Wednesday, June 18, 2025

Voltairomania, by Pierre-François Guyot Desfontaines

When Voltaire first crossed paths with the journalist-critic Abbé Pierre-François Guyot Desfontaines in the 1720s, the encounter seemed almost charitable: Voltaire used his influence to spring the abbé from Bicêtre prison (where he had been held on charges of sodomy) and to have a banishment order lifted so Desfontaines could return to Paris. But gratitude soon curdled. In his periodical Observations sur les écrits modernes, Desfontaines asserted a critic’s right to dissect Voltaire’s work, and the ever-sensitive philosophe reacted with wounded indignation. The simmering resentment meant that when Voltaire’s Éléments de la philosophie de Newton appeared in 1738—championing Newtonian empiricism over the long-entrenched Cartesian rationalism—Desfontaines seized the book as fresh ammunition in their feud.

Voltaire counter-attacked that November with a hastily printed rejoinder titled Le Préservatif, accusing Desfontaines of malice and ingratitude. Less than a month later, on 12 December 1738, Desfontaines fired back with La Voltairomanie, ou Lettre d’un jeune avocat. Issued anonymously by the Paris printer Chaubert to evade censorship, the 48-page pamphlet framed itself as a legal “mémoire” exposing Voltaire’s alleged vanity, opportunism and moral turpitude. Sold for a modest price and small enough to pass hand-to-hand, it was viciously personal—“perhaps the most sustained defamation Voltaire ever suffered,” according to modern scholars—and reportedly moved two thousand copies in its first fortnight.

The blast hit its target. At the château de Cirey, Voltaire was so shaken that he fainted twice, raged, then took to bed with fever; during January 1739 alone he penned thirty-eight letters about the affair, sued Desfontaines, lobbied ministers and even tried to have his adversary arrested. Paris’s lieutenant-general of police René Hérault finally imposed a ritual peace, forcing both men to sign formal retractions of their anonymous libels. Yet neither forgave nor forgot: Voltaire henceforth referred to Desfontaines as il buggerone abbate, while the abbé’s notoriety endured largely thanks to this very quarrel. La Voltairomanie thus stands as a textbook example of the combative literary culture of the early Enlightenment, where personal vendettas, philosophical dispute (Newton versus Descartes) and a still-fragile regime of press control collided in pamphlet form.

VOLTAIROMANIA

or
LETTER FROM A YOUNG LAWYER,
In the Form of a Memoir.
IN RESPONSE
To the Pamphlet by Monsieur de Voltaire, entitled: The Preservative, etc.

It was naturally up to Abbé D. F. to respond to the pamphlet Voltaire has just published against him. But seeing, Sir, that he is resolved never to stray from the gentleness and moderation he has always shown toward this poet—and considering, moreover, that he is of an age and character inclined to forgive insults too easily—I have all the more willingly taken on his defense, as ties of esteem, friendship, and the deepest gratitude bind me to him for life.

Now finding the opportunity to exercise, in such a worthy cause, a modest talent I have recently dedicated to the Bar, I shall punish—solely with my pen—a man more accustomed to being repaid for his foolishness in other ways. The vile writing of Monsieur Voltaire, marked with his stamp on every page and in every line, horrifies all people of integrity, and pleases only the ignoble partisans.1

Only this dreadful act was missing to complete the reputation of a reckless writer, for whom morals, decency, humanity, truth, and religion have never held anything sacred. His ignorance and madness have already provided many scenes for the public; but the critique he inserted in his pamphlet of some passages from Abbé D. F.'s works is so pitiful and so absurd throughout that one can barely comprehend it. It would be a waste of time to refute it: it is enough to say that his mind is as flawed in science as in taste; and someone rightly said that his true worth is about that of a violin.

Though his latest pamphlet is written—as is everything he has published in prose—without judgment, without care, without coherence, without style, and though all his little objections are devoid of clarity and good sense, I might have replied to the literary portion if he had not made himself utterly unworthy of the honor through the insolence of his pen. Besides, how can one reason with a man whose pride and rage stand in for reason?

Would any writer with a shred of sense have given in to such excesses? Even if Abbé D. F. were as Voltaire dares to portray him, would that make Voltaire an honest man and a great author? Would he be less known to connoisseurs as someone utterly ignorant of the theatre—where he has never been applauded—known only for the hollow rhythm of his pompous tirades and for his daring satire or irreligion?2

Would his Henriade be any less a dazzling mess, a poor patchwork of tired or misplaced fictions, with as much prose as verse, and more faults of language than pages? A poem without fire, without invention, without taste, without genius. Would his Temple of Taste be any less the product of a small mind drunk on pride? Would his Charles XII not always remain the work of a reckless ignoramus, written in the frivolous style of a bourgeois coquette embroidering adventures? A bad novel! At least novelists take care to follow geography and not contradict known facts.

Would his Letters, in which he dared to bring his ravings to the altar itself, keep him any less banished from Paris all his life, in fear of dangerous investigations ordered by the wise and just ruling of Parliament, which condemned that monstrous work to the flames? Despite the declamations and triumphal airs of his profound ignorance, will his Elements of Newton’s Philosophy ever be anything but the sketch of a schoolboy stumbling at every step—a ridiculous book in both its nearly simultaneous editions, which made its presumptuous author the laughingstock of France and England?3

In the end, will Voltaire be any less dishonored in civil society for his cowardly lies, deceptions, shameful baseness, his public and private thefts, and his arrogant impertinence, which has earned him so many humiliating disgraces?[⁠^4]

Everyone knows that Abbé D. F. has done nothing to merit the hatred and fury of Monsieur Voltaire. He has always shown restraint in his writings, and even after the publication of Voltaire’s insulting pamphlet, he spoke of his tragedy Zaire with politeness and civility that one had no right to expect. Never has Stoicism seemed to carry insensibility so far. Moderation and charity suit someone in his position; but his friends are not bound to show the same regard toward a slanderer.

