considerable advances towards so fine a scheme. Yet Voltaire himself, without announcing it in form, is at least as far advanced, though Caramuel, it is true, intended his volumes should be folios. Voltaire talks too of one Rhingelberg, who absolutely pretended to make a thousand volumes; which is nothing to Mercurius Trismegistus, who composed, as Iamblichus says, thirty-six thousand, five hundred and twenty-five books. It is not the first time that Voltaire, employing his familiar figure, exaggeration, ridiculed in others, what he did himself more than any one else. God forbid that I should compare him with Caramuel, Rhingelberg, or even Trismegistus, whose merit and talents it is, besides, very difficult now to appreciate. He certainly had a right to make more volumes than they, because he made them more agreeable; but has he not abused this right? How many thoughts, and pages, and chapters, both in prose and verse, are there in his numerous collection, which, had they been in the works of those adversaries against whom he waged so gay, but often so unjust and cruel a warfare, would have been the objects of his ridicule, and become, under his keen pen, an inexhaustible source of cutting pleasantries. If, for instance, Rousseau, or Lefranc de Pompignan, or Mr. Larcher, had so little respected either themselves or the public, as to offer to it images so vulgar, disgusting, and absolutely void of taste and interest, as Voltaire submits to his readers in the second section of the word Ignorance, (Questions on the Encyclopedia) how would they have been covered with biting sarcasms and satire. If all the pieces, which, like that, excite only disgust, and deserve only contempt, were retrenched from the works of Voltaire, without being too rigid, more than ten volumes would be suppressed. It would certainly have added to his reputation, it would have purified it, and rendered it less contested, to have expunged these infamous parts from the most complete edition of his works. But how can this be explained to the greedy speculators who see in every copy sold six francs for every additional volume, and in whose eyes this simple calculation is sovereign reason, or to the fanatic admirers, who revere every thing in their idol. These are the two classes who swell editions uselessly, who add volume to volume, and "multiply beings without necessity." I venture to say that there was absolutely none to print this supplement to the twenty-four volumes already given by the editors of Kell. I consider these two new volumes as a tax on those, who, having only ninety-two volumes of Voltaire's works, will be obliged to have ninety-four, till something better comes, and as a deceitful bait to public curiosity, which will be but ill satisfied. I believe that I am as sensible as any one else, to the charms of that talent which animates the works of Voltaire, and which sparkles particularly in his correspondence. But is there not a period at which the greatest admirer of that talent wishes to stop, and beyond which he finds only satiety and

weariness. Are we not tired of a wit, which, in this multitude of letters, is occupied with nothing, with objects either indifferent and forgotten, or respectable and sacred, always frivolous and superficial, often culpable and dangerous? Have we not then enough of these letters to Thiriot, this obscure correspondent, this contemptible'agent; enough to Mr. d'Argental, and have not we heard repeated often enough for forty years, "that he placed himself under the shadow of his wings," that he "kissed the end of his wings"? Do we not know enough already of the dotage of the old man of Ferney, talking forever of his Scythians, his Guebers, and his laws of Minos, fatiguing all his correspondents with details of these miserable pieces, the changes he wishes in them, the corrections he sends, the advice to the players who are to perform them, his solicitations to hasten the representation of them. What pleasure can be found in these new proofs of so excessive and ridiculous an infatuation, and in learning that Madame Denis partook of it. “Madame Denis," writes Voltaire, “thinks that I have done nothing better than the Scythians, and I am of her opinion." Yet this is almost all that we find, or rather that we find again, in this supplement. I defy any one to produce from it a single important fact, a single anecdote not already known, a single interesting dissertation, or a single literary view. It absolutely leaves no impression on the mind, nor is it possible to conceive a more trifling production. But I am wrong-we still see in it the stamp of those unjust, violent, and hateful passions which tormented the life of Voltaire, and which will always obscure his glory in the estimation of those who think, and with justice, that genius and wit cannot excuse everything. But thirty volumes of his works already attested sufficiently the excesses of his passions. It was not necessary again to introduce him furiously persecuting his enemies and loading them with vulgar reproaches, with a shameless indecency of expression, disregarding truth, every moment disavowing his own works, recommending to his friends to deny theirs, and writing letters full of interest, and compliments, and tender wishes to persons who, in other letters and in other works, he outrageously abused. We did not want to see him again ridiculously flattering little wits, while he slandered some men of real merit, or substituting almost always for truth and a just discernment of men and things, his passions, his prejudices, his hatreds, the interests of a tyrannical philosophy, and the most irritable self-love. Such is the character of these two volumes, as well as of the whole correspondence. Yet the blind adorers of Voltaire would wish us to admire these letters, not only as models of grace, wit, spriteliness, and refined pleasantry, (which we admit, except that these two are not as good as the former volumes) but also, that we should admire his moral character at least as much as his genius. Such is the pretension of one of them, Mr. Ginguene, who has lately given us to understand it, with a good deal of

