cences, the smile that never
becomes a laugh.

"In my defense of the 'Esprit des Lois,"' he says, "that which gratifies
me is not to see venerable theologians crushed to the ground but to see
them glide down gently."

He excels in tranquil irony, in polished disdain,[4116] in disguised
sarcasm. His Persians judge France as Persians, and we smile at
their errors; unfortunately the laugh is not against them but against
ourselves, for their error is found to be a verity[4117]. This or
that letter, in a sober vein, seems a comedy at their expense
without reflecting upon us, full of Muslim prejudices and of oriental
conceit;[4118] reflect a moment, and our conceit, in this relation,
appears no less. Blows of extraordinary force and reach are given in
passing, as if thoughtlessly, against existing institutions, against the
transformed Catholicism which "in the present state of Europe, cannot
last five hundred years," against the degenerate monarchy which causes
useful citizens to starve to fatten parasite courtiers[4119]. The entire
new philosophy blooms out in his hands with an air of innocence, in a
pastoral romance, in a simple prayer, in an artless letter[4120]. None
of the gifts which serve to arrest and fix the attention are wanting
in this style, neither grandeur of imagination nor profound sentiment,
vivid characterization, delicate gradations, vigorous precision, a
sportive grace, unlooked-for burlesque, nor variety of representation.
But, amidst so many ingenious tricks, apologues, tales, portraits and
dialogues, in earnest as well as when masquerading, his deportment
throughout is irreproachable and his tone is perfect. If; as an author,
he develops a paradox it is with almost English gravity. If he
fully exposes indecency it is with decent terms. In the full tide of
buffoonery, as well as in the full blast of license, he is ever the
well-bred man, born and brought up in the aristocratic circle in which
full liberty is allowed but where good-breeding is supreme, where
every idea is permitted but where words are weighed, where one has the
privilege of saying what he pleases, but on condition that he never
forgets himself.

A circle of this kind is a small one, comprising only a select few;
to be understood by the multitude requires another tone of voice.
Philosophy demands a writer whose principal occupation is a diffusion of
it, who is unable to keep it to himself; who pours it out like a gushing
fountain, who