Is it not truly strange that the very man now playing such an odious role against two distinguished figures in the Republic of Letters—namely, Abbé D. F. and the illustrious Rousseau—is the same who solemnly wrote in the preface to his tragedy Alzire:

“It is cruel, truly shameful for the human mind, that literature should be infected with personal hatreds, with factions, with intrigues, which should be the domain of slaves to fortune. What do authors gain by tearing each other apart? They degrade a profession which they alone could make respectable. Must the art of thinking—the noblest gift of mankind—become a source of ridicule, and must men of intellect, through their quarrels, become the jest of fools and the buffoons of the public, whom they ought to lead?”

What a Proteus is Voltaire! Would one not believe, after reading such words, that he is the wisest, most prudent, most moderate man in the world? Would one not take him for a Cato, a man of morals, above personal hatreds, seeking only to make the profession of letters respectable? Would one not imagine him incapable of doing anything that might provoke a response or make him the jest of fools? Yet this same man, who aspires to be the master of the public, and who preaches such fine lessons, is the philosopher of comedy, delivering the finest morality on gentleness and moderation—and who, in the next moment, flies into fury without cause and comes to blows.

How could he not blush at the very idea of the horrible letter appended to his pamphlet? Can one believe that the man now casting such shameful accusations at Abbé D. F. is the same one who defended him 13 or 14 years ago, and who demonstrated in a little memorandum he wrote himself the falsehood and absurdity of the accusation? He did this at the request of the late President de Bernières, who, out of kindness, housed him at the time—Voltaire, who dares call him his friend4. But by what attachment, or rather by what blind partiality and extravagant flattery, did Abbé D. F. repay for ten years a favor that, on Voltaire’s part, was merely deference to the wishes of his host and benefactor?

A critical but polite and fair reflection on the unfinished tragedy The Death of Caesar, and a light jest about the Temple of Taste, were turned by Voltaire into alleged horrors of darkness and ingratitude. Yet when Abbé D. F. himself, through a private letter, complained about both the Reflection and the Jest, he received all the satisfaction he could have wished for. He was thoroughly content, and wrote to Abbé D. F. in 1735 in the most affectionate and expressive terms5. Nevertheless, fifteen days after this letter of friendship and full reconciliation, he saw fit to insult Abbé D. F. in the Mercure. When asked civilly about the cause of this sudden change—no response. He continued insulting Abbé D. F. with bad epigrams he spread around. Silence was maintained; the insult ignored. He escalated; the patience of Abbé D. F. emboldened him, and he pushed the offense to the extreme in scandalous printed works.

And yet, he has the audacity to still claim a right to the heart of Abbé D. F.! Does he not know it is a social principle that offenses erase past services? All the more so when the offense is great, and the service was only an act of justice, rendered in consideration of a benefactor on whom one depended. Voltaire, housed and fed by President de Bernières, relative of Abbé D. F.6, could he really have refused to do what he did?

Since when is it acceptable to call a criminal trial—a term Voltaire shamelessly uses—a hasty police order based on the ambiguous testimony of an unknown and bribed informer? Have the King’s respectable orders ever tarnished the honor of his subjects? As the government’s policy and public order sometimes require the detention of a person on mere suspicion, it would be unfortunate if such measures dishonored those affected. Who, then, would not live in constant fear of losing their honor? In fact, a gentleman was recently sentenced by the Marshals of France to three months in prison for accusing another gentleman of such a matter.

As for Abbé D. F., everyone knows that the dreadful trap laid for him in 1725 by the reckless and dangerous friends of a man now deceased did him no harm in the eyes of honest people. His religion and good conduct are well known. After fifteen days of a disgrace that he neither foresaw nor deserved, he was honorably restored to society and to his literary role. The Police Magistrate took the trouble to personally clear his name—not only before his family, but also in a letter he wrote to Abbé Bignon, who may recall it7. How often did that Magistrate not express his sorrow for having too hastily been misled, for having unknowingly served as the tool of a vile revenge, and for not sooner recognizing the origins, character, and morals of the man he had so thoughtlessly and disgracefully mistreated!

Another act of malice and injustice on the part of Monsieur Voltaire. He refers in his pamphlet to the infamous fictitious speech by Abbé S., for which Abbé D. F. was troubled at the beginning of 1736. Everyone now knows that this piece was stolen from him by the bookseller Ribou. How could he have sold it for three louis to a wretch who was starving, had no shoes, and is now a fugitive due to his debts? Besides, have three pages ever been paid in advance for three gold louis? The lie is glaring. Abbé D. F. was never the seller nor the publisher of that piece; nor was he its author or copyist. He had not even read it entirely when it was stolen from him. It is now publicly known that he had no part in it, and it is also well known that he has always detested personal satire. The true author of the piece no longer hides it. But it was not so during the course of that unfortunate affair. He would have been at some risk had he been identified, because people were then extremely incensed against him. He had confided in Abbé D. F., who generously kept his secret to the end, and who preferred to risk everything rather than betray the trust of a man who had counted on his integrity—and who, out of justice and gratitude, has since paid all the costs that the affair incurred. Only someone like Voltaire—who is utterly unfamiliar with all virtues—could extract from that episode a source of reproach and invective.

