, where each may be seen and 
2353come at, like goods in a well-kept warehouse. We might say, 
2354there is not the deep natural symmetry of a forest oak, but 
2355the simple artificial symmetry of a parlor chandelier. Com- 
2356pare, for example, the plan of the Henriade to that of our so 
2357barbarous Hamlet. The plan of the former is a geometrical 
2358diagram by Fermat ; that of the latter a cartoon by Raphael. 
2359The Henriade, as we see it completed, is a polished, square- 
2360built Tuileries : Hamlet is a mysterious star-paved Valhalla 
2361and dwelling of the gods. 
2362
2363Nevertheless, Voltaire's style of Method is, as we have 
2364said, ft business one ; and for his purposes more available than 
2365
2366
2367
2368442 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
2369
2370any other. Jt narriesjiim swiftly through his work, and car- 
2371ries his reader swif^y t.hrpnprh itj there is j^, prompt jntelli- 
2372gence_between the two ; the whole meaning is communicated 
2373clearly r and comprehendecTwithouT; effort! From this also it 
2374may follow, that Voltaire will please thg_jmrmg mnrp f tha,n 
2375he does the old; that the first perusal of him will please 
2376better than the second, if indeed any second be thought neces- 
2377sary. But what merit (and it is considerable) the pleasure 
2378and profit of this first perusal presupposes, must be honestly 
2379allowed him. Herein, it seems to us, lies the grand quality in 
2380all his performances. These Histories of his, for instance, are 
2381felt, in spite of their sparkling rapidity, and knowing air of 
2382philosophic insight, to be among the shallowest of all histo- 
2383ries ; mere bead-rolls of exterior occurrences, of battles, edifices, 
2384enactments, and other quite superficial phenomena ; yet being 
2385clear bead-rolls, well adapted for memory, and recited in a 
2386lively tone, we listen with satisfaction, and learn somewhat ; 
2387learn much, if we began knowing nothing. Nay sometimes 
2388the summary, in its skilful though crowded arrangement, and 
2389brilliant well-defined outlines, has almost a poetical as well 
2390as a didactic merit. Charles the Twelfth may still pass for 
2391a model in that often-attempted species of Biography : the 
2392clearest details are given in the fewest words ; we have 
2393sketches of strange men and strange countries, of wars, ad- 
2394ventures, negotiations, in a style which, for graphic brevity, 
2395rivals that of Sallust. It is a line-engraving, on a reduced 
2396scale, of that Swede and his mad life ; without colors, yet not 
2397without the foreshortenings and perspective observances, nay 
2398not altogether without the deeper harmonies, which belong to 
2399a true Picture. In respect of composition, whatever may be 
2400said of its accuracy or worth otherwise, we cannot but reckon 
2401it greatly the best of Voltaire's Histories. 
2402
2403In his other prose works, in his Novels, and innumerable 
2404Essays and fugitive pieces, the same clearness of order, the 
2405same rapid precision of view, again forms a distinguishing 
2406merifc His Zadigs and Safjoucs and Candides, which, con- 
2407sidered as products of imagination perhaps rank higher with 
2408foreigners than any of his professedly poetical performances, 
2409
2410
2411
2412VOLTAIRE. 443 
2413
2414are instinct with this sort of intellectual life: the sharpest 
2415glances, though from an oblique point of sight, into at least 
2416the surface of human life, into the old familiar world of busi- 
2417ness ; which truly, from his oblique station, looks oblique 
2418enough, and yields store of ridiculous combinations. The 
2419Wit, manifested chiefly in these and the like performances, 
2420but ever flowing, unless purposely restrained, in boundless 
2421abundance from Voltaire's mind, has been often and duly 
2422celebrated. It lay deep-rooted in his nature ; the inevitable 
2423produce of such an understanding with such a character, and 
2424was from the first likely, as it actually proved in the latter 
2425period of his life, to become the main dialect in which he 
2426spoke and even thought. Doing all justice to the inexhausti- 
2427ble readiness, the quick force, the polished acuteness of Vol- 
2428taire's Wit, we may remark, at the same time, that it was no- 
2429wise the highest species of employment for such a mind as 
2430his ; that, indeed, it ranks essentially among the lowest spe- 
2431cies even of Ridicule. It is at all times mere logical pleasan- 
2432try ; a gayety of the head, not of the heart ; there is scarcely 
2433a twinkling of Humor in the whole of his numberless sallies. 
2434Wit of this sort cannot maintain a demure sedateness ; a grave 
2435yet infinitely kind aspect, warming the inmost soul with true 
2436loving mirth ; it has not even the force to laugh outright, but 
2437can only sniff and titter. It grounds itself, not on fond sport- 
2438ful sympathy, but on contempt, or at best on indifference. It 
2439stands related to Humor as Prose does to Poetry ; of which, 
2440in this department at least, Voltaire exhibits no symptom. 
2441The most determinedly ludicrous composition of his, the Pu- 
2442celle, which cannot, on other grounds, be recommended to any 
2443reader, has no higher merit than that of an audacious carica- 
2444ture. True, he is not a buffoon ; seldom or never violates 
2445the rules, we shall not say of propriety, yet of good breeding : 
2446to this negative praise he is entitled. But as for any high 
2447claim to positive praise, it cannot be made good. We look 
2448in vain, through his whole writings, for one lineament of a 
2449Quixote or a Shandy ; even of a Hudibras or Battle of the 
2450Books. Indeed it has been more than once observed, that 
2451Humor is not a national gift with the French in late times ; 
2452
2453
2454
2455444 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
2456
2457that since Montaigne's day it seems to have well-nigh vanished 
2458from among them. 
