derick made him a prebendary, as well as a lecturer. Theopius lamented, and the wicked laughed at bad works producing such good fruit, but the ways of Providence are inscrutable, and not to be measured by human rules, or laws." (P. 229.)

The following is Mr. Standish's view of the duty of suicide:

"The confiscation of a proscribed man's property is absurd; for there are few who wish to live, after being deprived both of their honour and their fortune; if he be a philosopher and a man of courage, he will deprive himself of life: and if a theologian, and not deficient in resolution, he will do the same." (P.369.)

We are at no loss to discover where our author learned this doctrine, for the theatre seems to be his church, and his priest is Voltaire. We have heard much respecting the moral lessons to be learned by the gross exhibitions which pollute the stage; but we scarcely recollect any thing on this subject that can vie with the profane flippancy of the following passage:

"A fine play often produces as good feelings, or as much moral amelloration of character, and is often listened to with as much attention as the finest pulpit eloquence. The nearer examples of courage in the support of virtue, or constancy and firmness in distress, are brought before our eyes, while the tyranny of worldly opinions is triumphing or trampling over the endurance of philosophy, or fortitude, the more we can reconcile its influence to our own case; and, even if we go back to antiquity for examples, there are few who will not allow the unconquerable spirit of Cato in Utica, whose mind could never be enslaved, although the universe was sinking beneath the powerful grasp of a successful rival, when brought before our view in the glowing colours of modern genius, to be as striking as the most tranquil death-bed scene of the most pious Christian, commented on by holy writers, or approved by sanctified discourse.” (P. 143, 144.)

Of the author's conception of the most common charities of our nature, the reader may form a judgment from the following picture of filial affection:

"Few things add so much to the enjoyment of literary fame, or the prosecution of literary acquirements, as independence. Voltaire owed his, principally to the London edition of the Henriade; to fortunate speculations in the public funds; and, to the death of his father-the last, though not the most amiable, yet the most secret and sincere, wish, of an expectant son." (P. 134.)

His religious opinions are very short and simple; for example, "Perhaps some may conclude by acquiescing in the opinion of the Dervise of the fable, who supposes us placed in this world, much on the same plan as rats inhabit a ship which the Grand Seignior sends to Egypt." (P. 289.)

"Occupation of mind, and the consolations of true religion, are

boasted of as the strongest antidotes to grief; but the speculations, or the experience of the sage, as well as the resignation of the pious, are found useless and weak in calamity; and the bitterness of sorrow triumphs over human theories." (P. 220, 221.)

The old catechisms taught, that man's chief end is to work out his salvation, to glorify God, and to enjoy his presence hereafter in heaven. Mr. Standish's idea respecting our probationary state is quite a discovery in moral science. We imagined it had always been allowed, even by those who consider Christianity a delusion, that at least it is often a happy one, and particularly in soothing the troubles of the mourner, and calming the bed of death. But Mr. Standish does not allow it even this faint praise. He knows as little of the history, as he does of the power, of religion.

Voltaire does not shine alone in the pages before us; even Frederick, his master, comes in for his share of admiration; and is actually praised (p. 182) for his "goodness of heart!" Really this is insufferable; for if ever any one man has betrayed a more callous heart than all others, Voltaire always excepted, it was Frederic of Prussia, misnamed the Great. We should be glad to know what Mr. Standish would say to such a passage of history as the following:-A certain royal general, who possessed a large share of "goodness of heart," intending one night to make an important movement in his camp, gave orders that by eight o'clock all the lights should be extinguished, under pain of death. The instant the time arrived, the general sallied out to see whether his orders were punctually obeyed. In the tent of captain Zietern he found a light. The captain, anxious to dispatch a letter which he was writing to his wife, had either not observed the signal, or had been led, in the ardour of his affection, to neglect it for a few moments, in order to finish his epistle, which he was actually folding at the moment the general entered his tent. A man of peculiar "goodness of heart" would, perhaps, have shut his eyes, or have framed or accepted some excuse to save the life of a valuable officer under such affecting circumstances; or if military discipline rendered that impossible, would at least have announced the fatal tidings in the least cruel manner which could be devised for the occasion. But Frederic's goodness of heart operated in a very different manner: he ordered the officer, who was on his knees pleading for mercy, to rise, and inform him to whom he had been writing. The unhappy man replied, that he had retained the light for a very few minutes only, in order to conclude a letter to his beloved wife. Frederic coolly ordered him to add one line more, which he would dictate, and which was to inform the unhappy woman, without assigning any reason, that before she received that