Even if Abbé D. F. had lent his pen to such a noble and important cause as that of the Surgeons against the Faculty, the writings that appeared on the subject were so well received by the public that admitting authorship could only bring him honor. Let people suspect the generous gratitude of the Brotherhood of Saint Cosmas all they like—Voltaire, wealthy as he is from his typographical plundering, still profits from the performances of his tragedies and his published editions. Any reproach on that point would be baseless. The title of Defender of others' rights, and the gratitude of the parties involved, in no way diminish a writer. To think otherwise is to insult the noble profession of advocate. But Abbé D. F. has sworn on his honor, before Heaven and Earth, that he is not the author of any of the writings published in support of the Surgeons. Is it fitting for a man like Voltaire, who lives forty leagues from here, to publicly contradict him on this point without the slightest evidence? Abbé D. F. is friends with two or three of the most celebrated surgeons in Paris, whose skill, intelligence, and politeness he equally esteems. Could that justify the accusations made by some contemptible doctors that he was writing on behalf of their rivals—and Voltaire their foolish echo?

And after all that, this clever man solemnly praises the Quakers, whom he believes he understands better than Bossuet, and whom he so ridiculously celebrated in his Letters. He canonizes an English work on religion8, whose French translation, printed in Holland, was banned from France by order of the Royal Censor, a Doctor of the Sorbonne, and regarded as a dangerous book for the faith. Our great theologian, who dared to criticize Pascal’s Pensées, and who challenged all the doctors to prove the immortality of the soul, declares that religion is well defended in Alciphron. He treats as a joke the solid objection raised by a skilled geometer in the Observations, about his line of soldiers, where the twentieth, according to Voltaire, ought to appear twenty times smaller than the first9. He admires the ridiculous and childish thought reported in the Neological Dictionary: “Is it not fair that science should show deference to ignorance, which is older, and always in possession?”10

He tries to justify romantic comedy—serious and tearfully sentimental—with the example of Terence’s Heautontimorumenos, where no such thing exists, and by a verse of Horace, whose meaning he grossly distorts, since it concerns only the anger of an old man:

Interdum vocem Comedia tollit,
Iratusque Chremes tumido delitigat ore.

He attributes to Abbé D. F. the numerous editions of his Neological Dictionary, printed in Holland and elsewhere, in which he had no involvement and which have each been expanded at the publisher’s whim11. He cherishes the contemporary esteem of his writings as much as he consoles himself for the contemporary contempt of his person. He subjects the most brilliant passage of the finest oration by Bossuet to harsh and nitpicking critique. He attempts to justify, with pitiful arguments, the blatant contradictions in his first Epistle on Happiness, trying to mislead readers who do not have that poor piece before them. And finally, he recounts what he believes to be the weakest parts of Rousseau’s three Epistles, published two years ago, while carefully avoiding the admirable lines that depict him so beautifully and delightfully12.

All of this is only natural from a man like Monsieur de Voltaire, who makes a point of opposing all common opinion and distancing himself from anything resembling sound reason. Until now, he has successively attempted to overturn the moral world, the literary world, and the physical world13. What more should we expect from him?

I must not pass over in silence three blatant falsehoods in Voltaire’s pamphlet.
The first is his claim that Abbé D. F. is the author of the Periodic Reflections printed every week in Paris by the bookseller Briasson, Rue Saint-Jacques. I have no wish to belittle that work, which has its own merit; but, really, if V. read it with any attention, he must lack both discernment and taste to suspect Abbé D. F. of writing it. Some people may be excused for being mistaken, yet for a man of letters to be misled is shameful. He ought to distinguish styles with the mind’s eye just as clearly as one distinguishes two different handwritings with the bodily eye. Connoisseurs—people of wit—are never deceived; only the unlettered, or a few foolish “men of letters,” have attributed the Reflections to Abbé D. F., whose style is entirely different.

The second imposture is V.’s assertion that Abbé D. F. had twenty pamphlets printed in Holland against him. Abbé D. F. has assured me, in the most emphatic terms, that he never had any pamphlet printed in Holland—or anywhere else—against Voltaire. Not content with asking him, I wrote to Holland to inquire about any pamphlets that may have appeared against Voltaire in recent years, and I was told that none had appeared. Was there ever such impudence? Voltaire does not wish to seem the aggressor: he pretends to have been attacked so that he may attack in turn. He invents pamphlets published against him, giving himself pretext to publish his own.14

In the same spirit he invented a pamphlet supposedly written against him in the country house of M. de Bernières, by Abbé D. F., which, so he says, was shown to M. Tiriot, who forced him to throw it into the fire. This is the third imposture. M. Tiriot is esteemed by honest people as much as Voltaire is detested. He drags along, almost against his will, the shameful remnants of an old tie he has not yet been able wholly to break. Tiriot, cited here as witness, was asked if the story were true, and he was obliged to declare he knew nothing of it. Here we challenge Voltaire. The stay in the country with the late President Bernières was during the 1725 vacation. If a pamphlet printed that year against Voltaire exists, let it be produced. If he answers that Abbé D. F. himself threw it into the fire, let him name witnesses—for he certainly should not be believed on his word. M. Tiriot, he says, made him throw it into the fire; yet here is M. Tiriot declaring the fact false. So Monsieur Voltaire is the boldest—and maddest—of liars.

Our impostor has, within the last few days, written letters attempting to make people believe he is not the author of The Preservative, because word reached him that everyone found the piece pitiful and that it harmed the man of wit as much as the man of probity. Nevertheless, private letters of his contain much of what is in the pamphlet, in identical terms—especially his tirades and reasonings on Alciphron, the Quakers, his fine discovery about the visual ray, the alleged ingratitude of Abbé D. F., and so on. Besides, who could fail to recognize V.’s prose, so notable for its fiery, inexact, disjointed style; for its vague thoughts, without mortar or cement; for its admirable logic? The printer and the hawkers of his pamphlet are also known. What more is needed?

