a moral and religious view of them, particularly among persons of little reflection, than those of any other author." The head and visage of Voltaire were strongly expressive of his character. As we were looking at his bust in the corner of his bed-room, and marking the smothered guile under his snakish eye and grinning lip, one of our company observed, he appears to be in the act of saying, "Yea, hath God said, ye shall not eat of every tree of the ground?" Another of his biographers confirms the above sentiment, in the following language. "The physiognomy of Voltaire was indicative of his disposition. It is said to have partaken of the eagle and the monkey; and to the fire and rapidity of the former animal, he united the mischievous and malicious propensities of the latter. With strong perceptions of moral excellence and elevation, he was little and mean in conduct, a victim to petty passions and caprices; never at rest either in mind or body, never tranquil or sedate. If he was a philosopher, it was in his opinions, not in his actions. He had been accustomed from his youth to pay as much homage to rank and wealth as his vanity would permit; his tastes of life were vitiated, and his manners corrupted; he could not, therefore, be a consistent friend to virtue and liberty, though he might occasionally be captivated with their charms, and even zealous in their support. He was habitually avaricious, though he performed some generous acts, which, however, he took care to make known. He was too selfish to inspire love, and too capricious to merit esteem. He had numerous admirers, but probably not one friend." Selfish, irritable, capricious, unreasonable, he had the unenviable faculty of making all around him unhappy. Unable to find peace himself, he seemed determined that no body else should find it. It is said that they who knew him best, esteemed him least. Envious of the reputation of others, it gave him pleasure to hear them defamed, and pain to hear them praised. What other than motives of envy could have induced him to abuse such men as Newton, Shakspeare, and Rousseau? He was also licentious. With all his genius, learning, wealth and fame, he was one of the most restless and unhappy of mortals. A canker-worm was forever gnawing at the root of his temporal enjoyments; and he had no prospect beyond the grave, but such as is afforded to an earthly and sensual mind by a gloomy and uncertain deism. Such, thought I, was the man, who, in a generation past, was owner of this princely estate; was often sitting where I now sit and looking upon this enchanting scene; was admired for his genius, honored for his wealth, and courted for his influence; was pouring forth his literary productions over Europe, sanguine of being honored, through all time, as the light of the world; who was yet one of the most unhappy of men, and was doomed, even before his humble gardener should find a grave, to be remembered by the wise and virtuous of both continents only to be pitied and avoided! Surely, "the way of transgressors is hard." As age advanced, his burning brow of ambition, instead of cooling down for the grave, seemed to gather intenser heat, and he determined to visit the capital and bring on the stage another tragedy. The one which he selected was his "Irene." Having taken his seat in the box, amidst the repeated plaudits of the assembly, an actor advanced and placed a crown on his head. At the conclusion of the play, all the actors and actresses surrounded his bust upon the stage and threw garlands of laurel upon it, while some verses composed to his praise by a nobleman were rehearsed, amidst the pealing shouts of the auditors. This shock of honor was too severe for his enfeebled frame, and he exclaimed in a tone of deep melancholy, "I am come to Paris to find glory and a tomb." This was his last appearance in public. From the Theatre he was taken to the sick chamber, whence his body was soon after carried to the grave. He died May 30th, 1778, at the advanced age of 84 years. It may seem strange that one of such an irritable temperament and restless disposition could hold out so long, but his was one of those thin and tough frames peculiarly fitted to wear, and he was composed of such elements that the morbid tempers and excitements which exhaust and destroy most of their victims, seemed in his case to afford unnatural nourishment and support. Indeed, it appeared to be impossible for him to live without them. The writer visited the monument that covers his dust in the Pantheon at Paris. He is exhibited in a statue of marble, holding in his hand a burning torch. That he did throw light upon many of the enormities of papacy and of royal domination, and thus bring some benefit to mankind, whatever may have been his motives, should be cordially admitted. But that in his mad zeal for liberty, and lust of vanity and selfindulgence, he aimed his weapons against all revealed religion, and gave his talents and his example to the subversion of truth and the annihilation of the loftiest motives and brightest hopes of mankind, must forever cast a deep and gloomy shade over his memory. He will be remembered in all future time more to be rebuked than honored, more to be pitied than envied. One of his attendants in his last illness, still living, stated that he died as he had lived, a miserable man. Remorse of conscience, dread of death, fearful anticipations of an approaching judgment, made his dying pillow a pillow of thorns. SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF THE FOREST. BY ALFRED B. STREET. THE Sunset-Angel lights the leaves, And from the arbor'd shade, Whose cool green depths had roof'd the heat, Far down, the brindled porcupine The wild-bee seeks its hollow trunk. Silent the partridge-drum; The frog-marsh echoes hoarse and loud, Along the western mountain's brow, |