ADDRESSED TO
L. H. SCIPIO, COUNT DU ROURE,
MARQUESS OF GRISAC.
SIR: Among the numerous literary characters who have enlightened me by their opinions, or honored me with their approbation on perusing detached specimens of my literary labor, no favorable decision has proved so gratifying to my mind as the commendatory sentiments you have expressed on reading this translation, a sentiment inspired from a thorough conviction of your profound acquirements as a scholar and a man of letters, as well as the consummate knowledge you possess of the English language, equally with that of your own nation.
Persons intimately acquainted with the French tongue, and in particular with the naive style of “La Pucelle” of Voltaire, are best enabled to appreciate the arduous task I have so long toiled to accomplish; and to whom, therefore, could I more consistently address these pages than to yourself, Sir, whose favorable fiat insures a passport for my volumes in those societies which would consign them to oblivion, if, upon perusal they had been unauthorized by a sanction so truly flattering to my mind, as that which is derived from your cool judgment, ripened experience, and expanded understanding.
It has long been customary, Sir, to raise the voice against Voltaire’s “Pucelle d’Orléans;” to speak of the poem in society was regarded as a flagrant misdemeanor; but to have perused it became almost a crime against morality and virtue. Let us now inquire from whence has arisen all this vindictive acrimony; does it derive its source from these alleged attacks against the welfare of society; from the playful ebullitions of an amorous muse, or from the piquant badinage, the pointed satire, which so frequently characterizes the composition? No! — certain clerics have been its openly avowed, as well as insidious, enemies, not on account of the love effusions wherewith it abounds, or the satirical shafts so frequently directed against human frailties, and the vices of the great, nor the Castigat ridendo mores which so eminently characterizes most of our author’s writings; all these would then have been regarded as mere bagatelles by claimant directors of consciences.
I am perfectly well aware, Sir, that in transmitting my present labor to the public, I shall excite the hostility of some individuals; for Voltaire has perhaps more enemies in England than in France, where their number is trifling when opposed to the host of his admirers. I must, however, console myself with this reflection, that it is the inevitable fate of literary men never to afford universal satisfaction; that I am the first who has adventured upon the perilous task of translating this satirical masterpiece in English verse, cannot be denied, and my only hope is, that it may be found sufficiently expressive of the sense of the original to insure it a place on the library shelf with the rest of Voltaire’s works already published in English; as in that case, the summit of my wishes will be accomplished.
We are told that there are some truths which ought not to be disseminated at all times — I doubt it, but nobody doubts that there exists many which cannot be too widely promulgated, and of the latter class the most prominent are certainly those which, by divesting religion of her masquerade costume, leave her exposed, in all her pristine purity, a steady beacon for men to wonder at and revere.
Let me ask what is to be found in the “Pucelle d’Orléans” that mitigates in the smallest degree against the sober credence of a rational Protestant? and it is to a Protestant nation that I now address myself.
Voltaire has been attacked as an atheist, than which there does not exist a more flagrant untruth. Let his works stand the test, and if from their perusal his denial of an Omniscient Ruler can be inferred, then my assertion falls to the ground. In speaking of the Divinity, all those who are conversant with the invaluable productions of Voltaire, must have read with sentiments of delight his philosophical refutation of atheism; neither should be forgotten his uniform argument upon this momentous point, when in familiar conversation, which was: “That the existence of a watch proved there was a watch-maker.”
Some things only derive worth and honor from the antiquity of their origin; no matter what changes may have been wrought from the experience of ages, we must still pay homage to the antique scare-crow, as the Chinese or Hindoos to their hideous idols, for no other reason than because they are invested with the sacred erugo of time, and uniformly lauded by the Lama and the Bonzes.
By the same parity of reasoning, as our poet did not think fit to square his opinions precisely by those of the clergy, but, profiting from the expansion of human intellect, attacked their legerdemain system, and, having rubbed off the rust from the stupendous and sacred beacon, left its broad surface polished to the view. For this courageous attack on superstition, stained with the blood of innocence, our author, in the estimation of Catholic churchmen, was unjustly set down as an apostate to every sacred institution.
