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Of ENVY that attends MERIT and SUCCESS in LITERATURE.

In a Preliminary Difcourfe to the
Tragedy of ALZIRA.

T1

HE author has endeavoured, in the following tragedy, which is of pure invention, and wrote in a new manner, to fhew how much the true fpirit of religion is fuperior to the virtues of nature. The religion of a barbarian confifts in offering to his gods the blood of his enemies. A Chriftian, ill inftructed, is often as unjust: to be a strict observer of useless ceremonies, and negligent of the whole duties of man; to repeat certain prayers, and preferve his vices; to faft, but continue to hate, to cabal, to perfecute; fuch is his religion.* That of a true christian commands him to look upon all men as his brethren, to do them all the good he can, and to pardon them when they offer him an injury.

Such is Gufman † at the hour of his death; fuch is Alvarez ‡ in the whole course of his life;

It is obvious that monfieur de Voltaire, in this paffage, alludes particularly to the Roman-catholic religion.

Characters in Alzira, one of Monfieur de Voltaire's fineft tragedies.

H

fuch have I represented Henry the fourth, even in the midst of his weaknesses. Most of my writings refpire this humane difpofition, which fhould be the chief character of a thinking being. They all fhew, if I may fo express myself, the defire of the happiness of mankind, the horror of injustice and of oppreffion; and it is this alone, which has rescued my writings from that oblivion, to which their many faults naturally condemned them.

the Henriade

It is on this account that has held up against the repeated efforts of fome zealous Frenchmen, who were absolutely resolved that France should not produce an epic poem.

There are always a few readers who fuffer not their judgment to be biaffed by the venom of cabal or intrigues, who love truth, and who look for the man in the author. Such are the

perfons in whom I met with favour. To fuch I offer the following reflections; I hope they will forgive the neceffity I am under to publish them.

A foreigner one day in Paris expressed his furprise at the load of libels which continually appeared in public, and the cruel outrages that were daily levelled against one man. It is probable, fays he, this is fome ambitious perfon, who would fain poffefs himself of one of thofe em.

*An epic poem, wrote by monfieur de Voltaire when he was confined in the Baftile. It is compared by many French and foreign readers, to the beft poems of antiquity, and by a few it is thought fuperior to any.

ployments which stir up the common defires and envy of mankind. No, it was anfwered him, he is an obscure fubject, retired from the world, who lives more with Virgil and Locke, than with his countrymen, and whofe face is as little known to some of his enemies, as to the man who pretended to engrave his picture. He is author of fome pieces which have forced tears from your eyes, and of fome other works, in which, notwithstanding their many defects, one is pleased with that spirit of humanity, of justice, and of liberty, which runs through them all. Those who calumniate him, are men that pretend to dispute with him for a little fmoke, and who will perfecute him while he lives, for no other reason, but for the pleasure he has given you. The foreigner felt fome indignation against the oppreffors, and fome good-will towards the injured author.

I think it hard, I must own, not to obtain from one's cotemporaries and countrymen, what may be expected from foreigners, and from posterity. It is cruel, it is disgraceful to human nature, that literature fhould be tainted with these personal animofities, these cabals and intrigues, which fhould be confined to the flaves of fortune. What do authors gain by reviling each other? They difhonour a profeffion which it was in their power to render refpectable. Must the art of thinking, man's best attribute, become the fource of ridicule; and men of parts, who have made themselves, by their quarrels, the sport of fools, be the jest of a public, when they ought to have been their masters?

Virgil, Varius, Pollio, Horace, Tibullus, were intimate; the monuments of their friendfhip fubfift to this day, and will ever fhew that fuperior minds fhould be united together. If we cannot attain to the excellency of their genius, cannot we possess their virtues? These men, on whom the eyes of the universe were fixed, who had to difpute among them the admiration of Afia, Africa, and Europe, yet loved each other, and lived like brothers; and we, who are confined on a narrow theatre, whofe names, fcarce known in one corner of the world, are as tranfient as our fashions; we cruelly attack each other for a flash of reputation, which, beyond our little horizon, ftrikes the eyes of none.

We live in a time of famine, we have but little, and we tear one another asunder for it. Virgil and Horace, who lived in a time of plenty, difputed nothing.

A book has been wrote de morbis artificum, of the difeafes of artifts. The most incurable of all is this meannefs and jealousy. But what is fhameful, is, that interest is generally the motive of these little fatirical libels which are pubHifhed every day. Not long ago, a man, who had wrote fome low pamphlets against his friend and benefactor, was afked what pushed him to that excess of ingratitude? he answered coldly, I must do fomething to live *. Whatever is the fource of these outrages, it it certain that a man,

* It was the abbot Guyot des Fontaines who made that answer to the comte d'Argenson, afterwards fecretary of state. Voltaire.

whofe writings are attacked, fhould never reply; for, if the criticisms are good, he has nothing to do but to correct his faults; and if they are ill-founded, they fall of course. Let us remember Bocalini's fable: "A traveller, fays he, was fo peftered with the noise of grashoppers in his ears, that he alighted from his horse in great wrath to kill them all. He gave himself much trouble and did not fucceed: but had he purfued his journey without taking notice of them, the troublesome infects wouid have died in a week's time, and he would have fuffered nothing from them."

The author muft always forget himself; but the man never. Se ipfum deferere turpiffimum eft. Thofe, indeed, who want parts to criticise our writings, are apt to throw out afperfions against our perfons; but though fhameful it is to anfwer fuch, yet it fometimes may be more fo, not to make any answer.

I have been treated in twenty libels as a man without religion; and one of the grand proofs alledged in favour of this affertion, is, that in Oedipus, Jocafta fays thefe lines:

Les petres, ne font pas ce qu'un vain peuple pense. Notre credulité fait toute leur fcience.

Priests are very different from what they appear to be to the ignorant vulgar. Our credulity is the fource of all their knowlege.

Those who reproached me in this manner, were full as reasonable as thefe, who declared

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