whom the rising generation of sixty years have continued to supply, and who often have molested his long and glorious career. The following celebrated lines

Nos pretres ne sont pas ce qu'un vain peuple pense

Notre credulite fait toute leur science

[Our priests are not what the foolish people suppose; their whole knowledge is derived from our credulity]-were the first signal of a war, which not even the death of Voltaire could extinguish.

At one of the representations of "Edipus," Voltaire appeared on the stage, bearing up the train of the high priest. The Marchioness de Villars asked who was that young man who wished the piece might be condemned; she was told it was the author. This thoughtless act, which spoke a man so superior to the trifling anxieties of self-love, made the marchioness desirous of his acquaintance. Voltaire being admitted her visitor, conceived a passion for her-the first and the most serious he ever felt. He was unsuccessful; and was for a considerable time diverted from study, which had already become necessary to his existence. He never afterwards mentioned this subject but with a sensation of regret, and almost of remorse. Having freed himself from his passion, he continued the " Henriade," and wrote the tragedy of 'Artémire.' The public, who had done justice to "Edipus,' was (to say the least) severe to " Artémire." This is a common consequence of success: nor is secret aversion for acknowledged superiority the only cause, though this aversion has the art to profit by a natural feeling which renders us more difficult to be pleased in proportion as we have more to hope.

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This tragedy was of no other value to Voltaire than that of obtaining permission for him to return to Paris, whence he had been banished by his intimacy with the enemies of the regent, and among others with the Duke de Richelieu and the famous Baron de Gortz. Thus did this ambitious man, whose vast projects ineluded all Europe, and threatened to overturn its governments, choose a young poet for his friend and almost for his confident. Men of genius seek for, and at once know each other; they have a common language, which they alone can speak and understand,

In 1722, Voltaire accompanied Madame de Rupelmonde into Holland. He was desirous, at Brussels, of being acquainted with Jean Baptiste Rousseau, whose misfortunes he pitied, and whose poetic talent he esteemed. Voltaire consulted him on his poem on the " League;" and read his epistle to Urania to him, written for Madame de Rupelmonde. This poem was the first monument of his freedom of thinking, and of his talent of treating on moral and metaphysical subjects in verse, and of rendering them popular.

Rousseau, on his part, read an "Ode addressed to Posterity," which Voltaire, as it is pretended, then told him would never arrive at the place to which it was addressed. He likewise read the "Judgment of Pluto," which was as quickly forgotton as the ode. The two poets parted irreconcilable foes. Rousseau violently attacked Voltaire, who continued patiently to suffer during fifteen years. It is astonishing to think that the author of so many licentious epigrams, in which the clergy were continually made the subject of ridicule and opprobrium, should seriously assign the thoughtless behaviour of Voltaire during mass and his "Epistle to Urania," as the cause of his hatred. But Rousseau had assumed the mask of devotion, which was then an honourable asylum for such as had suffered in the world's opinion: a safe and commodious asylum which philosophy, among the other evils of which it is accused, has, unfortunately for hypocrites, eternally closed.

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In 1724, Voltaire presented the world with "Mariamne," which was but "Artémire" under new names, but with a less complicated and less romantic fable. It was written in the very stile of Racine, and was forty times performed. In his preface, the author opposed the opinion of La Motte, who possessed of much understanding and reason, but little sensible of the charms of harmony, discovered no other merit in versification than that of difficulties overcome; nor anything more than a formal custom, in poetry, invented to ease the memory, and to which habit alone had attributed charms. In his letters, printed at the end of "Edipus," he had before combated the opinions of the same poet, who regarded the observance of the three unities as another prejudice.

About the same time, the "Henriade" appeared under the name of the "League :" an imperfect copy, stolen from the author, was clandestinely printed, in which there were not only parts omitted, but some vacancies were supplied. Thus France was at length possessed of an epic poem. It must be regretted, no doubt, that Voltaire-the fables of whose tragedies are so full of action, who has made the passions speak a language so natural and so true, and who could paint them so effectually as well by analysing their sentiments as by their sudden ebullitions should not have displayed in the "Henriade," those talents which never before were combined in the same man to so great a degree. Yet, a subject so well known and so recent, gave but little room for the imagination of the poet. The gloomy and persecuting spirit of fanaticism, exercising itself on subaltern characters, could excite little more than horror. The chiefs of the league were animated by an ambition which hypocrisy debased. The hero of the poem, gallant, brave, and humane, but continually subject to misfortune which alighted on him alone, could interest only by his courage and his clemency. Nor was it possible that the unnatural conversion of Henry IV. should form an heroic catastrophe.

But though the "Henriade," in pathos, variety, and action, be inferior to those epic poems which were then in possession of universal admiration, yet by how many new beauties was this inferiority compensated? Never was philosophy, so profound and so true, embellished by verses more sublime or more affecting.What other poem presents to us characters drawn with greater strength and dignity, and without offence to historical fact? What other contains morality more pure, humanity more enlightened, or is more free from the errors of prejudice and vulgar passion? Whether the poet causes his characters to act or speak, whether he paints the crimes of fanaticism, or the charms and the dangers of love, whether he transports his hearer to the field of battle, or into that heaven which he himself created, he is everywhere a philosopher, and is everywhere deeply intent on promoting the true interests of the human race. In the very palace of fiction, we behold truth sublimely rise, and always painted in the most splendid and purest colours.

