ntensity by the beauties of Nature.
These things Voltaire did not understand; he did not even perceive them;
for him, in fact, they did not exist; and the notion that men could be
influenced by them, genuinely and deeply, he considered to be so absurd
as hardly to need discussion. This was certainly a great weakness in
him--a great limitation of spirit. It has vitiated a large part of his
writings; and it has done more than that--it has obscured, to many of
his readers, the real nature and the real value of his work. For,
combined with this inability to comprehend some of the noblest parts of
man's nature, Voltaire possessed other qualities of high importance
which went far to compensate for his defects. If he was blind to some
truths, he perceived others with wonderful clearness; if his sympathies
in some directions were atrophied, in others they were sensitive to an
extraordinary degree. In the light of these considerations his attitude
towards religion becomes easier to understand. All the highest elements
of religion--the ardent devotion, the individual ecstasy, the sense of
communion with the divine--these things he simply ignored. But,
unfortunately, in his day there was a side of religion which, with his
piercing clear-sightedness, he could not ignore. The spirit of
fanaticism was still lingering in France; it was the spirit which had
burst out on the Eve of St. Bartholomew, and had dictated the fatal
Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. In every branch of life its influence
was active, infusing prejudice, bitterness, and strife; but its effects
were especially terrible in the administration of justice. It so
happened that while Voltaire was at Ferney some glaring instances of
this dreadful fact came to light. A young Protestant named Calas
committed suicide in Toulouse, and, owing to the blind zealotry of the
magistrates of the town, his father, completely innocent, was found
guilty of his murder and broken on the wheel. Shortly afterwards,
another Protestant, Sirven, was condemned in similar circumstances, but
escaped to Ferney. A few years later, two youths of seventeen were
convicted at Abbeville for making some profane jokes. Both were
condemned to have their tongues torn out and to be decapitated; one
managed to escape, the other was executed. That such things could happen
in eighteenth-century France seems incredible; but happen they did, and
who knows how many more of a like atrocity? The fact that these thre