reason was the child of this demon. Where it is a duty to worship the sun, it is pretty sure to be a crime to examine the laws of heat. The times when such was the universal idea of the rights of the understanding, were also the times when human life was cheapest, and the tiny bowl of a man's happiness was spilt upon the ground with least compunction.

The companionship between these two ideas of disrespect for the rights of man, and disrespect for reason or the highest distinction of man, has been an inseparable companionship. The converse is unhappily only true with a modification, for there have been too many men with an honorable respect for a demonstration and a proper hospitality towards a probability, who look on the rights of man, without disrespect indeed, but also without fervor. To Voltaire reason and humanity were but a single word, and love of truth and passion for justice but one emotion. None of the famous men who have fought that they themselves might think freely and speak truly, have ever seen more clearly that the fundamental aim of the contest was that others might live happily. Who has not been touched by that admirable word of his, of the three years in which he labored without remission for justice to the widow and descendants of Calas: "During that time not a smile escaped me without my reproaching myself for it, as for a crime." Or by his sincere avowal that of all the words of enthusiasm and admiration which were so prodigally bestowed upon him on the occasion of his last famous visit to Paris in 1778, none went to his heart like that of a woman of the people, who, in reply to one asking the name of him whom the crowd followed, gave answer, "Do you not know that he is the preserver of the Calas?"

The same kind of feeling, though manifested in ways of much less unequivocal nobleness, was at the bottom of his many efforts to make himself of consequence in important political business. . .

The man of letters, usually unable to conceive loftier services to mankind or more attractive aims to persons of capacity than the composition of books, has treated these pretensions of Voltaire with a supercilious kind of censure, which teaches us nothing about Voltaire, while it implies a particularly shallow idea alike of the position of the mere literary life in the scale of things, and of the conditions under which the best literary work is done. To have really contributed in the humblest degree, for instance, to a peace between Prussia and her ene

mies in 1759, would have been an immeasurably greater performance for mankind than any given book which Voltaire could have written. And, what is still better worth observing, Voltaire's books would not have been the powers they were, but for this constant desire of his to come into the closest contact with the practical affairs of the world. He who has never left the life of a recluse, drawing an income from the funds and living in a remote garden, constructing past, present, and future out of his own consciousness, is not qualified either to lead mankind safely or to think on the course of human affairs correctly. Every page of Voltaire has the bracing air of the life of the world in it, and the instinct which led him to seek the society of the conspicuous actors on the great scene was essentially a right one. The book-writer takes good advantage of his opportunity to assure men expressly or by implication that he is their true king, and that the sacred bard is a mightier man than his hero. Voltaire knew better. Though himself perhaps the most puissant man of letters that ever lived, he rated literature as it ought to be rated, below action, not because written speech is less of a force, but because the speculation and criticism of the literature that substantially influences the world, make far less demand than the actual conduct of great affairs on qualities which are not rare in detail but are amazingly rare in combination, on temper, foresight, solidity, daring, on strength, in a word, strength of intelligence and strength of character. Gibbon rightly amended his phrase, when he described Boethius not as stooping, but rather as rising, from his life of placid meditation to an active share in the imperial business. That he held this sound opinion is quite as plausible an explanation of Voltaire's anxiety to know persons of station and importance, as the current theory that he was of sycophantic nature. Why, he asks, are the ancient historians so full of light? "It is because the writer had to do with public business; it is because he could be magistrate, priest, soldier; and because, if he could not rise to the highest functions of the state, he had at least to make himself worthy of them. I admit," he concludes, "that we must not expect such an advantage with us, for our own constitution happens to be against it." But he was deeply sensible what an advantage it was that they thus lost.

–

GOLDONI'S ADVENTURES AND DRAMATIC
REFORMS.

[CARLO GOLDONI, the creator of modern Italian comedy, was born at Venice in 1697. He began with tragedies, but after finding his true line, wrote over one hundred and twenty comedies, discarding the old mechanical buffoonery, and portraying with great fidelity and lightness of touch the surface of the social life of his time, so far as he dared. They have no depth or serious purpose like Molière's, however, are to play rather than read, and seem vapid in citation. He wrote his "Memoirs," and died at Paris in 1793.]

HIS START IN LIFE.

FOR my part, I knew not what was to become of me. At the age of twenty-one, I had experienced so many reverses, so many singular catastrophes had happened to me, and so many troublesome events, that I no longer flattered myself with anything, and saw no other resource in my mind than the dramatic art, which I was still fond of, and which I should long before have entered into, if I had been master of my own will.