letter, the writer would be no more. Zietern was obliged to obey, and the next morning he was shot. Such are the tender mercies of atheism. The military execution might be an affair of expediency; but the gratuitous superadded barbarity was the spontaneous effusion of Frederic's own "good heart." Perhaps, however, Mr. Standish would not see much barbarity in the transaction; for, in describing the inhuman tortures inflicted by the pagans on the early Christian martyrs, he is quite merry on the subject, and talks of "a droll picture of a man impaled," &c.

Voltaire, Frederic's best friend, the companion of his studies, and the corrector of his verses, or, as he himself termed it, "the washer of his dirty linen," could. not long live with him, and has given in his letters the most disgusting picture of that heart which Mr. Standish conceives to have been naturally good, till it was corrupted by kingly power. While Frederie was professing the most ardent friendship for Voltaire, he was heard to say, that "he should not want him above twelve months longer;" adding, "we squeeze the orange, and throw away the rind." This remark soon came to Voltaire's ears; for this kindhearted fraternity never kept any secrets, the knowledge of which would serve to wound and irritate the minds of their dear friends. Voltaire did not approve of this friendly squeeze, and prepared to decamp from the royal abode; hoping, before it was too late, as he himself remarks in one of his letters to Madame Denis, "to save the rind." He thus portrays, in the same letter, his beloved protector's character:-" I will compile a dictionary for the use of kings. My friend, signifies my slave ;-my dear friend, is as much as to say, you are more than indifferent to me;-by I will make you happy, you are to understand, I will bear with you so long as I shall need you;-sup with me to-night, means, I will make you my butt_to-night. This dictionary might be carried on to a great length, and be not unworthy a place in the encyclopædia." He goes on in the same strain. We recommend Mr. Standish to turn to the following passage, in particular, as peculiarly characteristic of the good-hearted Frederic: "What! delight in making mischief among those who live with him! To say every thing that is kind to a person, and write pamphlets against him! To lure a man from his country, by the most endearing expressions and solemn promises, and to treat him with the blackest malice! What a contrast! And this is the man who wrote in such a philosophic strain [mark, Mr. Standish], that I mistook him for a philosopher, and styled him The Solomon of the North." Voltaire adds, with more than his usual truth, “He said you are a philosopher, and so am I;but I begin to see that neither of us is so."

But we needed not to have referred to the page of history, or to the letters of Voltaire; for Mr. Standish's own book records anecdotes in abundance of this monarchical freethinker; proving him to have been as hard-hearted as he was vain, licentious, and over-bearing. We present the following portrait, from Mr. Standish's pencil, for the admiration of those who would wish to behold a truly philosophical" king:

"

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"This singular government, these manners still more strange,this contrast of stoicism and epicurism,-of severity in the military dis cipline, and of effeminacy in the interior of the palace, the pages with whom he used to amuse himself in his cabinet, and soldiers passing the gauntlet six and thirty times under the windows of the King, who was looking on at the punishment,-discourses on morality, and an unruly licentiousness, composed a fantastical picture, with which few persons were acquainted at that time, and which has since been never beheld in Europe." (P. 201.)