2459
2460Considered in his technical capacity of Poet, Voltaire need 
2461not. at present, detain us very long. Here too his excellence 
2462is chiefly intellectual, and shown in the way of business-like 
2463method. Everything is well calculated for a given end ; there 
2464is the utmost logical fitness of sentiment, of incident, of gen- 
2465eral contrivance. Nor is he without an enthusiasm that 
2466sometimes resembles inspiration ; a clear fellow-feeling for 
2467the personages of his scene he always has ; with a chameleon 
2468susceptibility he takes some hue of every object ; if he cannot 
2469be that object, he at least plausibly enacts it. Thus we have 
2470a result everywhere consistent with itself ; a contrivance, not 
2471without nice adjustments and brilliant aspects, which pleases 
2472with that old pleasure of " difficulties overcome," and the visi- 
2473ble correspondence of means to end. That the deeper portion 
2474of our soul sits silent, unmoved under all this ; recognizing no 
2475universal, everlasting Beauty, but only a modish Elegance, less 
2476the work of a poetical creation than a process of the toilette, 
2477need occasion no surprise. It signifies only that Voltaire was 
2478a French poet, and wrote as the French people of that day 
2479required and approved. We have long known that French 
2480poetry aimed at a different result from ours ; that its splendor 
2481was what we should call a dead, artificial one ; not the mani- 
2482fold soft summer glories of Nature, but a cold splendor, as of 
2483polished metal. 
2484
2485On the whole, in reading Voltaire's poetry, that adventure 
2486of the Cafe de Procope should ever be held in mind. He was 
2487not without an eye to have looked, had he seen others looking, 
2488into the deepest nature of poetry ; nor has he failed here and 
2489there to cast a glance in that direction : but what preferment 
2490could such enterprises earn for him. in the Cafe de Procope ? 
2491What could it profit his all-precious " fame " to pursue them 
2492farther ? In the end, he seems to have heartily reconciled him- 
2493self to use and wont, and striven only to do better what he saw 
2494all others doing. Yet his private poetical creed, which could 
2495not be a catholic one, was, nevertheless, scarcely so bigoted 
2496as might have been looked for. That censure of Shakspeare, 
2497
2498
2499
2500VOLTAIRE. 445 
2501
2502which elicited a re-censure in England, perhaps rather deserved 
2503a " recommendatory epistle," all things being considered. He 
2504calls Shakspeare " a genius full of force and fertility, of na- 
2505ture and sublimity," though unhappily " without the smallest 
2506spark of good taste, or the smallest acquaintance with the 
2507rules ; " which, in Voltaire's dialect, is not so false ; Shakspeare 
2508having really almost no Parisian bon gout whatever, and walk- 
2509ing through "the rules" so often as he sees good, with the 
2510most astonishing tranquillity. After a fair enough account of 
2511Hamlet, the best of those "farces monstrueuses qu'on appelle 
2512tragedies" where, however, there are " scenes so beautiful, 
2513passages so grand and so terrible," Voltaire thus proceeds to 
2514resolve two great problems : 
2515
2516"The first, how so many wonders could accumulate in a 
2517single head ; for it must be confessed that all the divine Shak- 
2518speare's plays are written in this taste : the second, how men's 
2519minds could have been elevated so as to look at these plays 
2520with transport ; and how they are still followed after, in a 
2521century which has produced Addison's Cato ? 
2522
2523" Our astonishment at the first wonder will cease, when we 
2524understand that Shakspeare took all his tragedies from his- 
2525tories or romances; and that in this case he only turned into 
2526verse the romance of Claudius, Gertrude and Hamlet, written 
2527in full by Saxo Grammaticus, to whom be the praise. 
2528
2529" The second part of the problem, that is to say, the pleasure 
2530men take in these tragedies, presents a little more difficulty ; 
2531but here is (en voici) the solution, according to the deep reflec- 
2532tions of certain philosophers. 
2533
2534" The English chairmen, the sailors, hackney-coachmen, shop- 
2535porters, butchers, clerks even, are passionately fond of shows ; 
2536give them cock-fights, bull-baitings, fencing-matches, burials, 
2537duels, gibbets, witchcraft, apparitions, they run thither in 
2538crowds ; nay there is more than one patrician as curious as 
2539the populace. The citizens of London found, in Shakspeare's 
2540tragedies, satisfaction enough for such a turn of mind. The 
2541courtiers were obliged to follow the torrent : how can you help 
2542admiring what the more sensible part of the town admires ? 
2543There was nothing better for a hundred and fifty years : the 
2544
2545
2546
254744u CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
2548
2549admiration grew with age, and became an idolatry. Some 
2550touches of genius, some happy verses full of force and nature, 
2551which you remember in spite of yourself, atoned for the re- 
2552mainder, and soon the whole piece succeeded by the help of 
2553some beauties of detail." 1 
2554
2555Here, truly, is a comfortable little theory, which throws 
2556light on more than one thing. However, it is couched in mild 
2557terms, comparatively speaking. Frederick the Great, for ex- 
2558ample, thus gives his verdict : 
2559
2560" To convince yourself of the wretched taste that up to this 
2561day prevails in Germany, you have only to visit the public 
2562theatres. You will there see, in action, the abominable plays 
2563of Shakspeare, translated into our language ; and the whole 
2564audience fainting with rapture (se pdmer d'aise) in listening 
2565to those ridiculous farces, worthy of the savages of Canada. 