Should I mention an impertinent remark in Voltaire’s pamphlet, page 35? “The author of the Observations,” says Voltaire, “presumes to talk of war; he lazily claims that the late Marshal de Tallard won the Battle of Speyer, against all the rules, by a blunder and because he was short-sighted.” And who, pray, taught the trade of war better to our Poet than to Abbé D. F.? Was it Voltaire’s fine appearance at the camp before Philippsburg in 1734, where that Knight of the Rueful Countenance gave our army such amusement? Is it not comic to see him now play the role of correcting others’ errors? The Observer spoke only on the authority of the Marquis de Feuquières. Is it Voltaire’s authority, or the anonymous letter he cites, that will refute the testimony of a great soldier who surely knew all the military facts of his time? V. here speaks with insolent rashness about the late Marshal de Feuquières. A nobody like him imagines that a man of rank is capable of base envy. Someone else might decently have said that on this point Marshal de Feuquières had been misinformed.

Voltaire is no less ridiculous in his reasoning against the famous Pump devised by the late M. du Puy, Maître des Requêtes, mentioned by Abbé D. F. in his letter 147. We shall not grant him the favor of answering his gibberish. It suffices to say that all Paris saw with its own eyes what that letter, endorsed by the same M. du Puy, announced. It is amusing to watch a two-day-old physicist dare argue against what he has not seen, what he could not conceive, and oppose it with an argument whose terms he himself does not understand. For, in the opinion of a man well versed in mechanics, Voltaire here speaks without knowing what he is talking about.

A very skilled geometrician-physicist had sent the Observer a Remark on Voltaire’s astonishing problem and his demonstration concerning the line of twenty soldiers, of which the twentieth, according to him, should appear smaller than the first. Monsieur Voltaire thinks he can escape the issue by jokingly saying in his pamphlet that the mathematician was trying to make fun of Abbé D. F.: “My proposition,” he says, “has nothing to do with the trisection of an angle: I never said a word about it.”

Here is the reply from the mathematician, which was shared with me:

“No, Monsieur de Voltaire, your proposition is not about the problem of trisection of the angle. But in your commentary, which you present as a victorious demonstration, we find a fallacy as crude as the one where you assume the angle is divided into equal parts simply because the base of the angle is divided equally. Now, not only does your so-called demonstration presume the trisection of the angle by that ridiculous method, but it also assumes the division of the angle in a given ratio—something that neither conic sections, nor any curved line, nor any known calculation can provide.”

So then, was the mathematician mocking the Observer, or the novice geometer Voltaire, in his critique?15 One must be extremely dull to judge the size of an angle by the size of its base, as the ignorant Voltaire does in his absurd proposition.

Voltaire also claims (p. 9): “Newton did not discover by experiment that bodies fall 15 feet in the first second. It was Huygens who determined that fall in his fine theorems on the pendulum. Secondly, it is only at very great distances, inaccessible to men, that this difference would be noticeable,” etc. Here is what a knowledgeable man replies to Voltaire:

“No, Newton was not the first to experimentally determine that bodies fall 15 feet in one second. But Newton adopted this experiment, and having generalized it, found that at the distance of the Moon, those same bodies would fall 15 feet in one minute. It is true that such differences are only noticeable at vast distances, inaccessible to ordinary men, but they become evident to Newton, and to those who reason according to his principles. If Monsieur V. had read Newton well, he would have read these words on the last page: ‘In this philosophy, propositions are deduced from phenomena and rendered general by induction. Whatever is not deduced from phenomena must be called a hypothesis. Hypotheses, whether metaphysical or physical, whether of occult qualities or mechanical, have no place in experimental philosophy.’”

Voltaire accuses Abbé D. F. of an error in the translation of the Essay on Epic Poetry, which he claims to have written himself in English.

  1. Voltaire did not compose this essay alone in English; he first wrote it in French and was helped by an Englishman to translate it.
  2. Abbé D. F. never honored Voltaire by translating that unfortunate Essay into French. It was the late M. de Plelo—later ambassador to Denmark and killed near Danzig—who, for amusement while learning English in Paris, made the translation. As usual, Voltaire is wrong in everything he says. The translation was printed by Chaubert.

It has been noted that Monsieur V. repeatedly calls Abbé D. F. an ignorant in his pamphlet. Abbé D. F. admits that, after a lifetime of study, he is indeed very ignorant. He will also admit, if desired, that Monsieur de V., who has spent his life writing verse and nonsense, is very learned. His historical and philosophical works are proof enough. What a prodigy, this scholar! After barely two days of studying the most thorny and vast subjects, he masters them fully and is ready to lecture the greatest masters.

Everyone knows what happened to him in Paris just over two years ago. After studying geometry for only eight days, he visited one of our greatest geometers at the Académie des Sciences to discuss a problem that required ten years of mathematical training to solve. He already believed himself the peer of the learned of Europe. That’s the measure of his knowledge.

No sooner had he arrived in England than, after just three months of studying the language, he translated into English an Essay on Epic Poetry he had composed in French; then, having it corrected by his language tutor, he released it to the public. True, the English said it was full of Gallicisms and barbarisms—but what of it? Voltaire had shown he had a divine gift for languages, just like he did for all the sciences and fine arts.

This Alexander of Literature openly aspires to rule the world of letters. He will soon wage war on every academy and dethrone all scholars to take their place. Doesn’t he claim to be as great a poet as M. Rousseau? Didn’t he try to belittle all our authors in his Temple of Taste? Is he a Caesar? A Pompey?

Nec quemquam jam ferre potest Caesarve priorem,
Pompeiusve parem
— Lucan

Still, people say that at 45, Voltaire is just as learned (and just as wise) as he was at twenty. Who could doubt it? Let us apply to him “docte febricitans” from the epitaph of Father Hardouin, reported in the Parnassus News—if, indeed, it is fitting to apply to him something that suits a mad scholar, and not a charlatan fool, or a harmonious demoniac.

