of seeing him burn or
suffer. Upon this very point of recanting, he wrote: "They say I must
retract. Very willingly. I will declare the Pascal is always right.
That if St. Luke and St. Mark contradict one another it is only another
proof of the truth of religion to those who know how to understand such
things; and that another lovely proof of religion is that it is
unintelligible. I will even avow that all priests are gentle and
disinterested; that Jesuits are honest people; that monks are neither
proud nor given to intrigue, and that their odor is agreeable; that the
Holy Inquisition is the triumph of humanity and tolerance. In a word,
I will say all that may be desired of me, provided they leave me in
repose, and will not prosecute a man who has done harm to none."

He gave the best years of his wondrous life to succor the oppressed, to
shield the defenseless, to reverse infamous decrees, to rescue the
innocent, to reform the laws of France, to do away with torture, to
soften the hearts of priests, to enlighten judges, to instruct kings,
to civilize the people, and to banish from the heart of man the love
and lust of war. Voltaire was not a saint. He was educated by the
Jesuits. He was never troubled about the salvation of his soul. All
the theological disputes excited his laughter, the creeds his pity, and
the conduct of bigots his contempt. He was much better than a saint.
Most of the Christians in his day kept their religion not for everyday
use but for disaster, as ships carry lifeboats to be used only in the
stress of storm.

Voltaire believed in the religion of humanity--of good and generous
deeds. For many centuries the church had painted virtue so ugly, sour
and cold that vice was regarded as beautiful. Voltaire taught the
beauty of the useful, the hatefulness and hideousness of superstition.
He was not the greatest of poets, or of dramatists, but he was the
greatest man of his time, the greatest friend of freedom, and the
deadliest foe of superstition. He wrote the best French plays--but
they were not wonderful. He wrote verses polished and perfect in their
way. He filled the air with painted moths--but not with Shakespearean
eagles.

You may think that I have said too much; that I have placed this man
too high. Let me tell you what Goethe, the great German, said of this
man: "If you wish depth, genius, imagination, taste, reason,
sensibility, philosophy, elevation, originality, nature, intell