2566I call them such, because they sin against all the rules of the 
2567theatre. One may pardon those mad sallies in Shakspeare, for 
2568the birth of the arts is never the point of their maturity. But 
2569here, even now, we have a Goetz de Berlichingen, which has 
2570just made its appearance on the scene ; a detestable imitation 
2571of those miserable English pieces ; and the pit applauds, and 
2572demands with enthusiasm the repetition of these disgusting 
2573ineptitudes (de ces degoutantes platitudes)" * 
2574
2575We have not cited these criticisms with a view to impugn 
2576them ; but simply to ascertain where the critics themselves are 
2577standing. This passage of Frederick's has even a touch of 
2578pathos in it ; may be regarded as the expiring cry of " Gout " 
2579in that country, who sees himself suddenly beleaguered by 
2580strange, appalling Supernatural Influences, which he mistakes 
2581for Lapland witchcraft or Cagliostro jugglery ; which never- 
2582theless swell up round him, irrepressible, higher, ever higher ; 
2583and so he drowns, grasping his opera-hat, in an ocean of " c?e- 
2584goutantes platitudes" On the whole, it would appear that 
2585Voltaire's view of poetry was radically different from ours ; 
2586that, in fact, of what we should strictly call poetry, he had 
2587
25881 (Euvres, t. xlvii. p. 300. 
2589
25902 De la Litterature Allemande; Berlin, 1780. We quote from the compile 
2591tion, Goethe in den Zeugnissen der Mitlebenden, s. 124. 
2592
2593
2594
2595VOLTAIRE. 447 
2596
2597almost no view whatever. A Tragedy, a Poem, with him is 
2598not to be " a manifestation of man's Reason in forms suitable 
2599to his Sense ; " but rather a highly complex egg-dance, to be 
2600danced before the King, to a given tune and without breaking 
2601a single egg. Nevertheless, let justice be shown to him, and 
2602to French poetry at large. This latter is a peculiar growth of 
2603our modern ages ; has been laboriously cultivated, and is not 
2604without its own value. We have to remark also, as a curious 
2605fact, that it has been, at one time or other, transplanted into 
2606all countries, England, Germany, Spain ; but though under 
2607the sunbeams of royal protection, it would strike root nowhere. 
2608Nay, now it seems falling into the sere and yellow leaf in its 
2609own natal soil : the axe has already been seen near its root ; 
2610and perhaps, in no great lapse of years, this species of poetry 
2611may be to the French, what it is to all other nations, a pleas- 
2612ing reminiscence. Yet the elder French loved it with zeal ; 
2613to them it must have had a true worth : indeed we can under- 
2614stand how, when Life itself consisted so much in Display, 
2615these representations of Life may have been the only suitable 
2616ones. And now, when the nation feels itself called to a more 
2617grave and nobler destiny among nations, the want of a new 
2618literature also begins to be felt. As yet, in looking at their 
2619too purblind, scrambling controversies of Romanticists and 
2620Classicists, we cannot find that our ingenious neighbors have 
2621done much more than make a commencement in this enter- 
2622prise ; however, a commencement seems to be made : they are 
2623in what may be called the eclectic state ; trying all things, 
2624German, English, Italian, Spanish, with a candor and real love 
2625of improvement, which give the best omens of a still higher 
2626success. From the peculiar gifts of the French, and their 
2627peculiar spiritual position, we may expect, had they once more 
2628attained to an original style, many important benefits, and im- 
2629portant accessions to the Literature of the World. Meanwhile, 
2630in considering and duly estimating what that people has in 
2631past times accomplished, Voltaire must always be reckoned 
2632among their most meritorious Poets. Inferior in what we may 
2633call general poetic temperament to Racine ; greatly inferior, in 
2634some points of it, to Corneille, he has an intellectual vivacity, 
2635
2636
2637
2638448 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
2639
2640a quickness both of sight and of invention, which belongs to 
2641neither of these two. We believe that, among foreign na- 
2642tions, his Tragedies, such works as Zaire and Mahomet, are 
2643considerably the most esteemed of this school. 
2644
2645However, it is nowise as a Poet, Historian or Novelist, that 
2646Voltaire stands so prominent in Europe; but chiefly as a reli- 
2647gious Poleip^j ^ fl, v^h^p pT> ^pponent of the Christian Faith. 
2648Viewed in this last character, he may give rise to many grave 
2649reflections, only a small portion of which can here be so much 
2650as glanced at. We may say, in general, that his style of con- 
2651troversy is of a piece with himself ; not a higher, and scarcely 
2652a lower style than might have been expected from him. As, 
2653in a moral point of view, Voltaire nowise wanted a love of 
2654truth, yet had withal a still deeper love of his own interest in 
2655truth ; was, therefore, intrinsically no Philosopher, but a highly 
2656accomplished Trivialist ; so likewise, in an intellectual point 
2657of view, he manifests himself ingenious and adroit, rather than 
2658noble or comprehensive ; fights for truth or vio.tnryj not by 
2659patient meditation, but by Ijghtsarcasm, whereby victory may 
2660indeed, for a time, be gained; but little Truth, what can be 
2661named Truth, especially in such matters as this, is to be looked 
2662for. 
2663
2664No one, we suppose, ever arrogated for Voltaire any praise 
2665of originality in this discussion; we suppose there is not a 
2666single idea, of any moment, relating to the Christian Religion, 
2667in all his multifarious writings, that had not been set forth 
2668again and again before his enterprises commenced. The labors 
2669of a very mixed multitude, from Porphyry down to Shaftes- 
2670bury, including Hobbeses, Tindals, Tolands, some of them 
2671sceptics of a much nobler class, had left little room for merit 
2672in this kind ; nay, Bayle, his own countryman, had just finished 
2673a life spent in preaching scepticism precisely similar, and by 
2674methods precisely similar, when Voltaire appeared on the 
2675arena. Indeed, scepticism, as we have before observed, was 
2676at this period universal among the higher ranks in France, 
2677with whom Voltaire chiefly associated. It is only in the merit 
2678and demerit of grinding down this grain into food for the 
2679people, and inducing so many to eat of it, that Voltaire can 
2680
2681
2682
2683VOLTAIRE. 449 
2684
2685claim any singularity. However, we quarrel not with him on 
2686this head : there may be cases where the want of originality is 
2687even a moral merit. But it is a much more serious ground of 
2688offence that he intermeddled in Religion, without being him- 
2689self, in any measure, religious; that he entered the Temple 
2690and continued there, with a levity, which, in any Temple where 
2691men worship, can beseem no brother man ; that, in a word, he 
2692ardently, and with long-continued effort, warred against Chris- 
2693tianity, without understanding beyond the mere superficies 
2694what Christianity was. 
