evere critic, Dr. Coit, who recently discoursed at
South-place Institute (or is it Chapel?) on the National Secular Society
in general and myself in particular, could hardly deny that Voltaire
was a master of wit, sarcasm, irony, and ridicule. Well, now, let us
see what some serious writers have said of this nimble spirit. Robert
Browning, in _The Two Poets of Croisic_ thus salutes him:

Ay, sharpest shrewdest steel that ever stabbed
To death Imposture through the armor-joints!

Carlyle says "He gave the death-stab to modern superstition," and "it
was a most weighty service." Buckle says he "used ridicule, not as the
test of truth, but as the scourge of folly," and thus "produced more
effect than the gravest arguments could have done." "Nor can any one
since the days of Luther be named," says Brougham, "to whom the spirit
of free inquiry, nay, the emancipation of the human mind from spiritual
tyranny, owes a more lasting debt of gratitude."

There is a story of the manuscript of Harrington's _Oceana_ being
filched and given to Cromwell, and the sagacious "usurper" returned it
saying, "My government is not to be overturned with paper pellets." But
the ironical pamphlet, _Killing no Murder_, produced a different effect.
Nor did the royal and imperial despots, and their priestly abettors,
in the eighteenth century, dread the solemn lovers of freedom. But the
winged pen of Voltaire was a different matter. "Bigots and tyrants,"
says Macaulay, "who had never been moved by the wailing and cursing of
millions, turned pale at his name."

If Dr. Coit imagines that Voltaire has lost his influence in France, I
venture to say he is mistaken. The hand of Voltaire is on Renan, and on
dozens of living soldiers in the French army of progress. And what man
of letters in England--a country abounding in "the oxen of the gods,"
strong, slow, and stupid--is free from his influence? Carlyle's early
essay on Voltaire is a mixture of hatred and admiration. But read the
Life of Frederick, and see how the French snake fascinates the Scotch
Puritan, until at last he flings every reservation aside, and hails with
glowing panegyric the Savior of Calas.

Let me refer Dr. Coit to the delightful preface of a delightful
book--Leland's introduction to his fine translation of Heine's
_Reisebilder_. "Woe to those who are standing near," says Leland,
"when a humorist of this stamp is turned loose upon the world. He
knows nothing of your old l