Bolingbroke, your great and enlightened uncle, Sir, states that there never appeared a religion in the world which tended more decidedly to insure the peace and happiness of human nature, than that taught by Jesus Christ and His disciples. “Adore the Eternal!” exclaims Rousseau, “and all the phantoms of atheism will vanish before you.”
“The honest man believes in God from conviction, and has therefore nothing to dread from the attacks of atheism. If even such a monster as an atheist should succeed in bewildering his reason, his heart would never fail to prevent its total alienation; though borne down by the weight of twenty sophisms, it would still exclaim: ‘I feel there is a God.’”
Such were the opinions, of what are termed “free-thinkers,” and so thought Voltaire, who never attacks the purity of the code laid down by Christ and His apostles; it is the abuse of these tenets he so nervously arraigns, and still more that class of men whose sordid interests had impelled them to support such opinions in direct opposition to the impulses of reason and common sense.
The road to heaven was never intended to be by indirect ways; the system of the Almighty is perspicuous as the noon-day sun; it is implanted in the heart of every man, for while conscience inhabits the human breast, little is required to teach us the will of our Creator, whose laws are promulgated by the Divine Redeemer, unaccompanied by all the mystic and farcical appendages of human invention.
It has too frequently been the lot of the writer when in promiscuous society, to hear the principles of Voltaire, and our poem in particular, stigmatized with a flippancy of style that bespoke these were but the hackneyed criticisms of years gone by, and upon examination of such pseudo censors, their knowledge of our philosopher’s productions has frequently consisted in a mere recapitulation of the abusive opinions of his bitterest enemies, just as we find individuals extolling the sublime and erudite flights of Milton, or the abstruse and profound reasonings of Locke, who never perused beyond a few quotations from the former, or dipped deeper than the title-page of the latter; nay, to such a point can illiberality be extended, that instances are to be found upon record of the printed and published condemnation of our “Pucelle” by British authors who neither were nor are masters of the French tongue.
How much it is to be regretted that men will not take the trouble of examining what occurs within the scope of their own inquiry ere they presume to condemn that with which they are wholly unacquainted. Many of my readers have heard our hackneyed Christmas Carol, nor would they credit that lines such as the following could be publicly exposed and sold for the edification of the multitude during the period of our Saviour’s annual festival; yet the fact is not less certain. These verses are transcribed from this printed morceau as published and sold by T. Evans, Long Lane, Smithfield, and to be found in the well-known collections of popular ballads:
Joseph was an old man; and an old man was he;
And he married Mary, queen of Galilee;
When Joseph he had his cozen Mary got,
But Mary proved big with child, by whom Joseph knew not.
As Joseph and Mary walked through the garden gay,
Where the cherries they grew upon every tree,
O! then bespoke Mary, with words both meek and mild,
Gather me some cherries, Joseph, they run so in my mind,
Gather me some cherries, for I am with child.
Then bespoke Joseph, with words most unkind,
Let those gather thee cherries who got thee with child.
Then bespoke Jesus, all in his mother’s womb,
Go to the tree, Mary, and it shall bow down,
And the highest branch shall bow down to Mary’s knee,
And she shall gather cherries by one, two and three.
After lines such as the foregoing, Sir, what can be reasonably adduced against our “Pucelle,” which is only perused by persons gifted to a certain extent with a liberal education, and who are consequently enabled to reject any passages mitigating in the smallest degree against the cause of religion, whilst the above carol being disseminated for centuries among the people only tends to debase and familiarize one of the most sacred mysteries of our faith, by placing it upon a level with their own vulgar and indecent conceptions.
Among the number of those who presume to censure our great poet, very few are perhaps aware that his enemies allege his predilection for English sentiments as one of his predominant crimes; in “Les Pensées de Monsieur Thomas sur Voltaire,” among numerous other attacks of this nature is the following: “Pendant que Voltaire, cet écrivain nourri des maximes anglaises, s’abandonnait à une liberté effrenée de penser et de dire les choses les plus dangereuses, etc.”