2695
2696His polemical procedure in this matter, it appears to us, 
2697must now be admitted to have been, on the whole, a shallow 
2698one. Through all its manifold forms, and involutions, and 
2699repetitions, it turns, we believe exclusively, on one point: 
2700what Theologians have called the " plenary Inspiration of the 
2701Scriptures." This is the single wall, against which, through 
2702long years, and with innumerable battering-rams and catapults 
2703and pop-guns, he unweariedly batters. Concede him this, and 
2704his ram swings freely to and fro through space : there is noth- 
2705ing farther it can even aim at. That the Sacred Books could 
2706be aught else than a Bank-of-Faith Bill, for such and such 
2707quantities of Enjoyment, payable at sight in the other world, 
2708value received ; which bill becomes waste paper, the stamp 
2709being questioned : that the Christian Religion could have 
2710any deeper foundation than Books, could possibly be written 
2711in the purest nature of man, in mysterious, ineffaceable char- 
2712acters, to which Books, and all Revelations, and authentic 
2713traditions, were but a subsidiary matter, were but as the light 
2714whereby that divine writing was to be read ; nothing of this 
2715seems to have, even in the faintest manner, occurred to him. 
2716Yet herein, as we believe that the whole world has now begun 
2717to discover, lies the real essence of the question ; by the nega- 
2718tive or affirmative decision of which the Christian Religion, 
2719anything that is worth calling by that name, must fall, or en- 
2720dure forever. We believe also, that the wiser minds of our 
2721age have already come to agreement on this question ; or rather 
2722never were divided regarding it. Christianity, the "Worship 
2723of Sorrow," has been recognized as divine, on far other grounds 
2724VOL. xiii, 29 
2725
2726
2727
2728450 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
2729
2730than " Essays on Miracles/' and by considerations infinitely 
2731deeper than would avail in any mere " trial by jury." He 
2732who argues against it, or for it. in this manner, may be regarded 
2733as mistaking its nature : the Ithuriel, though to our eyes he 
2734wears a body and the fashion of armor, cannot be wounded 
2735with material steel. Our fathers were wiser than we, when 
2736they said in deepest earnestness, what we often hear in shallow 
2737mockery, that Eeligion is " not of Sense, but of Faith;" not 
2738of Understanding, but of Reason. He who finds himself with- 
2739out the latter, who by all his studying has failed to unfold it 
2740in himself, may have studied to great or to small purpose, we 
2741say not which ; but of the Christian Religion, as of many other 
2742things, he has and can have no knowledge. 
2743
2744The Christian Doctrine we often hear likened to the Greek 
2745Philosophy, and found, on all hands, some measurable way 
2746superior to it : but this also seems a mistake. The Christian 
2747Doctrine, that Doctrine of Humility, in all senses godlike and 
2748the parent of all godlike virtues, is not superior, or inferior, 
2749or equal, to any doctrine of Socrates or Thales ; being of a 
2750totally different nature ; differing from these, as a perfect Ideal 
2751Poem does from a correct Computation in Arithmetic. He 
2752who compares it with such standards may lament that, beyond 
2753the mere letter, the purport of this divine Humility has never 
2754been disclosed to him ; that the loftiest feeling hitherto vouch- 
2755safed to mankind is as yet hidden from his eyes. 
2756
2757For the rest, the question how Christianity originated is 
2758doubtless a high question ; resolvable enough, if we view only 
27591 its surface, which was all that Voltaire saw of it ; involved in 
2760^sacred, silent, unfathomable depths, if we investigate its in- 
2761terior meanings ; which meanings, indeed, it may be, every new 
2762age will develop to itself in a new manner and with new 
2763degrees of light ; for the whole truth may be called infinite, 
2764and to man's eye discernible only in parts ; but the question 
2765itself is nowise the ultimate one in this matter. 
2766
2767We understand ourselves to be risking no new assertion, but 
2768simply reporting what is already the conviction of the greatest 
2769of our age, when we say, that cheerfully recognizing, grate- 
2770fully appropriating whatever Voltaire has proved, or any other 
2771
2772
2773
2774VOLTAIRE. 451 
2775
2776ffian has proved, or shall prove, the Christian Eeligion, once 
2777here, cannot again pass away ; that in one or the other form, 
2778it will endure through all time ; that as in Scripture, so also in 
2779the heart of man, is written, " the Gates of Hell shall not pre- 
2780vail against it." Were the memory of this Faith never so 
2781obscured, as, indeed, in all times, the coarse passions and per- 
2782ceptions of the world do all but obliterate it in the hearts of 
2783most ; yet in every pure soul, in every Poet and Wise Man, it 
2784finds a new Missionary, a new Martyr, till the great volume of 
2785Universal History is finally closed, and man's destinies are 
2786fulfilled in this earth. " It is a height to which the human 
2787species were fated and enabled to attain ; and from which, 
2788having once attained it, they can never retrograde." 