haughtiness in the Mercury of France. He begins with supposing, and with truth, that more just and impartial than himself, we would not adopt his foolish enthusiasm, and then abuses us, no doubt in order to imitate as much as he can the object of his boundless admiration and philosophical worship. He concludes by transforming us into owls, and metamorphoses himself into a pretty, gay, spritely lark, delighting all eyes with its grace, all ears with the harmony of its notes. Yet we shall see that this lark is neither just nor polite, at least, that he was neither a moment before his metamorphose. A certain Countess of Benting thought, it seems, that she ought to burn some of Voltaire's letters. One would suppose that a lady might be pardoned for being shocked at the indecencies and impieties so often to be found in his letters, But the worshippers of the Grand Lama wish to lose none of the emanations from their divinity. Mr. G. regards the conduct of this good German lady as a "stupid barbarity." He "curses her with all his heart," calls her a "nonsensical countess," with infinite grace, politeness, and urbanity, and continues, "I wish they would publish the correspondence of a Benting and other scrupulous people of the same stamp, to see if it would display as much goodness, friendship, and generosity as in this reprobate Voltaire." Must we remind Mr. G. that among the "scrupulous people of the same stamp" would be the Fenelons, the Bossuets, the Pascals, the Racines, the Lamoignons, the Montansiers, the D' Aguesseaus, the Boileaus, and a host of illustrious men and celebrated women, who are not very commonly called "nonsensical." We have the letters of some of them, and if they contained such contempt for all truth and justice, or one half the calumnies and atrocious abuse which dishonour the correspondence of Voltaire, Mr. Guniguene, and his friends would triumph completely, and draw from it terrible conclusions. Let us, in fact, compare his correspondence with those of the philosophers of antiquity; let Mr. G. reperuse the letters of Cicero or Pliny, and candidly say, whether they do not breathe more goodness, mildness, and candour; more love of country and of mankind, a purer soul and a finer moral character than the correspondence of Voltaire. Let us conclude that these kind things have escaped him in a moment of whim, and whether we consider the substance of his piece, (of which we have not mentioned what is most out of place) or the form of it, we shall perceive that his whim is a very unfortunate one.

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There are some people who think that they completely refute you when they say, you are a slanderer of Voltaire;" and as I shall certainly not escape this easy convenient refutation, 'I will anticipate and repel it beforehand. No! I do not detract from Voltaire. Of all men, he, perhaps, possesses in the highest degree, those happy gifts which we properly call talents, those light engaging graces, that seducing art of discovering analogies between objects the most opposite, contra