The "Henriade," Edipus," and " Mariamne," had placed Voltaire much above his contemporaries; and seemed to secure a life of fame, when his repose was troubled by a fatal accident. He had returned a satirical answer to some contemptuous words which had been spoken by a courtier, who revenged himself by causing Voltaire to be insulted by his servants without endangering his personal safety. The outrage was committed at the gate of the Hotel de Sully, where he had dined; nor did the Duke de Sully deign to show any resentment; being, no doubt, persuaded that the descendants of the Franks had preserved the right of life and death over the Gauls. Justice remained mute; the parliament of Paris, which had caused far less misdemeanours to be punished when committed against

one of its own subalterns, imagined nothing was due to an undignified citizen, although the greatest man of literature the nation possessed, and kept silence.

Voltaire was desirous of taking those means to revenge offended honour which the manners of modern nations have authorised, but which their laws have proscribed. The Bastile, and, at the end of six months, an order to quit Paris, were the punishment of his first step. The Cardinal de Fleury had not so much policy as even to denote the slightes mark of dissatisfaction against the aggressor. Thus, when men are unprotected by the laws, they are punished by arbitrary power for seeking that revenge, which the want of protection renders legal, and which is prescribed as necessary to the principles of honour. We venture to believe that the rights of man will be more respected in our times, that the laws will not remain impotent from any ridiculous prejudice of birth, and that, when any quarrel shall happen between two citizens, no minister will deprive him who received the first offence of his freedom.

Voltaire made a secret journey to Paris, but to no effect. He there met with more than one adversary, who disposed at pleasure of judicial power and ministerial authority, and who could safely effect his ruin. He buried himself in retirement, and disdained longer to seek revenge; or, rather, revenged himself by overwhelming his enemy with the weight of his increasing fame; and forcing him to hear the name, which he wished to degrade, incessantly repeated with acclamation throughout all Europe.

England was his place of refuge. Newton was no more; but his spirit was infused into his countrymen, whom he had taught to trust to experiment and calculation only in the study of nature. Locke, whose death was likewise recent, had been the first to give the theory of the human understanding founded on experience, and to show the path which may safely be followed in metaphysical pursuits. In France, meantime, the men of most understanding were labouring to substitute the hypothesis of Descartes, for the absurdities of scholastic philosophy. Any thesis, in which either the system of Copernicus or that of the Vortices, was maintained, was a victory over prejudice. Innate ideas, in the eyes of the devout, were become almost an article of faith; though they had at first been supposed heretical. Malebranche, whom men imagined they understood, was the philosopher in fashion. He was supposed a freethinker who allowed himself to regard the existence of the five propositions, in the unintelligible book of "Jansenius," as a thing in which the happiness of the human race was not concerned, or who had the temerity to read "Bayle," without the permission of a doctor in divinity.

This contrast could hot but excite the enthusiasm of a man who, like Voltaire, had from his infancy shaken off prejudice; and from this moment he felt himself called to be the destroyer of prejudice of every kind, of which his country was the slave.

The tragedy of" Brutus," was the first fruits of his journey to England.

The French theatre had not, since Cinna, breathed the haughty accents of freedom; and they had, there, been smothered by those of revenge. In "Brutus," the strength of Corneille was discovered with additional pomp and splendour, combined with that simplicity which Corneille wanted, and the uniform elegance of Racine. Never were the rights of an oppressed people displayed with greater power, eloquence, and even precision, than in the second scene of "Brutus." The fifth act is equally remarkable for its pathos. The poet has been reproached for having made love a part of a subject so awful and terrible, and particularly love, which is deficient in interest; but, had the motive of Titus been any other than love, he would have been debased, the severity of Brutus would not then have rent

the hearts of the spectators; and, had love been rendered too pathetic, it would have been to be feared that love would have destroyed the cause of liberty. It was after this piece had been acted that Fontenelle told Voltaire, "He did not think his genius proper for tragedy, and that his style was too bold, pompous, and splendid." "If so," replied Voltaire, "I will go and read your pastorals."

He supposed, at this time, he might aspire to a place in the French academy; and he might well have been thought modest to have waited so long. But he had not so much as the honour of dividing the votes of the academicians. The fat De Bose pronounced, in a dictatorial tone, that Voltaire should never be one of their dignified members.

This De Bose, whose name is now forgotten, was one of those men who, with little mind and not too much knowledge, obtain admission among men of rank and power, and succeed precisely because they neither have the wit to inspire fear, nor to humble the self-love of those who seek the reputation of patronising men of letters. De Bose was become a person of importance. He exercised the office of inspector of new publications; which is a usurpation on the part of the magistrate over men of letters, to whom the avidity of the rich and the powerful have left no employments but those whose execution requires the exertion of knowledge and talents.