“While Voltaire, that writer nourished with English maxims, abandoned himself to an unlicenced liberty of thinking and speaking the most dangerous things, etc.” Can any liberal-minded Briton depreciate the admirer of his own boasted independency of principle as regards religious and political tolerance, for applauding which our writer was invariably attacked by a literary phalanx at home. Is it fair; is it noble?
If we consider this poem, Sir, in an amatory point of view and compare it with the multifarious productions of a similar description, we shall find that every common song-book publicly exposed for sale abounds in descriptions more florid than those contained in the pages of the “Pucelle,” as the ebullitions of Captain Morris and innumerable others will make manifest.
Grave divines and schoolmen descant with sang froid upon the refined touches of Anacreon so faithfully and exquisitely rendered into English by the fanciful pen of Mr. Moore, many of whose delightful poems printed under the assumed name of Little might put to the blush even the enamored donkey of Saint Denis, when compared with the flights of Voltaire. The licentious tales of “Boccaccio” as translated, are universally admitted and spoken of, as well as those of our Dryden, Prior, and Swift.
Armstrong’s “OEconomy of Love,” may be had upon every book-stall, while the “Basia,” of Joannes Secundus graces the library shelf, with its conclusive “Epithalamium,” than which there does not exist upon literary record a poetical specimen more superlatively beautiful, or more indelicate. In short, to enter upon a recapitulation of proofs such as the foregoing, would be to swell my preface into a volume; wherefore, let me inquire why the “Pucelle d’Orléans” should alone be condemned, and that too by persons who, for the most part, have never given it a fair and dispassionate perusal?
If the attacks upon Voltaire had been virulent during his lifetime, they were redoubled at his decease, insomuch so, that the pen of romance could not out-Herod the gross and ludicrous fabrications which were disseminated by priests and their myrmidons, in order to render his death-bed a raw-head and bloody-bones to future skeptics. Among other amusing tales, we are gravely assured that our poor poet writhed in the convulsive torments of the damned, whereas the simple and well-authenticated fact runs as follows:
The incumbent of the parish of Saint Sulpice (the Curé), who had several times waited upon Voltaire during his last illness without eliciting anything particular from him, happened to be present at the period of his dissolution, when approaching the bed of death, he made some inquiries respecting his faith, to which Voltaire replied in the following words:
“Monsieur le Curé, laissez-moi mourir en paix”—” Curate, leave me to die in peace!” — upon which as a conclusive effort collecting his whole strength, he turned his back and expired without a groan, and as a man sinking into a quiet slumber.
I shall terminate what I have to say respecting Voltaire as an author, by making my readers acquainted with two remarkable circumstances in regard to this sublime genius, which are perhaps known to but few. One is, that although he wrote and published works during the lapse of more than sixty years, yet he seldom or never affixed his name to any one production. The other fact, still more extraordinary, is that he never sold a manuscript or put one shilling into his pocket arising from the sale of any of his literary labors, notwithstanding all that the base calumny of some of his Grub Street opponents has maliciously alleged to the contrary. The fact is simply this: he made a present of everything he wrote to relieve some of his indigent friends and men of letters. He published his celebrated commentary on the productions of Corneille for the express purpose of raising a sum sufficient for the marriage portion of his great granddaughter, whom he sought for, rescued from indigence, and to whom he gave a most liberal education.
It is true that Voltaire died possessing a fortune of nearly four thousand pounds per annum, but it must also be remembered, first, that he came into the world enjoying at least six hundred a year, his father having occupied the post of treasurer to the Chamber dés Comptes; secondly, that he had a very long minority; thirdly, that he was fortunate enough to enter into a speculation when the disastrous speculation of John Law, termed the Mississippi bubble, ruined one-half of the moneyed interest of France, by which he considerably increased his revenue; fourthly, that he was a man of the strictest economy, and laid it down as an axiom, to dedicate one hour in the day to his private concerns; fifthly, that he lived the best part of a century, and able calculators will decide whether greater fortunes are not to be acquired by savings than by direct gains. For the truth of this assertion I appeal to the Earl of Lauderdale, Mr. Malthus, and Mr. Ricardo, our three most illustrious writers on political economy, of the present century.