But I forget that it is beneath me to respond to the literary quality of Voltaire’s pamphlet, and I fail to recall that I had resolved to answer him on that point only with sovereign contempt. Besides, the topic I just discussed may be too serious and of little interest to you. To make it up to you, Sir, allow me to share an epigram recently composed by one of our good friends, about the nonsense spread through Voltaire’s latest work.

EPIGRAM

Have you seen that Critique,
That slanders the Observer?
Yes; it’s by the writer of the Historical Novel,16
The poor Fiérenfat17, and the Epic History.18
Well, is the work worthy of its author?
Very worthy; he plays his part to perfection:
For taking in his bitter bile
Insult for reason, fury for a torch—
By my faith, common sense is more his enemy
Than Desfontaines or Rousseau.

Here is an excerpt from a letter by M. Rousseau to Abbé D. F., dated November 14, 1738:

“A miserable pamphlet has come into my hands, Sir, in which you are cruelly attacked—and I am not forgotten. Voltaire reveals himself in every word: a fitting reward for the many times you sacrificed your brilliance for that unworthy poet, to whom I now take the liberty of responding for you, in the following verses.”

Little anti-Christian rhymester,
Your writings show your character—not mine.
My chief fault, alas! I admit it now,
Was a heart, misled by your flattery,
That mistook a perfect scoundrel for a friend,
Beloved by fools, despised by the wise.
When, blinded by you—I confess it—
I risked my support in your favor.
But I blame myself for nothing more
Than having sullied a few pages
With a name as vile as yours.

“Indeed, Sir, that is the only reproach you have to make against yourself, but it is one that is easily wiped away in the eyes of all honest people—people who grow more outraged each day by the conduct and shamelessness of this wretch, and who await with impatience the final thunderbolt that must crush him. That blow could be in no better hands than yours, and you could not wield it on a more deserving subject, etc.”

The investigations into the alleged satires published in Holland against Monsieur V. brought into my hands a book by M. de Saint-Hyacinthe, entitled The Masterpiece of the Unknown. In an edition of this famous work printed in The Hague by Pierre Huffon in 1732, one finds at the end the following passage from The Deification of Doctor Aristarchus Masso, by the same M. de S. Hyacinthe (p. 362). Will Voltaire now accuse Abbé D. F. of being the author of this writing? Will he claim it has his style?

EXCERPT

From the work entitled:
The Deification of Doctor Aristarchus Masso
By M. de S. H.

“A French officer, named Beauregard, was speaking with some people drawn by curiosity, like myself, to the foot of the double mountain. A poet of the same nation, nose in the air like a cavalry horse, shamelessly joined the conversation. Speaking out of turn and absurdly, he indulged in some insulting remarks, which the officer disapproved. The poet cared little and continued. The officer then withdrew to a path he knew the poet would take to speak to an actor.

There he indeed arrived, reciting verses to a man he didn’t think would witness his disgrace. The officer, grabbing the poet by the arm, said:
“I’ve always heard that the impudent are cowards—I want to put that to the test, and I can’t find a better candidate than you. Let’s see, Sir Genius, whether you’ll make good use of that sword you carry, though I’ve no idea why; or prepare to receive, from this cane, the punishment your insolence deserves.”

Pale and trembling like a courtesan at the roar of thunder, the poet was struck dumb. Fear, mingled with regret, awakened humility and prudence in him:

“I have sinned,” he said, “and I do not intend
To use my valor to defend my faults.
I offer my back and my ribs
To the just punishment your arm prepares.
Strike, fear not—strike, I forgive you.
My life means little—I give it up.
Behold a poet in despair,
Worthy of punishment, content to be beaten,
Making no effort against your supreme strength.
Beauregard shall have no victor but himself.”

“Fine words are useless here,” replied the officer.
“Defend yourself—or beware your shoulders.”

The poet, lacking courage to defend himself, was beaten with many cane strokes by the officer, who hoped the insult and pain might awaken his bravery—as they often do in cowards. But the poet’s prudence only grew with each blow. His companion finally cried out to the officer:

“Stop, stop your fury!
Beating a defenseless man is no noble deed.
The heart that strikes
At the heartless is itself to blame.”

The officer, satisfied with his lesson, said:
“Follower of the Muses, learn that it is more important to be wise than to be a poet—and though the laurels of Parnassus may protect from lightning, they do not shield from the blows of a cane.”

With that, he threw the poet into a field—
And lo! a miracle! the cane turned into a tree…

Judge that piece of M. de Saint-Hyacinthe’s work as you see fit; but at the very least, it shows that the follies and sorry adventures of our poet have echoed throughout Europe for quite some time.

VERSES BY M. ROUSSEAU

On Voltaire’s Newtonian Philosophy

Rare wit, inventive genius,
Who claims that Nature is known to you alone,
And that its only operative principle
Is Newton’s attraction theory you’ve embraced—
Voltaire, explain to us this attractive force
That brought upon your shoulders
Those storms of cane-blows,
For which you received monetary compensation.

MORE VERSES BY THE SAME

Sent to M. Abbé D. F.
On Voltaire and his sect.

You know well, turbulent rhymers,
Your past beatings, and yet seek quarrel
With sharp and discourteous mockers,
Whom Apollo himself has taken under his wing.
If you have a grain of brain left,
Write no more—and especially beware
Of offending a new Lucian,
Who, to defend Parnassian honor,
Once so neatly dispatched
The defunct verses of the very defunct La Motte.

Lycambe, too sensitive to his honor, once hanged himself over verses Archilochus wrote about him. We fear no such despair from a man like Voltaire. Everything most dishonorable slides off both his mind and his heart. Besides, the sponge of his pride soon wipes away every trace of shame.