2789
2790These things, which it were far out of our place to attempt 
2791adequately elucidating here, must not be left out of sight in 
2792appreciating Voltaire's polemical worth. We find no trace of 
2793these, or of any the like essential considerations having been 
2794present with him, in examining the Christian Religion; nor 
2795indeed was it consistent with his general habits that they 
2796should be so. Totally destitute of religious Eeverence, even 
2797of common practical seriousness ; by nature or habit, undevout 
2798both in heart and head ; not only without any Belief, in other 
2799than a material sense, but without the possibility of acquiring 
2800any, he can be no safe or permanently useful guide in this in- 
2801vestigation. We may consider him as having opened the way 
2802to future inquirers of a truer spirit ; but for his own part, as 
2803having engaged in an enterprise, the real nature of which was 
2804well-nigh unknown to him ; and engaged in it with the issue 
2805to be anticipated in such a case ; producing chiefly confusion, 
2806dislocation, destruction, on all hands ; so that the good he 
2807achieved is still, in these times, found mixed with an alarming 
2808proportion of evil, from which, indeed, men rationally doubt 
2809whether much of it will in any time be separable. 
2810
2811We should err widely too, if, in estimating what quantity, 
2812altogether overlooking what quality, of intellect Voltaire may 
2813have manifested on this occasion, we took the result produced 
2814as any measure of the force applied. His task was not one of 
2815Affirmation, but of Denial ; not a task of erecting and rearing 
2816
2817
2818
2819452 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
2820
2821up, which is slow and laborious ; but of destroying and over- 
2822turning, which in most cases is rapid and far easier. The 
2823force necessary for him was nowise a great and noble one ; 
2824but a small, in some respects a mean one ; to be nimbly and 
2825seasonably put in use. The Ephesian Temple, which it had 
2826employed many wise heads and strong arms for a lifetime to 
2827build, could be unbuilt by one madman, in a single hour. 
2828
2829Of such errors, deficiencies and positive misdeeds, it appears 
2830to us a just criticism must accuse Voltaire : at the same time, 
2831we can nowise join in the condemnatory clamor which so many 
2832worthy persons, not without the best intentions, to this day 
2833keep up against him. His whole character seems to be plain 
2834enough, common enough, had not extraneous influences so per- 
2835verted our views regarding it: nor, morally speaking, is it a 
2836worse character, but considerably a better one, than belongs to 
2837the mass of men. Voltaire's aims in opposing the Christian 
2838Religion were unhappily of a mixed nature; yet, after all, 
2839very nearly such aims as we have often seen directed against 
2840it, and often seen directed in its favor : a little love of finding 
2841Truth, with a great love of making Proselytes ; which last is 
2842in itself a natural, universal feeling ; and if honest, is, even in 
2843the worst cases, a subject for pity, rather than for hatred. As 
2844a light, careless, courteous Man of the World, he offers no hate- 
2845ful aspect ; on the contrary, a kindly, gay, rather amiable one : 
2846hundreds of men, with half his worth of disposition, die daily, 
2847and their little world laments them. It is time that he too 
2848should be judged of by his intrinsic, not by his accidental quali- 
2849ties ; that justice should be done to him also ; for injustice can 
2850profit no man and no cause. 
2851
2852In fact, Voltaire's chief merits belong to Nature and him- 
2853self ; his chief faults are of his time and country. In that 
2854famous era of the Pompadours and Encyclopedies, he forms the 
2855main figure ; and was such, we have seen, more by resembling 
2856the multitude, than by differing from them. It was a strange 
2857age, that of Louis XV. ; in several points, a novel one in the his- 
2858tory of mankind. In regard to its luxury and deprarity, to the 
2859high culture of all merely practical and material faculties, and 
2860the entire torpor of all the purely contemplative and spiritual, 
2861
2862
2863
2864VOLTAIRE. 453 
2865
2866this era considerably resembles that of the Koman Emperors. 
2867There too was external splendor and internal squalor; the 
2868highest completeness in all sensual arts, including among these 
2869not cookery and its adjuncts alone, but even "effect-painting" 
2870and " effect-writing ; " only the art of virtuous living was a 
2871lost one. Instead of Love for Poetry, there was " Taste " for 
2872it ; refinement in manners, with utmost coarseness in morals : 
2873in a word, the strange spectacle of a Social System, embracing 
2874large, cultivated portions of the huinau species, and founded 
2875only on Atheism. With the Romans, things went what we 
2876should call their natural course : Liberty, public spirit quietly 
2877declined into caput-mortuum ; Self-love, Materialism, Baseness 
2878even to the disbelief in all possibility of Virtue, stalked more 
2879and more imperiously abroad ; till the body-politic, long since 
2880deprived of its vital circulating fluids, had now become a putrid 
2881carcass, and fell in pieces to be the prey of ravenous wolves. 
2882Then was there, under these Attilas and Alarics, a world- 
2883spectacle of destruction and despair, compared with which the 
2884often-commemorated " horrors of the French Revolution," and 
2885all Napoleon's wars, were but the gay jousting of a tournament 
2886to the sack of stormed cities. Our European community has 
2887escaped the like dire consummation ; and by causes which, as 
2888may be hoped, will always secure it from such. Nay, were 
2889there no other cause, it may be asserted, that in a common- 
2890wealth where the Christian Eeligion exists, where it once has 
2891existed, public and private Virtue, the basis of all Strength, 
2892never can become extinct ; but in every new age, and even 
2893from the deepest decline, there is a chance, and in the course 
2894of ages a certainty of renovation. 
