OF the life and literary productions of the most remarkable name in the whole history of literature—if at least we regard the extent and variety of his astonishing genius, as well as the immense influence, contemporary and future, of his writings—only a brief outline can be given here. Yet, as the most eminent humanitarian prophet of the eighteenth century, the principal facts of his life deserve somewhat larger notice than within the general scope of this work.

FranÇois Marie Arouet—commonly known by his assumed name of Voltaire—on his mother’s side of a family of position recently ennobled, was born at Chatenay, near Paris. He was educated at the Jesuits’ College of Louis XIV., where, it is said, the fathers already foretold his future eminence. Like many other illustrious writers he was originally destined for the “Law,” which was little adapted to his genius, and, like his great prototype, Lucian, and others, he soon abandoned all thought of that profession for letters and philosophy. He had the good fortune, at an early age, to gain the favour of the celebrated Ninon de Lenclos, who left him a legacy of 2,000 livres for the purchase of a library—an important event which was doubtless the means of confirming his intellectual bias.

Voltaire’s first literary conceptions were formed in the Bastile, that infamous representative of despotic caprice, to which some verses of which he was the reputed author, satirising the licentious extravagance of the Court of the late king, Louis XIV., had consigned him at the age of twenty. Soon afterwards appeared the tragedy of Ædipe (founded upon the well-known dramas of Sophocles), the first modern drama in which the universal and traditional love scenes were discarded. This contempt for the conventionalities, however, excited the indignation of the play-goers, and the Ædipe was, at its first representation, hissed off the stage. The author found himself forced to sacrifice to the popular tastes, and his tragedy was received with applause. Two memorable verses indicated the bias of the future antagonist of ecclesiastical orthodoxy, and naturally provoked the hostility of the profession which he had dared so openly to assail:—

It was during this imprisonment, too, that he formed the first idea of the Henriade (or The League, as it was originally called), the only epic poem worthy of the name in the French language. A chance quarrel with an insolent courtier was the cause of Voltaire’s second incarceration in the Bastile with, at the end of six months, a peremptory order to absent himself from the capital. These experiences of despotic caprice and of sophisticated society he long afterwards embodied in two of his best romances, L’IngÉnu and Micro-mÉgas (the “Little-Big Man”), one of the most exquisite productions of Satire.

The youthful victim of these malicious persecutions determined upon seeking refuge in England, whose freer air had already inspired Newton, Locke, Shaftesbury, and other eminent leaders of Thought. A flattering welcome awaited him—and subscriptions to the Henriade, better received here than in France, gratified his pride and filled his purse. During his sojourn of three years in this country, he made the most of his time in studying its best literature, and cultivating the acquaintance of its most eminent living writers. His tragedy of Brutus was followed by La Mort de CÉsar which, from its taint of liberalism, was not allowed to be printed in France. Upon his return to Paris he published his ZaÏre—finished in eighteen days—the first tragedy in which, deserting the footsteps of Corneille and Racine, he ventured to follow the bent of his own genius. The plan of ZaÏre has been pronounced to be one of the most perfect ever contrived for the stage.

More important, by its influence upon contemporary thought, was his famous Letters on the English—a work designed to inform his countrymen generally of the literature, thought, and political and theological parties of the rival nation, and, more especially, of the discoveries of Newton and Locke. Descartes, at this moment supreme in France, had succeeded to the vacant throne of the so-called Aristotelian Schoolmen. His system, a great advance upon the old, broached some errors in physics, amongst others the theory of “Vortices” to explain the planetary movements. A much more pernicious and reprehensible error was his absurd denial of conscious feeling and intelligence to the lower races, which was admirably exposed by Voltaire in his ElÉmens de Newton and elsewhere. In England, Newton’s extraordinary discoveries had already made Descartes obsolete, as far as the savans were concerned at least, but the French scientific world still clung, for the most part, to the Cartesian principles. As for Locke, he had overturned the orthodox creed of “innate ideas,” supplying instead sensation and reflection. This advocacy of the new philosophy, added to the success of his tragedies for the theatre,

Amongst other subjects the Lettres (a masterpiece of criticism and sort of essays, since often imitated but seldom or never, perhaps, equalled in their kind) contains an admirable essay upon the Quakers, to whom he did justice. He introduces one of them in conversation with him, thus apologising for his eccentricities:

About this period, frequenting less the fashionable and trifling society of the capital, and contenting himself with the company of a few congenial minds, he formed amongst others a sympathetic friendship with the Marquise de ChÂtelet, a lady of extraordinary talents.

The lady was the equal of Madame Dacier in knowledge of the Greek and Latin languages, and she was familiar with all the best modern writers. She wrote a commentary on Leibnitz. She also translated the Principia. Her favourite pursuits, however, were mathematics and metaphysics.