I meant to end my letter here, and I thought it beneath me to respond point-by-point to all the literary claims in Voltaire’s pamphlet. I was even, in a way, ashamed to have insisted on a few of the main ones and to have gone to the trouble of exposing his ignorance and madness on these topics. But perhaps he would be impudent enough to take pride in his other frivolous objections if left unanswered—and our silence would serve to feed his arrogance and, if possible, swell his conceit. Besides, his partisans (though their number is now reduced to a few inconsequential people) might exploit our silence and say that Voltaire at least had the glory of silencing his opponent on some points where he could not be justified. Let us then finish flattening this reckless critic and give the final brushstrokes to the portrait of his folly and false erudition.

“The Observer,” says Voltaire on page 10, “recalls an old literary dispute between M. Dacier and the Marquis de Sévigné about this line from Horace: ‘Difficile est proprie communia dicere.’ He reports the witty rejoinder of M. de Sévigné. As for M. Dacier,” he says, “he defends himself like a scholar; that says it all. Harsh and insulting expressions are the ornaments of his erudition.”
These are, in fact, the Observer’s words, quoted by Monsieur Voltaire.

“There are,” continues the critic, “three very strange errors in this passage from the Observer:

  1. It is false that scholars of Louis XIV’s time were known for using insults in place of argument.
  2. It is even more false that M. Dacier used such language toward M. de Sévigné. He heaps praise on him, etc.
  3. It is indisputable that Dacier was correct in substance and translated the line from Horace very well. Difficile est proprie communia dicere, which he rendered: It is very difficult to treat subjects of invention well… Thus Abbé D. F. did not understand Horace, did not read the piece by M. Dacier which he criticizes, and is wrong on all counts.”

We’ll now see whether Abbé D. F. really is wrong on those three points.

Judging by the author of The Preservative, you’d think the Observer copied M. de Sévigné’s piece word-for-word. “He reported the rejoinder,” says Voltaire. But that improper expression clearly shows that Voltaire has never seen the collection entitled Critical Dissertation on Horace’s Art of Poetry! In that volume, there are three rejoinders by M. de Sévigné and two by M. Dacier. The Observer cited only two excerpts from the last rejoinder by M. de Sévigné.

The critic finds three faults in the Observer’s discourse! But first: in his remark, is there any mention of the scholars of the reign of Louis XIV? What a comical logician, who draws a general conclusion from a particular case! The Observer neither reproaches those scholars, nor M. Dacier, with using insults in place of arguments. He simply states that rude and insulting expressions are the ornaments of his erudition. That is quite different.

But as for the matter itself, concerning the scholars of Louis XIV’s era, the critic is quite bold to pretend ignorance of what everyone knows. Did not Théophile Reynaud, Valois, Thiers, Launois, Nicolaï, and countless other 17th-century scholars ornament their polemical writings with insults and invectives? It is on this topic that a modern critic once said: injuriarum et calumnia saeculum dixeris (“you might call it the age of insult and slander”). Did d’Aubignac, Scudéry, and so many other authors not disgracefully attack Corneille and Racine? Were Bouhours and Ménage particularly civil to each other? With what impoliteness did Ménage write against Baillet—who was attacked even more harshly and bitterly by Father Bauchet the Jesuit? How many insults did M. de Valincourt suffer from a hack writer—one might call him the Pitaval of his time—just for having critiqued La Princesse de Clèves with both wit and solid reasoning?

Finally, who is unaware of the Response of Abbé de Villars to the Sentiments of Cléanthe (that Cléanthe being M. Barbier d’Aucourt)? Or the Antimenagiana, in which people of genuine merit are overwhelmed with abuse? I won’t even mention the violent quarrel initiated by M. Arnauld against Father Malebranche, nor the terrible writings by that doctor and many others against the Jesuit Order. From this brief survey—which could easily be expanded—judge whether the scholars of Louis XIV’s era were really as gentle and moderate as Voltaire pretends. One would think he had sworn never to say anything true.

2°. According to our critic, M. Dacier heaped praise on M. de Sévigné and concluded his piece by requesting his friendship. It’s true that in his first rejoinder, M. Dacier politely says to M. de Lamoignon, who was arbitrating the literary dispute: “The costs I seek are the friendship of M. de Sévigné.” But once he found himself sharply attacked by his opponent, he quickly changed tone. “Is it for M. de Sévigné,” he says, “to dictate the usage of Latin terms? Should he not rather submit to it?”

To borrow the words of M. de Sévigné’s reply: “Is that a very gracious beginning?” On page 77, after citing Plato to say “there are people who, unable to grasp abstract or general concepts, must always rest their imagination on material and tangible things,” Dacier adds: “Such people, according to Plato, live only in dreams, for they take shadow for substance. Whereas those who know beauty, wisdom, and justice, and the particular things that participate in them, have such distinct ideas that they never mistake the copy for the original or vice versa; they truly live. I regret that M. de Sévigné’s life, according to Plato, is only a dream—but I hope he will awaken soon and begin to truly live.”

Now is that a polite speech, delivered by a scholar (and no more than that) to a nobleman like the Marquis de Sévigné, whom he here portrays as a dreamer? If I wanted to cite other passages from Dacier’s rejoinders, I believe everyone would readily agree that, as the Observer truthfully said, rude and insulting expressions are the ornaments of his erudition.

3°. The learned Voltaire declares victory for M. Dacier and insists that in Horace’s verse, communia means intacta—new subjects. But that is far from as certain as he claims. Abbé D. F. might well be right alongside the Marquis de Sévigné, and he is not alone in siding with him. M. de Brueys, in his Paraphrase on Horace’s Art of Poetry, adopted M. de Sévigné’s interpretation. Father Tarteron offered yet another explanation, quite different from Dacier’s. At the time of this dispute, M. de Sévigné, as he himself affirms, had a great number of men of wit on his side.