2895
2896That the Christian Religion, or any Religion, continued to 
2897exist; that some martyr heroism still lived in thejieart of 
2898Europe to rise against mailed Tyranny when it rode trium- 
2899phant, was indeed no merit in the age of Louis XV., but a 
2900happy accident which it could not altogether get rid of. For 
2901that age too is to be regarded as an experiment, on the great 
2902scale, to decide the question, not yet, it would appear, settled 
2903to universal satisfaction : With what degree of vigor a politi- 
2904cal system, grounded on pure Self-iuterest, never so enlight- 
2905
2906
2907
2908454 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
2909
2910ened, but without a God or any recognition of the godlike in 
2911man, can be expected to flourish ; or whether, in such circum- 
2912stances, a political system can be expected to nourish, or even 
2913to subsist at all ? It is contended by many that our mere love 
2914of personal Pleasure, or Happiness as it is called, acting on 
2915every individual, with such clearness as he may easily have, 
2916will of itself lead him to respect the rights of others, and 
2917wisely employ his own ; to fulfil, on a mere principle of econ- 
2918omy, all the duties of a good patriot ; so that, in what respects 
2919the State, or the mere social existence of mankind, Belief, 
2920beyond the testimony of the senses, and Virtue, beyond the 
2921very common Virtue of loving what is pleasant and hating 
2922what is painful, are to be considered as supererogatory qualifi- 
2923cations, as ornamental, not essential. Many there are, on the 
2924other hand, who pause over this doctrine ; cannot discover, in 
2925such a universe of conflicting atoms, any principle by which 
2926the whole shall cohere ; for if every man's selfishness, in- 
2927finitely expansive, is to be hemmed in only by the infinitely 
2928expansive selfishness of every other man, it seems as if we 
2929should have a world of mutually repulsive bodies with no cen- 
2930tripetal force to bind them together; in which case, it is well 
2931known, they would, by and by, diffuse themselves over space, 
2932and constitute a remarkable Chaos, but no habitable Solar or 
2933Stellar System. 
2934
2935If the age of Louis XV. was not made an experimentum 
2936crucis in regard to this question, one reason may be, that such 
2937experiments are too expensive. Nature cannot afford, above 
2938once or twice in the thousand years, to destroy a whole world 
2939for purposes of science ; but must content herself with de- 
2940stroying one or two kingdoms. The age of Louis XV., so far 
2941as it we^it, seems a highly illustrative experiment. We are 
2942to remark also, that its operation was clogged by a very con- 
2943siderable disturbing force ; by a large remnant, namely, of 
2944the old faith in Eeligion, in the invisible, celestial nature of 
2945Virtue, which our French Purifiers, by their utmost efforts 
2946of lavation, had not been able to wash away. The men did 
2947their best, but no man can do more. Their worst enemy, we 
2948imagine, will not accuse them of any undue regard to things 
2949
2950
2951
2952VOLTAIRE. 455 
2953
2954unseen and spiritual : far from practising this invisible sort of 
2955Virtue, they cannot even believe in its possibility. The high 
2956exploits and endurances of old ages were no longer virtues, 
2957but " passions ; " these antique persons had a taste for being 
2958heroes, a certain fancy to die for the truth : the more fools 
2959they ! With our Philosophes, the only virtue of any civiliza- 
2960tion was what they call "Honor," the sanctioning deity of 
2961which is that wonderful "Force of Public Opinion." Con* 
2962cerning which virtue of Honor, we must be permitted to say, 
2963that she reveals herself too clearly as the daughter and heiress 
2964of our old acquaintance Vanity, who indeed has been known 
2965enough ever since the foundation of the world, at least since 
2966the date of that " Lucifer, son of the Morning ; " but known 
2967chiefly in her proper character of strolling actress, or cast- 
2968clothes Abigail ; and never, till that new era, had seen he* 
2969issue set up as Queen and all-sufficient Dictatress of man's 
2970whole soul, prescribing with nicest precision what, in all prac- 
2971tical and all moral emergencies, he was to do and to forbear. 
2972Again, with regard to this same Force of Public Opinion, it is 
2973a force well known to all of us ; respected, valued as of indis- 
2974pensable utility, but nowise recognized as a final or divine 
2975force. We might ask, What divine, what truly great thing 
2976had ever been effected by this force ? Was it the Force 
2977of Public Opinion that drove Columbus to America; John 
2978Kepler, not to fare sumptuously among Rodolph's Astrologers 
2979and Fire-eaters, but to perish of want, discovering the true 
2980System of the Stars ? Still more ineffectual do we find it as 
2981a basis of public or private Morals. Nay, taken by itself, 
2982it may be called a baseless basis : for without some ulterior 
2983sanction, common to all minds ; without some belief in the 
2984necessary, eternal, or which is the same, in the supramundane, 
2985divine nature of Virtue, existing in each individual, what 
2986could the moral judgment of a thousand or a thousand-thou- 
2987sand individuals avail us ? Without some celestial guidance, 
2988whencesoever derived, or howsoever named, it appears to us 
2989the Force of Public Opinion would, by and by, become an 
2990extremely unprofitable one. " Enlighten Self-interest ! " cries 
2991the Philosophe y " do but sufficiently enlighten it ! " We our- 
2992
2993
2994
2995456 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
2996
2997selves have seen enlightened Self-interests, ere now ; and 
2998truly, for most part, their light was only as that of a horn- 
2999lantern, sufficient to guide the bearer himself out of various 
3000puddles ; but to us and the world of comparatively small ad- 
3001vantage. And figure the human species, like an endless host, 
3002seeking its way onwards through undiscovered Time, in black 
3003darkness, save that each had his horn-lantern, and the van- 
3004guard some few of glass ! 