Voltaire had already (1741) given to the world his ElÉmens de Newton—a work which, in conjunction with other parts of his writings, proves that had he chosen to apply himself wholly to natural philosophy or to mathematics he might have reached the highest fame in those departments of science. It is in the ElÉmens that Voltaire records his noble protest at the same time against the monstrous hypothesis of Descartes, to which we have already referred, and against the selfish cruelty of our species.

At Cirey some of his best tragedies were composed—Alzire, MÉrope, and Mehemet; the Discours sur l’Homme, a moral poem in the style of Pope’s Essays, pronounced to be one of the finest monuments of French poetry; an Essay on Universal History, (for his friend’s use, to correct as well as supplement Bossuet’s splendid but little philosophic history), the foundation of perhaps his most admirable production the Essai sur les Moeurs et l’Esprit des Nations, and many lesser pieces, including a large correspondence. Besides these literary works, he engaged in mathematical and scientific studies, which resulted in some brochures of considerable value.

About this time (1740) news arrived of the death of Friedrich Wilhelm of Prussia. Most readers know the extraordinary character of this strange personage, who caned the women and his clergy in the streets of his capital, and who was with difficulty dissuaded from ordering his son’s execution. Narrowly escaping with his life the prince had devoted himself to literary pursuits, and had kept up a correspondence with the leading men of letters of France, and above all with the author of ZaÏre whom he regarded as little less than divine. The new king set about inspecting his territories, and proceeded incognito to Brussels, where the first interview between the two future most eminent persons in Europe took place. Repairing to his majesty’s quarters—

Voltaire received a pressing invitation to Berlin.

The French court wished to secure the alliance of Friedrich. No one seemed a more fitting mediator than his early counsellor, who was induced to accept the mission, and to set out for Berlin, where an enthusiastic welcome awaited him, apartments in the palace being placed at his disposal. Yet, in spite of the success of this and other public services, his enemies in Paris remained in full possession of the field. For the second time Voltaire sought admission into the AcadÉmie—an empty honour, the granting or refusal of which could neither add to nor detract from his fame. The prestige of that society, however, he seemed to consider essential to his safety against the increasing violence and formidable array of his enemies, who were bent on crushing him, by whatever means. It was only by submitting to the mortification of qualifying some of his opinions that he at length succeeded in his object. Notwithstanding the address with which he manages his language, it were better, as his biographer—the Marquis de Condorcet—justly remarks, he had renounced the AcadÉmie than have had the weakness to submit to so evident a farce.

On succeeding to a vacant chair it was customary, besides a eulogy upon the deceased member, to speak in set terms of praise of Richelieu and Louis XIV. This traditional and servile practice the new Academician was the first to break through. Philosophy and literature were treated of in unaccustomed strains of freedom, and his good example has been influential on after generations.

A sort of experience he has finely illustrated in his romance of Zadig.

Stanislaus, the ex-king of Poland, was keeping his Court at Luneville, not far from Cirey, where he divided his time between his mistress and his confessor. To this royal retreat the friends of Cirey were invited, and the whole of the year 1749 was passed there. Meanwhile Madame de ChÂtelet died, and Voltaire, much affected by his loss, returned to Paris. Friedrich redoubled his solicitation with new hope.

The philosopher at length set out for Berlin, and his reception must have reached his highest expectations. We have no intention to repeat the account of this singular episode in his life, which has been so often narrated. Evenings of the most agreeable kind, abundance of wit, unrestrained conversation, the society of some of the most distinguished men of science of the time, the unbounded adoration of a royal host, eager, above all things, to retain so brilliant a guest—such were the pleasures of this palace of Alcina, as he calls it. But the imperious tempers of the two unequal friends soon proved the impossibility of a lasting entente, and rivalries amongst the literary courtiers hastened, if they did not effect, the final rupture.

After his escape from Berlin Voltaire passed a few weeks with the Duchess of Saxe-Gotha, “the best of princesses, full of gentleness, discretion, and equanimity, and who, God be thanked, did not make verses” (alluding to his late host’s proclivities), and some days with the Landgrave of Hesse on his way to Frankfort. Literature had not suffered during the life at Berlin. Finishing touches were put to many of the tragedies—the Âge de Louis XIV. was completed, part of the Essai sur les Moeurs et l’Esprit des Nations written, La Pucelle (the least worthy of all his productions) corrected, and a poem, Sur la Loi Naturelle, composed (a work of a far better inspiration than the poem just mentioned, but which was publicly burned at Paris by the misdirected zeal of the bigots). In a later poem on the destruction of Lisbon, as well as in the romance of Candide, fired with indignation at the hypocrisies and mischiefs of the easy-going creed of Optimism (as generally understood), so welcome to self-complacent orthodoxy, he displayed all his vast powers of sarcasm in exposing its fatal absurdities. Leibnitz had been one of its most strenuous apologists. In the person of the wretched Pangloss the theory of “the best of all possible worlds,” and of the “eternal fitness of things,” is overwhelmed, indeed, with an excess of ridicule. It is to be lamented that the satirist allowed his sÆva indignatio to overpower a proper sense of the proprieties of language and expression.