Here is what M. de Valincourt wrote to him in a letter dated January 5, 1698:

“You are much deprived by not knowing Greek. A passage has been found in Hermogenes which settles the issue of communia in your favor so decisively that no reply is possible. Imagine the glory of defeating M. Dacier with a Greek passage! That would truly be a case of ‘suo hunc sibi gladio jugulo’. I’ll send it to you in Latin if you wish.”

Certainly, one could never say of Voltaire, suo hunc sibi gladio jugulo—that he is slain by his own sword—when citing a Greek passage. One would have to invoke instead the authority of some modern as presumptuous as he is ignorant. After what you’ve just read, doesn’t Voltaire show great nerve in accusing Abbé D. F. of not understanding Horace?

You see that the entire argument by our critic about the line in question is downright laughable. But we should not be surprised: it is Voltaire reasoning, after all.

Another observation by this judicious writer, p. 20:

“While summarizing a certain Latin oration by M. Turretin,” he says, “the Observer complains about the lack of patrons and the unfortunate condition of scholars,” etc.

Admire the carelessness—or the stupidity—of the critic. He blames the Observer for merely reporting M. Turretin’s claims regarding the causes of the decline of letters:

Verum, says Turretin, ut in causæ arcem invadamus, cur litteræ parum excolantur hæc est levis ratio, nimirum præmii defectus, Mæcenatum inopia.
(“But to strike at the heart of the cause why learning is so little cultivated, here is the simple reason: the lack of reward and the scarcity of Maecenases.”)

Did Voltaire mention this point only to inform the public that he once received a royal pension? He willingly satisfies his vanity at the expense of truth and reason.

On page 39, he rants violently against the judgment the Observer gave of a certain book translated from English, titled Alciphron, or the Little Philosopher. I admit, the judgment is extremely severe and paints a very unfavorable picture of the book and its author. Out of curiosity, I examined the work myself, and I must say that, in a sense, it’s a dangerous book. Yet, if we believe the Doctor of Cirey, it’s a holy book, filled with the strongest arguments against libertines.

Here is the real nature of the book—which is anything but holy. It’s written in the form of dialogues: Alciphron, or the little philosopher, spews dull jokes—or rather horrible blasphemies—against the Christian religion, the kind of filth the riffraff of London might spout in a tavern. Nothing could be more indecent or scandalous than the scenes Alciphron puts before the reader’s eyes. A holy book, indeed! Voltaire thoroughly enjoys this kind of sanctity.

As for the responses to the little philosopher’s objections, I suspect it’s precisely because they are weak and poorly constructed that Voltaire praises them. The book deserves as much praise as the scandalous and abominable Epistle to Urania. The author of this holy book sometimes jokes in his own voice (I believe without malicious intent), in a manner that is highly irreverent. He even seems to doubt the strength of his own arguments for religion, since in his preface he writes:

“I may be accused of being like those mothers who smother their children by smothering them with affection.”

Our critic takes issue with the Observer saying that Cicero was more verbose than Seneca—and he conceals the meaning in which it was said. Who doesn’t know that Cicero is more abundant and rhythmic? Yet Seneca is more verbose, because despite his choppy style, he says nothing of substance, and his frequent antitheses often just repeat the same idea.

In article 12, Voltaire objects to this phrase: “Venus was observed at the meridian beneath the Pole,” taken from page 202. This leads him to proclaim wisely that the planets exist only within the zodiac and not beneath the Pole. How learned the Sieur Voltaire is! If only he were as judicious—he would understand that the planet seen at the meridian beneath the Pole was then in the other hemisphere, and therefore beneath the Arctic Pole in relation to the observer.

What a petty quibble, to censure the term system when speaking of Newton’s admirable theory of light! But hasn’t Newton drawn conclusions from his experiments and, as a result, established dogmas? Isn’t the concept of a vacuum the foundation of his model? Then it is, in fact, a system. M. Algarotti has no hesitation using that term when discussing Newtonianism. Would Voltaire presume to believe himself a more enlightened Newtonian than that learned author? That wouldn’t be surprising, since he puts himself above everyone.

In article 25, he ridiculously compares these two expressions: “in the bosom of the seas” and “in the bosom of France.” Are these the same thing? The bosom of France cannot be understood as being underground—but the bosom of the seas evokes the depths of the ocean. Therefore, saying an enchanted island was placed in the bosom of the seas is no error—it is, in fact, correct. Finally, the critic, having neglected to consult the Errata, even reproaches printing errors, such as corporisié instead of corporalisé.

Since the occasion presents itself, I will add that it’s with the same sound judgment that Voltaire, in his Philosophical Letters—a work so justly condemned—has the impudence to say that Father Le Brun borrowed his book from that of Dr. Prymm. This accusation is preceded by several ridiculous claims, none of which are found in the book of the learned and respectable Oratorian. Besides, one need only compare the two works to see they have nothing in common.

But here is Voltaire’s method: he hears someone (learned or ignorant—it doesn’t matter) mention something. If it hasn’t yet been published, he rushes to write it down—after it’s passed through the twisted filter of his unbalanced imagination. He burns to print it; he prints it. And only through public outrage or ridicule can the truth reach him and correct him.

Such is the genius, the knowledge, and the judgment of the proudest—and most humiliated—of all writers.

In another part of his execrable Letters, he dares to call Father Le Brun’s work a “ridiculous declamation.” That is how he shamelessly describes an excellent work, composed under the orders of a very great prelate.