3005
3006However, we will not dwell on controversial niceties. What 
3007we had to remark was, that this era, called of Philosophy, was 
3008in itself but a poor era ; that any little morality it had was 
3009chiefly borrowed, and from those very ages which it accounted 
3010so barbarous. For this " Honor," this " Force of Public Opin- 
3011ion," is not asserted, on any side, to have much renovating, 
3012but only a sustaining or preventive power; it cannot create 
3013new Virtue, but at best may preserve what is already there. 
3014Nay, of the age of Louis XV. we may say that its very Power, 
3015its material strength, its knowledge, all that it had, was bor- 
3016rowed. It boasted itself to be an age of illumination ; and 
3017truly illumination there was, of its kind : only, except the illu- 
3018minated windows, almost nothing to be seen thereby. None 
3019of those great Doctrines or Institutions that have "made man 
3020in all points a man;" none even of those Discoveries that 
3021have the most subjected external Nature to his purposes, were 
3022made in that age. What Plough or Printing-press, what 
3023Chivalry or Christianity, nay what Steam-engine, or Quaker- 
3024ism, or Trial by Jury, did these Encyclopedists invent for 
3025mankind ? They invented simply nothing : not one of man's 
3026virtues, not one of man's powers, is due to them ; in all these 
3027respects the age of Louis XV. is among the most barren of 
3028'recorded ages. Indeed, the whole trade of our Philosophes 
3029was directly the opposite of invention : it was not to produce, 
3030that they stood there; but to criticise, to quarrel with, t*o 
3031r^jid in pieces, what had been alffeady produced ; a quite 
3032inferior trade : sometimes a useful, but on the whole a mean 
3033trade ; often the fruit, and always the parent, of meanness, ill 
3034every mind that permanently follows it. 
3035
3036Considering the then position of affairs, it is not singular 
3037
3038
3039
3040VOLTAIRE. 457 
3041
3042that the age of Louis XV. should have been what it was : an 
3043age without nobleness, without high virtue or high manifesta- 
3044tions of talent; an age of shallow clearness, of polish, self- 
3045conceit, scepticism and all forms of Persiflage. As little does 
3046it seem surprising, or peculiarly blamable, that Voltaire, the 
3047leading man of that age, should have partaken largely of all 
3048its qualities. True, his giddy activity took serious effect ; the 
3049light firebrands, which he so carelessly scattered abroad, kin- 
3050dled fearful conflagrations ; but in these there has been good 
3051as well as evil ; nor is it just that, even for the latter, he, a 
3052limited mortal, should be charged with more than mortal's 
3053responsibility. After all, that parched, blighted period, and 
3054the period of earthquakes and tornadoes which followed it, 
3055have now well-nigh cleared away : they belong to the Past, 
3056and for us, and those that come after us, are not without their 
3057benefits, and calm historical meaning. 
3058
3059" The thinking heads of all nations," says a deep observer, 
3060"had in secret come to majority; and in a mistaken feeling of 
3061their vocation, rose the more fiercely against antiquated con- 
3062straint. The Man of Letters is, by instinct, opposed to a 
3063Priesthood of old standing : the literary class and the clerical 
3064must wage a war of extermination, when they are divided ; 
3065for both strive after one place. Such division became more 
3066and more perceptible, the nearer we approached the period of 
3067European manhood, the epoch of triumphant Learning; and 
3068Knowledge and Faith came into more decided contradiction. 
3069In the prevailing Faith, as was thought, lay the rea.sor^jvf f.Tip. 
3070universal degradation ; and by a more and__mj]T Q s^nrfhigg 
3071Knowledge men hoped to remove_it._ On all hands t.hp, Ke- 
3072ligious^ Teeling suffered, under manifold attacks agaiaaiL-its 
3073actual manner of existence, against the forms in which hith- 
3074erto TTTTad embodied itself. The result of that modern way 
3075of thought jvasnamed Philosophy ; and in this all was in- 
3076cluded that opposed itself to the ancient way of thought, 
3077especially, therefore, all tflat opposed itself to Keligion. Tfc> 
3078o/Hginn.l personal hatred against the Catholic Faith passed, by 
3079degrees, into hatred against the T^blf^ against the Christian 
3080last against Religion altogether. Nay more, 
3081
3082
3083
3084458 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
3085
3086tliis hatred of Religion naturally extended itself over all 
3087objects of enthusiasm in general ; proscribed Fancy and Feel- 
3088ing, Morality and love of Art, the Future and the Antique ; 
3089placed man, with an effort, foremost in the series of natu- 
3090ral productions; and changed the infinite, creative music of 
3091the Universe into the monotonous clatter of a boundless 
3092Mill, which, turned by the stream of Chance, and swimming 
3093thereon, was a Mill of itself, without Architect and Miller, 
3094properly a genuine perpetuum mobile, a real self-grinding 
3095Mill. 
3096
3097" One enthusiasm was generously left to poor mankind, and 
3098rendered indispensable as a touchstone of the highest culture, 
3099for all jobbers in the same : Enthusiasm for this magnanimous 
3100Philosophy, and above all, for these its priests and mysta- 
3101gogues. France was so happy as to be the birthplace and 
3102dwelling of this new Faith, which had thus, from patches of 
3103pure knowledge, been pasted together. Low as Poetry ranked 
3104in this new Church, there were some poets among them, who, 
3105for effect's sake, made use of the old ornaments and old lights ; 
3106but in so doing, ran a risk of kindling the new world-system 
3107by ancient fire. More cunning brethren, however, were at 
3108hand to help ; and always in season poured cold water on the 
3109warming audience. The members of this Church were rest- 
3110lessly employed in clearing Nature, the Earth, the Souls of 
3111men, the Sciences, from all Poetry ; obliterating every vestige 
3112of the Holy ; disturbing, by sarcasms, the memory of all lofty 
3113occurrences and lofty men ; disrobing the world of all its varie- 
3114gated vesture. . . . Pity that Nature continued so wondrous 
3115and incomprehensible, so poetical and infinite, all efforts to 
3116modernize her notwithstanding ! However, if anywhere an 
3117old superstition, of a higher world and the like, came to light, 
3118instantly, on all hands, was a springing of rattles ; that, if pos- 
3119sible, the dangerous spark might be extinguished, by appli- 
3120ances of philosophy and wit : yet Tolerance was the watchword 
3121of the cultivated ; and in France, above all, synonymous with 
3122Philosophy. Highly remarkable is this history of modern 
3123Unbelief ; the key to all the vast phenomena of recent times. 
