uous attention paid him, at last
brought on a severe illness. In order to secure the right of burial in
consecrated ground he professed conversion. Recovering temporarily, he
scoffed at himself, saying, "It is necessary for a man to die in the
religion of his fathers. If I lived on the banks of the Ganges I
should wish to die with a cow's tail in my hand." Before he died his
secretary, Wagniere, entreated him to state precisely his "way of
thinking" concerning religion. Voltaire asked for paper and ink and
then wrote and signed the following, which is now to be seen in the
National Library at Paris: "I die adoring God, loving my friends, not
hating my enemies, and detesting superstition. Feb. 28th, 1778.
Voltaire."

His play "Irene" was first given on March 16th. By the 30th of the
month he was able to attend, and that night, in the theatre, received
an ovation unequalled in history. Shortly after, his illness returned,
in which he lingered until May 30, 1778, dying at the age of
eighty-three years and six months. There was difficulty in securing a
permit for his burial, and not until 1791 did his body find a
resting-place in the Pantheon.

As a dramatist he ranks next to Racine and Corneille, but as an epic
poet he is a failure. His romances are probably the best evidences of
his versatile and wonderful powers. They embody all the hate and
really noble anger of his soul against the evils which were crushing
the life of the French people. Their wit never fails, and they flash
and sparkle with his matchless brilliancy of satire. As a writer of
history he has never been regarded as possessing very great merit, for
two reasons: First, he was totally lacking in any grasp of the
philosophy of history; second, he was not careful as to accuracy in
stating facts. His philosophical works are largely covert attacks upon
the religious and ecclesiastical systems of his day. These are
interesting reading matter if one does not regard the absurdity of any
permanent claims to physics or metaphysics which they contain.

His criticisms and miscellaneous works reveal all the characteristics
of his other writings--pungent, witty, sharp; indicating, however,
more of the skill of the journalist than of the great author. He has
not left a single line which embodies a great thought. He was a man
of supernatural brilliancy rather than of great genius. Had his work
been less witty and bright, he would be charged with superficiality;
that wh