Voltaire was now become a potentate more dreaded than a sovereign-prince on his throne, an object of hatred and terror to political and other oppressors. After some hesitation he had chosen for his retreat the ever-memorable Ferney—a place within French territory, on the borders of Switzerland—and also a spot near Geneva, where he alternately resided, escaping at pleasure either from Catholic intolerance or from Puritanic rigour, with his niece—Madame Denis, who had anxiously attended him during a recent illness. From these retreats he made himself heard over all Europe in defence of reason and humanity. It was about this time (1756) that he employed his eloquence to save Admiral Byng, a victim to ministerial necessities, who was nevertheless condemned, as his advocate expresses it in Candide, “pour encourager les autres.” A like philanthropic effort, equally vain, was made on behalf of the still more unfortunate Comte de Lally.

The year 1757 is memorable in literature as that in which he gave to the world an accurate edition of his already published works, enriched by one of his most meritorious productions, the Essai sur les Moeurs et l’Esprit des Nations, which now appeared in its complete form. History, the author justly complained, had hitherto been but a uniform chronicle of kings, courts, and court intrigues. The history of legislation, arts, sciences, commerce, morals, had been always, or almost always, neglected.

If the best historical works of the present day are a considerable improvement upon those which were in fashion before Voltaire’s critiques, the remarks of Condorcet are not altogether inapplicable to the popular and school manuals still in vogue. At all events this style of composing “history,” ridiculed by the wit of Lucian sixteen centuries before, was the universal method down to the appearance of the celebrated Essai.

Beginning with Charlemagne, it presents, in a rapid, concise, and philosophic style, the most important and interesting features, not only of European but of the world’s history, adorned with all the grace and ease of which he was always so consummate a master. Many there always are who conceive of philosophy and erudition only as enveloped in verbosity and obscurity. Dulness and learning in the common mind are convertible terms. The very transparency and clearness of his style were reproached to him as a sign of superficiality and want of exactness—the last faults which could be justly imputed to him. However, the influence of Voltaire became apparent in the productions of the English historical school, till then unknown, which soon afterwards arose. The Italian Vico, and Beaufort, in France, in the particular branch of Roman antiquity, and Bayle in general, had already contributed in some degree towards the founding of a critical school; but these attempts were partial only. To Voltaire belongs the honour of having applied the principles of criticism at once universally and popularly.

In reviewing the history and manners of the Hindus he repeatedly expresses his sympathy, more or less directly, with their aversion from the coarser living of the West:—

In noticing the comparative progress of the various foreign religions in India, Voltaire observes that—

This—one of the chief obstacles to the spread of Christian civilisation in the East, and especially in India, viz., the eating of flesh and the drinking of alcohol, its legitimate attendant—has been acknowledged by Christian missionaries themselves of late years.

Employed as he was in various literary undertakings he had been watching with great interest, not, perhaps, without a secret wish for vengeance, the important political and military complications of Europe. After some brilliant successes the Prussian king had been reduced to the last extremity. At this juncture the former friends agreed to forget, as far as possible, their old quarrel, and Voltaire enjoyed the satisfaction of having succeeded in dissuading Friedrich from suicide. The victories of Rosbach and Breslau not long afterwards changed the condition of things once again. From this time the prince and the philosopher resumed the name, if not the cordiality, of friends. A curious accident put the arbitrament of peace and war for some weeks into the hands of Voltaire. The Prussian king, while inactive in his fortified camp, wrote, as his custom was, a quantity of verse and sent the packet to Ferney. Amongst the mass—good, bad, and indifferent—was a satire on Louis and his mistress. The packet had been opened before reaching its destination.

Several letters passed between the three before the danger was averted.

The limited space at our disposal will allow us only rapidly to notice some of the remaining chefs-d’oeuvre of Voltaire. The celebrated EncyclopÉdie, under the auspices of D’Alembert and Diderot, had been lately commenced. To this great work, to which he looked with some hope as promising a severe assault on ignorance and prejudice, Voltaire contributed a few articles. It is not the place here to narrate the history of the fierce war of words to which the EncyclopÉdie gave birth. It was completed in about fifteen years, in 1775—a memorable year in literature.

The article which was particularly selected by the prosecution was that on the Soul, “one of the worst in the work, written by a poor doctor of the Sorbonne, who killed himself with declaiming, rightly or wrongly, against materialism.” The writers, as “encyclopÉdistes” and “philosophers” were long marked by those titles for the public opprobrium. This general persecution had the effect of uniting that party for common defence. For Voltaire himself an important advantage was secured. Most of the principal men of letters and science, up to this time either avowed enemies or coldly-distant friends, henceforward enrolled themselves under his undisputed leadership.