3124Not till last century, till the latter half of it, does the novelty 
3125
3126
3127
3128VOLTAIRE. 459 
3129
3130begin; and in a little while it expands to an immeasurable 
3131bulk and variety : a second Reformation, a more compre- 
3132hensive, and more specific, was unavoidable ; and naturally it 
3133first visited that land which was the most modernized, and 
3134had the longest lain in an asthenic state, from want of 
3135freedom. . . . 
3136
3137" At the present epoch, however, we stand high enough to 
3138look back with a friendly smile on those bygone days ; and even 
3139in those marvellous follies to discern curious crystallizations 
3140of historical matter. Thankfully will we stretch out our 
3141hands to those Men of Letters and Philosophes : for this delu- 
3142sion too required to be exhausted, and the scientific side of 
3143things to have full value given it. More beauteous and many- 
3144colored stands Poesy, like a leafy India, when contrasted with 
3145the cold, dead Spitzbergen of that Closet-Logic. That in the 
3146middle of the globe, an India, so warm and lordly, might exist, 
3147must also a cold motionless sea, dead cliffs, mist instead of the 
3148starry sky, and a long night, make both Poles uninhabitable. 
3149The deep meaning of the laws of Mechanism lay heavy on 
3150those anchorites in the deserts of Understanding : the charm 
3151of the first glimpse into it overpowered them : the Old avenged 
3152itself on them ; to the first feeling of self-consciousness, they 
3153sacrificed, with wondrous devotedness, what was holiest and 
3154fairest in the world ; and were the first that, in practice, again 
3155recognized and preached forth the sacredness of Nature, the 
3156infinitude of Art, the independence of Knowledge, the worth 
3157of the Practical, and the all-presence of the Spirit of His- 
3158tory ; and so doing, put an end to a Spectre-dynasty, more 
3159potent, universal and terrific than perhaps they themselves 
3160were aware of." J 
3161
3162How far our readers will accompany Novalis in such high- 
3163soaring speculation, is not for us to say. Meanwhile, that the 
3164better part of them have already, in their own dialect, united 
3165with him, and with us, in candid tolerance, in clear acknowl- 
3166edgment, towards French Philosophy, towards this Voltaire 
3167and the spiritual period which bears his name, we do not hesi- 
3168tate to believe. Intolerance, animosity can forward no cause j 
3169
31701 Novalis Schriflen, i. s. 198. 
3171
3172
3173
3174460 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
3175
3176and least of all beseems the cause of moral and religious truth. 
3177A wise man has well reminded us, that " in any controversy, 
3178the instant we feel angry, we have already ceased striving for 
3179Truth, and begun striving for Ourselves." Let no man doubt 
3180but Voltaire and his disciples, like all men and all things that 
3181live and act in God's world, will one day be found to have 
3182" worked together for good." Nay that, with all his evil, he 
3183has already accomplished ffood., must be admitted in the sober- 
3184est calculation. How much do we include in this little word : 
3185He gave the death-stab to modern Superstition ! That horrid 
3186incubus, which dwelt in darkness, shunning the light, is pass- 
3187ing away; with all its racks, and poison-chalices, and foul 
3188sleeping-draughts, is passing away without return. It was 
3189a most weighty service. Does not the cry of " No Popery," 
3190and some vague terror or sham-terror of " Smithfield fires," 
3191still act on certain minds in these very days ? He who sees 
3192even a little way into the signs of the times, sees well that 
3193both the Smithfield fires, and the Edinburgh thumb-screws 
3194(for these too must be held in remembrance) are things which 
3195have long, very long, lain behind us ; divided from us by a wall 
3196of Centuries, transparent indeed, but more impassable than 
3197adamant. For, as we said, Superstition is in its death-lair: 
3198the last agonies may endure for decades, or for centuries ; but 
3199it carries the iron in its heart, and will not vex the earth any 
3200more. 
3201
3202That, with Superstition, Eeligion is also passing away, 
3203seems to us a still more ungrounded fear. Eeligion cannot 
3204pass away. The burning of a little straw may hide the stars 
3205of the sky ; but the stars are there, and will reappear. On the 
3206whole, we must repeat the often-repeated saying, that it is 
3207unworthy a religious man to view an irreligious one either 
3208with alarm or aversion ; or with any other feeling than regret, 
3209and hope, and brotherly commiseration. If he seek Truth, is 
3210he not our brother, and to be pitied ? If he do not seek Truth, 
3211is he not still our brother, and to be pitied still more ? Old 
3212Ludovicus Vives has a story of a clown that killed his ass 
3213because it had drunk up the moon, and he thought the world 
3214could ill spare that luminary. So he killed his ass, ut lunam 
3215
3216
3217
3218VOLTAIRE. 461 
3219
3220redderet. The clown was well-intentioned, but unwise. Let 
3221us not imitate him : let us not slay a faithful servant, who 
3222has carried us far. He has not drunk the moon ; but only 
3223the reflection of the moon, in his own poor water-pail, where 
3224too, it may be, he was drinking with purposes the most 
3225harmless.