After "Brutus," Voltaire wrote the "Death of Cæsar;" a subject which had previously been chosen by Shakspere, some scenes of whom he imitated and embellished. The tragedy was not played till several years had elapsed, and then in a college; he durst not risk a piece on the stage, destitute of love and of women, and which was likewise a tragedy in three acts: for it is not the most trifling innovations which excite the least clamour among the enemies of novelty; little things necessarily impress themselves on little minds. Still, however, a bold, noble, and figurative, yet natural style, sentiments worthy of the conqueror of the freest people on earth, and that force and grandeur of character and deep thought, which pervade the language of these last Romans, could not but be felt by spectators capable of discovering such merit, and men whose hearts and minds were related to these great personages, as well as by those who might love history, and such young minds as in the course of education had lately been occupied by similar objects. The "Death of Cæsar" was not allowed to be printed: the republican sentiments it contained were attributed as crimes to the author. This was a ridiculous imputation; each character spoke his own language; and Brutus was not more the hero than Cæsar; the poet, treating an historical subject, drew his portraits after history, with strict impartiality. But, under the government of the Cardinal de Fleury, which was at once tyranical and pusillanimous, the language of slavery alone could appear to be innocent.

Who could, at present, suppose that the eulogy on the death of Mademoiselle Je Couvreur could have been made a subject of serious persecution, and have obliged Voltaire to quit the metropolis, where he knew that absence would fortunately cause all things to be forgotten, and even the frenzy of persecution? It is a singular fatality, that in a country in which the dramatic art has been carried to the highest degree of perfection, the actors, to whom the public are indebted for the noblest of their pleasures, should be condemned by religion, and shunned from the most ridiculous of prejudices.

These prejudices Voltaire strongly opposed. Indignant to behold an actress, who had long been the object of enthusiastic applause, after being carried off by a sudden and cruel death, deprived of the rights of burial, because in a state of excommunication, he loudly reproached a frivolous nation which with cowardice bent the

neck under so shameful a yoke, and the pusillanimity of those people in power who peaceably suffered the memory of her, whom they had so much admired, to be thus insulted. Though nations are slow to correct themselves, they still suffer themselves to be told of their faults with patience. But the priests, whom the parliaments would suffer to excommunicate none but wizards and players, were irritated to see a poet dare to dispute the half of their empire, and the people in power could not pardon him for having proclaimed their unworthy cowardice. Voltaire felt that some great theatrical success could alone secure him the hearts of the public, and shield him from the attacks of fanaticism. In a country in which no popular power exists, each class has some point at which to rally, and forms itself into a species of power. A dramatic author is under the protection of those societies who resort to the theatre for amusement. The public, by applauding allusions, flatter or offend the vanity of men in office, discourage or reanimate their opponents, and cannot for this reason be openly defied. Voltaire, therefore, presented his "Eriphile," which did not effect his purpose; but, far from being discouraged by want of successs and delighted with the subject of "Zaïre," he finished that tragedy in eighteen days, and it made its appearance on the stage four months after "Eriphile."

Its success surpassed his hopes. This was the first piece in which, forsaking the track of Corneille and Racine, he discovered art, style, and talents entirely his own. Never did love more true, or more impassioned, draw tears more sweet; never did poet before so depict the fury of jealousy in a mind so simple, so affectionate, and so generous. We love Orosmanes at the very moment he makes us shudder. With what art has the poet painted the Christians, whose interference disturb so sweet a union-a feeling and pious woman who has sacrificed her life and her love to her God; while the man who believes not in Christianity weeps for Zaïre, whose mind is distracted by filial affection, and who is the willing victim of a superstitious prejudice which forbids her to love a man of a different sect. This is the masterpiece of art. Whoever does not believe in the Old Testament, discovers in Athalia nothing but the school of bigotry, falsehood, and murder; but to all sects, and in all countries, "Zaïre" is the tragedy of the feeling and the innocent heart.

This tragedy was followed by that of "Adelaide de Gueschlin," which had likewise love for its subject; and in which, as in "Zaïre," French heroes and French history were recited in beautiful poetry, so as to increase the interest. But it was the patriotism of a citizen who delighted in the recollection of respected names and great events, and not the patriotism of the anti-chamber which has since been so applauded on the French theatre.

It is said that the success of "Adelaide" was injured by the "Temple of Taste," in which charming work Voltaire had passed sentence on the writers of the past age, and even on some of his contemporaries. Time has confirmed all his decisions, which each then appeared sacrilegious. In observing such literary intolerance, the necessity, under which every writer labours who wishes to live in peace, of respecting opinions already formed of the merit of an orator or a poet, and the fury with which the public pursues those who dare even on the most indifferent subjects to think differently from themselves, we should be tempted to imagine that man is intolerant by nature. Wit, reason, and genius, cannot always guard us against this misfortune. There are few men who have not some secret idols, the worship of which they cannot calmly see destroyed.

Voltaire had, in his retirement, conceived the happy plan of bringing his nation acquainted with the philosophy, the literature, the opinions, and the sects of England; to effect which, he wrote his "Letters on the English Nation." Fontenelle