I will end with one final reflection: in the fifteen volumes of the Observations—which the Sieur Voltaire seems to have examined thoroughly—his rage has only managed to uncover about a dozen supposed errors, most of which merely echo the criticisms of a Pitaval, a Chevalier de Mouhy, and a few other miserable detractors of Abbé D. F.19 And this is supposed to be a Preservative? In exchange for such a preservative, let us offer him a remedy—and a fitting one: hellebore.

Poor Voltaire has wasted the past two years trying to understand Newton, yet still does not grasp even the first elements of his thought, despite the pains a learned Italian took to help him. He has been so scorned, so mocked, so derided for his philosophical nonsense, that truly, he deserves now a bit of pity. Let him quietly benefit from the humiliations that his Newtonianism has earned him.

I believe that the Voltairomania has been sufficiently demonstrated by everything I’ve just said. Would to God that Voltaire were merely lacking in intelligence and judgment—that he were simply mad! The worst part is that he is false, shameless, and slanderous. His portrait belongs at the head of chapter 6 of Theophrastus. Let him now write whatever he pleases, in prose or in verse: he has been placed—or rather, he has placed himself—beyond the possibility of obtaining the slightest credibility in the world.

Despite how harshly he may appear treated here, restraint has still been exercised. How many things are known that we choose not to publish! Yet the horrors of his libel excuse the lack of moderation.

It is certain that if he could be cured of his pride—which defies description—he would be less foolish, less impious, less rash, less brutish, less volatile, less presumptuous, less slanderous, and so forth. Now, what could be more capable of humbling this monstrous pride—the root of all his vices and disgraces—than what is contained in this salutary letter, which your charity surely will not fail to share with him?

I am, &c.

Paris, December 12, 1738.

  1. Such is the rascal, a known publisher and self-interested distributor of all of Voltaire’s ravings; or a certain little Norman abbé, who had the nerve to bring the pamphlet in question into houses frequented by Abbé D. F. As a result, the little abbé has been forbidden to set foot there again.↩

  2. V. admits at the start of his Epistle to Madame du Châtelet, which prefaces Alzire, that this play is one of those poetic works that have only a brief moment, owe their merit to fleeting public favor and the illusion of the stage, and then fall into obscurity. He thus announces the fate of all his works. We say nothing of his continual scholastic plagiarism: it is well known that his finest garments are second-hand.↩

  3. Two letters from London speak to this. One reports that V.’s book on Newtonian Philosophy, which he does not understand, was hissed there as in Paris. The other states Voltaire must be mad, literally.↩

  4. President de B., friend of Voltaire, grandson of a peasant! The profession of letters certainly brings advancement. This friend expelled him from his house in 1726, after his insolent speech at the lodgings of Mademoiselle Le Couvreur.↩

  5. Voltaire’s letter on this subject is printed in the Observations, vol. 5.↩

  6. The late President de Bernières was the brother, by his father, of Madame la Marquise de Flavacourt and Madame la Présidente de Louraille, cousins of Abbé Desfontaines, who was also his friend and confidant. A pretentious upstart forces us to mention these details with his airs of superiority.↩

  7. The letter was solemnly read at the Journal Assembly, and as a result, Abbé D. F. was immediately reinstated by Abbé Bignon, who kindly gathered the votes of the Assembly.↩

  8. Alciphron, or The Little Philosopher.↩

  9. If 20 soldiers are to divide the visual angle into 20 equal parts, then according to Voltaire, the angle is equally divided; thus, Voltaire has, by this fine operation, discovered the trisection of the angle. He says that the skilled geometer was mocking Abbé D. F., and fails to see that he was the true target of the mockery. Is there anything more laughable than Voltaire’s reasoning on this point? More on this later.↩

  10. By that same logic, Old Age should respect Youth, since Youth precedes Old Age—one does not grow old without having first been young. Voltaire admires this absurd concetto. What taste! All his other quotations, upon close inspection, are just as ridiculous.↩

  11. Abbé D. F. acknowledges only the two Paris editions from 1725.↩

  12. What he cites as defective is superior to Voltaire’s best verses in the same genre. The Claudian, the Statius of our century, has no regard for the poetry of our supposed Horace. Inflated or feeble prose, a flat or empty style—such is the character of most of the verses by this foolish scorner of Rousseau’s.↩

  13. Through his Letters, his Temple of Taste, and his Elements of Newton’s Philosophy.↩

  14. Like the wolf in the fable who says to the lamb, “And I know that last year you spoke ill of me.” Happily, the scrawny Wolf of Girey will not easily devour the Lamb he seeks; there are good dogs here to chase him and all his hungry cubs.↩

  15. Voltaire plays, with deliberate reflection, the role of The Absent-Minded Man from La Bruyère: “Ménalque laughs louder than everyone; he looks for the one showing his ears, and the one missing a wig,” etc.↩

  16. Charles XII↩

  17. The Prodigal Son, a comedy by Voltaire↩

  18. La Henriade↩

  19. Among others, that grotesque figure from the Temple of Aesculapius, that Thersites of the Faculty, rumored to have some wit, though the dry author of a dull and tiresome comedy, and of a pamphlet against Saint Cosmas in which there is not even half a dram of wit nor a single scruple of good sense. Everyone knows by heart the charming verses of one of our most delightful poets about this double bastard of Apollo, who, though still rather young, so gloriously follows in the footsteps of the oldest dotard among his idle colleagues. This little tribute was owed to him for six months. Another has long deserved the same: a certain obscure face, a caustic rhymester, well-rewarded for the slanders of his impudent Muse—a little Cyclops who for twenty years has hammered out so-so verses day and night on his feeble anvil, for the two acting troupes who nurse him—hoping that chance, or the help of another, may at last produce something worthwhile from his forge. I shall say nothing of another character, who, by a notarial act passed before Briasson, has just delivered to the grocers of Paris a complete collection of his Miscellaneous Works.↩

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