. When describing the shudderings and
shrieks of the dying unbeliever their eyes glitter with delight. It is
a festival. They are no longer men. They become hyenas. They dig open
graves. They devour the dead. It is a banquet. Unsatisfied still,
they paint the terrors of hell. They gaze at the souls of the infidels
writhing in the coils of the worm that never dies. They see them in
flames--in oceans of fire--in gulfs of pain--in abysses of despair.
They shout with joy. They applaud.

It is an auto da fe, presided over by God. But let us come back to
Voltaire--to the dying philosopher. He was an old man of 84. He had
been surrounded with the comforts, the luxuries of life. He was a man
of great wealth, the richest writer that the world had known. Among
the literary men of the earth he stood first. He was an intellectual
monarch--one who had built his own throne and had woven the purple of
his own power. He was a man of genius. The Catholic God had allowed
him the appearance of success. His last years were filled with the
intoxication of flattery--of almost worship. He stood at the summit of
his age. The priests became anxious. They began to fear that God would
forget, in a multiplicity of business, to make a terrible example of
Voltaire. Toward the last of May, 1778, it was whispered in Paris that
Voltaire was dying. Upon the fences of expectation gathered the
unclean birds of superstition, impatiently waiting for their prey. Two
days before his death, his nephew went to seek the cure of Saint
Surplice and the Abbe Gautier, and brought them to his uncle's sick
chamber, who, being informed that they were there, said: "Ah, well,
give them my compliments and my thanks." The abbe spoke some words to
him, exhorting him to patience. The cure of Saint Surplice then came
forward, having announced himself, and asked of Voltaire, elevating his
voice, if he acknowledged the divinity of our Lord Jesus Christ. The
sick man pushed one of his hands against the cure's coif, shoving him
back, and cried, turning abruptly to the other side: "Let me die in
peace." The cure seemingly considered his person soiled and his coif
dishonored by the touch of a philosopher. He made the nurse give him a
little brushing and went out with the Abbe Gautier. He expired, says
Wagnierre, on the 30th of May, 1778, at about a quarter past 11 at
night, with the most perfect tranquility. A few moments before his
last breath he took th