"Whether it was through economy, or through policy, Frederick did not grant the least favour to his old favourites, and, above all, to those who had exposed their lives in his service, when he was Prince Royal. He did not pay the money which he had then borrowed: and, as Louis XII. did not revenge the injuries he had experienced when Duke of Orleans, the King of Prussia forgot the debts of the Prince Royal. The poor mistress, who had been whipped for him by the hand of the executioner, was married to the clerk of the hackney-coach office, for there were eighteen hackney-coaches in Berlin; and her former lover presented her with a yearly pension of seventy crowns, which was always paid with the greatest exactness. Her name was Shommers, a tall woman, very thin, with the look of a sybil, who did not appear to be worth undergoing a flogging for a prince. Nevertheless, when at Berlin, Frederick displayed much sumptuousness on public days. It was a splendid sight to see him at table, surrounded by twenty princes of the empire, served on the finest gold plate in Europe, and thirty fine pages, and as many young edukes, richly dressed, bearing large dishes of solid gold. The great officers were then seen; but, except at such times, they never appeared. After dinner, they used to go to the opera, in a large house, three hundred feet long, which one of his chamberlains, named Knoberstoff, built without the help of an architect. The best singers, and the best dancers, were in his pay. La Barbarani was then performing on his theatre. She afterwards married the son of his chancellor. The king had ordered this dancer to be taken away from Venice by some soldiers, and she was brought by way of Vienna up to Berlin. He was rather in love with her, because her legs resembled those of a man. A singular thing is, that he used to give her thirty-two thousand francs, as yearly wages. His Italian poet, who used to make verses for the operas, of which he formed the plan himself, had only twelve hundred francs a year; but it is to be considered he was very ugly, and could not dance. La Bar barani had alone more than the emolument of three ministers of state together. As to the Italian poet, he one day paid himself. He stole

from a chapel, used by the first King of Prussia, some old gold galoons, with which it was ornamented. The king, who never frequented a church, said, that he found himself no loser. Besides, he had just been writing a dissertation in favour of thieving, which is printed in the collection of his academy; and he did not think it proper, at this time, to belie his writings by his actions. This indulgence, however, was not extended towards the military. There was a gentleman of Franche Comté, in the prisons of Spandau, six feet high, whom the late king had enticed away on account of his tallness. They had promised him the place of chamberlain, and allotted him that of a common soldier. The poor man soon after deserted, with a few more of his comrades: he was seized, and brought before his Majesty, to whom he was either magnanimous, or simple, enough to observe, he only repented of one thing, which was not having killed such a tyrant. For this answer, his nose and his ears were cut off; he was made to pass the gauntlet six-and-thirty times, and afterwards sent to Spandau to work on the public roads. He was working still when Mr. de Valori, the French envoy, begged Voltaire to ask his pardon from the very clement son of the very cruel Frederick William. His majesty was pleased to say, that it was for him, la Clemenza di Tito was performed; a beautiful opera, by the celebrated Metastasio, put into music by the king himself, aided by the Italian. He took a good opportunity of recommending to his consideration the case of the poor Franche Comtois, without ears and without a nose, and composed the following appeal in his favour:

Génie universel, ame sensible et ferme,

Quoi! lorsque vous régnez, il est des malheureux !

Aux tourmens d'un coupable il vous faut mettre un terme

Et ne'n mettre jamais à vos soins généreux.

Voyez auprès de vous les prières tremblantes,

Filles du repentir, maîtresses des grand cœurs
S'étonner d'arroser de larmes impuissantes

Les mains qui de la terre ont du sécher les cœurs.
Ah! pourquoi m'étaller, avec magnificence,
Ce spectacle brillant où triomphe Titus ?
Pour achever la fête, égalez sa clémence,

Et l'imitez en tout, ou ne le vantez plus.

"The request was strong; but it had the advantage of being in verse. The king promised some lenity, and even some months after, he had the goodness to put the old gentleman into the hospital at six sous a day. He had refused that favour to the queen his mother, who, very likely, had asked for it in prose." (P. 202-205.)

There is nothing in this passage respecting some of Frederic's grosser gratifications, or of those scenes of which even Mr. Standish, who is not very squeamish, is obliged to exclaim, "Modesty prevents the biographer from proceeding with the details;" though, by the way, modesty does not perform the same useful office for our author on many other equally necessary occasions. Those who are able to form any idea of what modesty