About the same period he published a number of pieces, prose and verse, directed against his enemies of various kinds, theatrical as well as theological. Amongst the latter, conspicuous by their attacks, but still more so by their punishment, were FrÉron and Desfontaines, whose chastisement was such that, according to Macaulay’s hyperbolic expression, “scourging, branding, pillorying would have been a trifle to it.” It is more pleasing, however, to turn from this fierce war of retaliation, in which neither party was free from blame, to proofs of the real benevolence of his disposition. We can merely note the strenuous efforts he made, unsolicited, on behalf of Admiral Byng and the Comte de Lally, and the still more meritorious labours in the less well-known histories of Calas and Serven. Not by these public acts alone did the man, who has been accused of malignity, discover the humanity of his character: to whose ready assistance in money, as well as in counsel, the unfortunate of the literary tribe and others acknowledged their obligations.

His Philosophie de l’Histoire, the prototype of its successors in name at least, was designed to expose that long-established and prevailing idolatry of Antiquity, which received everything bequeathed by it with astounding credulity. The Philosophie called forth a numerous host of small critics, to which men who knew, or ought to have known better, allied themselves. Their curious way of maintaining the credit of Antiquity afforded, as may be imagined, the author of the Defence of my Uncle, under which title Voltaire chose to defend himself, full scope for the exercise of his unrivalled powers of irony. Warburton, the pedant Bishop of Gloucester, with his odd theories about the “Divine Legation,” comes in for a share of this Dunciad sort of immortalisation.

A work of equal merit with the Philosophie are the Questions, addressed to the lovers of science, upon the EncyclopÆdia, wherein, in the form of a dictionary, he treats, as the Marquis de Condorcet eloquently describes,

It is with his romances that we are here chiefly concerned, since it is in those lighter productions of his genius that he has most especially allowed us to see his opinions upon flesh-eating. In the charming tale of The Princess of Babylon, her attendant Phoenix thus accounts to his mistress for the silence of his brethren of the inferior races:—

A certain king had the temerity to attack this innocent people:—

Her admirable instructor caused the princess to enter

Having occasion to visit the land par excellence of flesh-eaters, and being entertained at the house of a certain English lord, the hero, the amiable lover of the princess, is questioned by his host

Amabed, a young Hindu, writes from Europe to his affianced mistress his impressions of the Christian sacred books and, in particular, of Christian carnivorousness:—

In another letter to his old Hindu teacher from Rome, whither he had been induced to go by the missionaries, speaking of the feasts in that “citadel of the faith,” he writes:—

That one who hated and denounced injustice of all kinds, and who sympathised with the suffering of all innocent life, should thus characterise the cruelty of the Slaughter-House is what we might naturally look for; as also that he should denounce the kindred and even worse atrocity of the physiological Laboratory. And it is a strange and unaccountable fact that, amongst the humanitarians of his time, he stands apparently alone in condemnation of the secret tortures of the vivisectionists and pathologists—although, perhaps, the almost universal silence may be attributable, in part, to the very secresy of the experiments which only recent vigilance has fully detected. Exposing the equally absurd and arrogant denial of reason and intelligence to other animals, and instancing the dog, he proceeds:—

To the final triumph which in Paris awaited this champion of the weak, at the advanced age of 84, and the unexampled enthusiasm of the people, and the closing act of his eventful life, we can here merely refer. In Berlin, Friedrich ordered a solemn mass in the cathedral church in commemoration of his genius and virtues. A more enduring monument than any conventional mark of human vanity is the legacy which he left to posterity, which will last as long as the French language, and, still more, the humanity embodied in one of his later verses:—

The faults of his character and writings which, for the most part, lie on the surface (one of the most regretable of which was his sometimes servile flattery of men in power, and the only excuse for which was his eagerness to gain them over to moderation and justice) will be deemed by impartial criticism to have been more than counterbalanced by his real and substantial merits. That he allowed his ardent indignation to overmaster the sense of propriety in too many instances, in dealing with subjects which ought to be dealt with in a judicial and serious manner, is that fault in his writings which must always cause the greatest regret. In his discourse at his reception by the French Academy he remarks that “the art of instruction, when it is perfect, in the long run, succeeds better than the art of sarcasm, because Satire dies with those who are the victims of it; while Reason and Virtue are eternal.” It would have been well, in many instances, had he practised this principle. But, however objectionably his convictions were sometimes expressed, his ardent love of truth and hatred of injustice have secured for him an imperishable fame; while GÖthe’s estimate of his intellectual pre-eminence—that he has the greatest name in all Literature—is not likely soon to be disputed by Posterity.