Having done with my author, Sir, I shall now proceed to say something in regard to the literary history of our poem.
In the translation of the preface annexed to the edition of Kehl, which will be found translated in the second volume, mention is made of the numerous variations inserted in the different publications of the “Pucelle.” They are indeed very considerable, and for the most part extracted from that of 1756. The “Episode of Corisandre,” forming a canto complete, is quite irrelevant to the subject-matter of the poem, which, conjoined with the multiplied emendations and additions, rendered it difficult to ascertain what was really the production of Voltaire, nor could any positive judgment be formed upon this subject, as the first edition published by Beaumelle and Maubert in 1755 was arranged from a manuscript consisting of fifteen Arguments, which they separated according to their own fancies, for, conceiving, as it is imagined, that an epic poem ought to consist of an even number of chapters, they made a new division of the poem, sometimes allotting to it eighteen and at others twenty-four cantos by subdividing them more or less into two; in other respects their editions do not contain a greater portion of matter than was to be found in the mutilated manuscript of which they had piratically acquired possession. At length, the author, in order to put a stop to these surreptitious publications, determined, in 1762, upon issuing his real work to the public, forming but twenty arguments, six of which had not till then been known, viz.: the eighth, ninth, sixteenth, seventeenth, nineteenth, and twentieth; the “Episode of Corisandre” he also suppressed, adding the eighteenth chapter which had appeared separately in 1764, so that the number of cantos, as allowed by the author, remains at twenty-one, being those contained in the present translation, thus comprising the work as acknowledged by Voltaire to the French Academy, and the same which has uniformly met the public eye since that epoch.
If we may be permitted, Sir, to form an idea of the merits of a work from its rapid and extensive sale (and for my own part I do not know that there exists a better criterion), then most assuredly the “Pucelle d’Orléans” must occupy a predominant and almost unique figure in the scale of literary efforts, since it is a known fact that the press has never disseminated a poem in any age or country which has commanded a similar success; to hazard an opinion respecting the number of copies sold would be ridiculous, as every research has been made by the translator to ascertain if possible how many editions have been printed, but even this attempt has proved altogether abortive; we may, notwithstanding, judge of the fact in some measure, by stating that Beaumarchais’ editions singly, out of the numerous impressions that have appeared from different editors, consumed no less than sixty-seven thousand copies of Voltaire’s works, complete in seventy, and in ninety-two volumes; we therefore leave our readers to form a conjecture as to what must have been the vent of this detached poem, printed singly in every form, at all prices, and incessantly issuing from the presses of the several states of Europe during the last half-century.
As the above statement, Sir, tends to prove the uncalculable sale which Voltaire’s original poem has commanded, I must now acquaint the public that it requires a residence in France to ascertain the furore still predominating throughout the well-informed classes of the community for the perusal of this work; in vain has the Chapter of Notre Dame of Paris with the Archbishop at its head, thundered forth anathemas against the writings of our author; in vain have discourses been delivered from the pulpit to the same effect; the rage continues unabated, and at the present period no less than four editions of the works of Voltaire and Rousseau have emanated from the Parisian presses, to the complete discomfiture of unrelenting intolerance.
Many sarcasms and topics contained in the “Pucelle” were levelled at local circumstances, or referred to personages and historical events, with which the English reader, generally speaking, would be wholly unacquainted; the translator has in consequence found it absolutely necessary to enlarge considerably upon the annotating part of the work, as otherwise the drift of the author must very frequently have remained unintelligible. In the course of these elucidations, which have required no small degree of research, the writer, however, presumes to flatter himself that his labors will not prove altogether unentertaining or divested of instruction; and with regard to any badinage contained in the progress of his numerous notes, he conceives it necessary to remark, that such style was merely adopted to keep pace with the playful spirit displayed by the poet; a fact sufficiently exemplified throughout every page of this grand serio-comic production.
I am, my Lord,
Your most obedient, and very humble Servant,
W. H. IRELAND.