My father, however, vexed to see me the sport of fortune, did not allow himself to be cast down by those circumstances, which began to wear a serious aspect both for him and me. He had been at a considerable and useless expense to give me a profession, and he could have wished to procure me a respectable and lucrative employment, which should cost him nothing. This was not so readily to be found he did find one, however, and so much to my taste, that I forgot all the losses which I had sustained, and I had nothing further to regret.

The republic of Venice sends a noble Venetian for governor to Chiozza, with the title of "podesta," who takes with him a chancellor for criminal matters; an office which corresponds with that of "lieutenant-criminel" in France; and this criminal-chancellor must have an assistant in his office, with the title of coadjutor.

These appointments are more or less lucrative, according to the country in which they are situated; but they are all very agreeable, as the holders of them are admitted to the governor's table, are in his excellency's party, and see every person of distinction in the place. However small the labor, it turns out pretty well.

My father enjoyed the protection of the governor, who was at that time the noble Francis Bonfadini. He was also very much

connected with the criminal-chancellor, and well acquainted with the coadjutor. In short, he procured my appointment as adjunct to the latter.

The period of the Venetian government is fixed; the gov ernors are changed every sixteen months. When I entered my place, four months had only elapsed. Besides, I was a supernumerary, and could not pretend to any kind of emoluments; but I enjoyed all the pleasures of society, a good table, abundance of plays, concerts, balls, and fêtes. It is a charming employment; but as they are not regular officers, and as the governor can give the commission to whomsoever he pleases, there are some of their chancellors who languish in inaction, and others who pass over the rest, and have no time to repose themselves. It is personal merit which brings them into repute; but most frequently protections carry the day.

I was aware of the necessity of securing a reputation to myself; and in my quality of supernumerary, I took every means of instructing myself, and making myself useful. The coadjutor was not too fond of employment; I assisted him as much as possible, and at the end of a few months I had become as competent as himself. The chancellor was not long in perceiving it; and he gave me thorny commissions without their passing through the channel of his coadjutor, which I was fortunate enough to execute to his satisfaction.

The sixteen months' residence of the podesta drew to a close. Our criminal-chancellor was already retained for Feltre, and he proposed to me the place of principal coadjutor, if I would follow him. Charmed with this proposition, I took a suitable time to speak of it to my father; and next day an engagement was concluded between us.

Here I was at length settled. Hitherto I had looked only on employments at a distance; but now I held one which pleased and suited me. I resolved with myself never to quit it; but man proposes, and God disposes.

On the departure of our governor from Chiozza, all were eager to show him every sort of honor; and the wits of the town, or those who thought themselves such, had a literary assembly, in which the illustrious person by whom they had been governed was celebrated both in verse and prose.

I sung also all the sorts of glory of the hero of the festival, and I expatiated at great length on the virtues and personal qualities of the governor's lady; both of them had shown a

kindness for me; and at Bergamo, where I saw them in office some time afterwards, as well as at Venice, when his excellency was decorated with the rank of senator, they always continued to honor me with their protection.

Everybody went away, and I remained at Chiozza till M. Zabottini (this was the name of the chancellor) called me to Venice for the journey to Feltre. I had always cultivated the acquaintance of the nuns of Saint Francis, where there were charming boarders; the lady B *** had one under her direction, who was very beautiful, very rich, and very amiable; she would have pleased me infinitely, but my age, my situation, and my fortune forbade me to flatter myself with the idea. The nun, however, did not despair; and when I called on her, she never failed to send for the young lady to the parlor. I felt that I was becoming seriously attached; the directress seemed satisfied; I did not comprehend her: I spoke to her one day of my inclination and my fear; and she encouraged me and confided the secret to me. This lady possessed merit and property; but there was a stain on her birth. "However, this small defect is nothing," said the lady with the veil; "the girl is prudent and well educated, and I answer for her character and conduct. She has," she continued, "a guardian, who must be gained over; but let me alone for that. This guardian, who is very old and very infirm, has, it is true, some pretensions to his ward; but he's in the wrong, and . . . as I stand for something in this business . . . let me alone, I say again; I shall arrange things for the best."

I own, from this discourse, this confidence, and this encouragement, I began to believe myself fortunate. Miss N✶✶✶ did not look upon me with an unfavorable eye, and I reckoned the affair as good as concluded.

The whole convent perceived my inclination for the boarder, and there were ladies acquainted with the intrigues of the parlor who took pity on me, and informed me of what was passing. They did it in this way.

The windows of my room were exactly opposite to the steeple of the convent; several apertures were contrived in its construction, through which the figures of those who approached them were confusedly seen. I had several times observed figures and signs at these apertures, and I learned in time that those signs marked the letters of the alphabet, that words were formed of them, and that a conversation could thus be carried on at a VOL. XIX. -6