rieties between those apparently most blended together, singular relations, and pleasant contrasts. I like his clear, correct, original prose; in the light, and witty style, I consider him, as perhaps the first of our poets, if not for the perfection of his poetry, at least for its variety, its number, and beauty; while in the serious and noble style he is still one of our greatest poets, though at a great distance from our first models. After doing this, certainly ample, justice to his talents, his wit, and his genius, why should I not render it equally to his heart and his moral character, if I thought it equally worthy of praise? I deplore, I confess, that in literary discussions on works of genius, we are obliged to mingle considerations personal to the character of their author, but there are circumstances which render it indispensable. How indeed can we refrain from it, when the immorality and the vices of the character are stamped on every page of the works, when literary works are often only expressions of the obliquity of the mind, and the passions of the man, when these passions are continually directed to defame virtue, virtuous men, and the principles which preserve society, and when in short, zealous sectaries, continuing this system of defamation, oppose for ever the pretended wisdom, the pretended virtues, and the false principles of their chief, to the real friends of justice, order, and morals. There is scarcely anything more odious among men than falsehood. There is nothing more contrary to the character of a man of honour, yet there is nothing which we meet more frequently in the works of Voltaire. You see him constantly disregard truth, betray it every instant, disguise his own sentiments, deny his own works, flatter with one hand, and tear to pieces with the other, the same individual, and commit himself in a way which can only be expressed by the odious word, falsehood. This supplement presents a crowd of examples of it. Here you see him asserting that he “never read a line of Freron;" there acknowledge that "Frèron has sometimes made him laugh." This to be sure is of little consequence, but it is shameful even in little things to contradict ourself thus. The works of Mr. Bordes are excellent, when he writes to Mr. Bordes, and "he would have liked to have made them himself;" but when he is writing to Mr. Chardon they are "silly things," he "would have been very sorry to have been their author," and "he flatters himself they will not be attributed to him." But here are more serious falsehoods: Voltaire had made some abominable verses against the Marquis of Thibouville, with whom he was on terms of friendship and active correspondence; he is indeed one of those to whom the most of the letters in the supplement are addressed. All these letters are full of expressions of interest, affection, and attachment. In one of them Voltaire approaches the delicate subject of these infamous verses which had already circulated, and admire the

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frankness with which he writes: "They tell me that you are thrust into this rhapsody along with Mr. D'Argental; but I had not seen what could relate to you; it is an abomination which ought to be forgotten. It would make me die of grief. Madame Denis is as much afflicted as myself; let us forget the horrors of human society. You should come and take the air here, in order to punish the scoundrels who abuse your name and mine in so miserable a way." At the foot of the letter, the Editors, that we may not pretend to be ignorant of it, assure us, that these verses so formally disavowed by Voltaire, were really written by him. Nor is this the only service of the kind, which they do to his memory. In the years 1759, 60-61, Voltaire corresponded with king Stanislas, who had loaded him with kindness, and at whose court he had resided a long time: he wrote to him, and received from him, letters filled with marks of affection. "King Stanislas," writes he to Marmontel," has written me a letter full of the greatest kindness, &c.:" " King Stanislas," says he in a letter to Thiriot, "has sent me his book; here is my answer, see if it is polite." Yet about the same time, when writing to the same Thiriot, he calls Stanislas, a fool, making bad books with an Ex-Jesuit Secretary," and in the same letter praises highly Augustus who had dethroned Stanislas: a sentiment in which there was neither justice, nor patriotism, nor gratitude, nor politeness, nor frankness. At this time France was carrying on the unfortunate seven years war. Voltaire was embittering as much as he could the Duke of Choiseul against the king of Prussia. The king had written a bitter satire against the minister, and confided it to Voltaire; Voltaire delivered it up to the minister, as may be seen in the other volumes of his correspondence. I think he was doubly wrong; first, in receiving this piece, and secondly, in betraying the confidence of his correspondent, when this treachery could have no effect, but to prolong the war, and its attendant calamities, and when besides, he was protesting to the king of Prussia, that he let nothing transpire of the piece, and that Madame Denis who trembled in reading it, had instantly burnt it, (Correspondence with the king of Prussia, Letter of 19th May, 1759.) In the supplement Voltaire still urges the Duke of Choiseul, not to treat with the king of Prussia. "The Russians, and the Austrians must crush Luc, (the king of Prussia) this year, unless he escapes by a miracle. If Luc is destroyed, you become the arbiter of Europe." "I wish," he writes to Mr. D'Argental, "that the English and Luc may be beaten, and that neither Zulima, nor Cassandra, may be hissed." His wishes were not granted. Zulima and Cassandra were hissed, or deserved to be, and Luc was not beaten. It was at least well to desire it because Luc was the enemy of France, and certainly it is not this wish of Voltaire's that I blame, but I was curious to see in what style he wrote to the king of