and common humanity.  It was this, I believe, which gave them their moral force.  It was this which drew towards them the hearts, not merely of educated bourgeois and nobles (on the menu peuple they had no influence, and did not care to have any), but of every continental sovereign who felt in himself higher aspirations than those of a mere selfish tyrant—­Frederick the Great, Christina of Sweden, Joseph of Austria, and even that fallen Juno, Catharine of Russia, with all her sins.  To take the most extreme instance—­Voltaire.  We may question his being a philosopher at all.  We may deny that he had even a tincture of formal philosophy.  We may doubt much whether he had any of that human and humorous common sense, which is often a good substitute for the philosophy of the schools.  We may feel against him a just and honest indignation when we remember that he dared to travestie into a foul satire the tale of his country’s purest and noblest heroine; but we must recollect, at the same time, that he did a public service to the morality of his own country, and of all Europe, by his indignation—­quite as just and honest as any which we may feel—­at the legal murder of Calas.  We must recollect that, if he exposes baseness and foulness with too cynical a license of speech (in which, indeed, he sinned no more than had the average of French writers since the days of Montaigne), he at least never advocates them, as did Le Sage.  We must recollect that, scattered throughout his writings, are words in favour of that which is just, merciful, magnanimous, and even, at times, in favour of that which is pure; which proves that in Voltaire, as in most men, there was a double self—­the one sickened to cynicism by the iniquity and folly which he saw around him—­the other, hungering after a nobler life, and possibly exciting that hunger in one and another, here and there, who admired him for other reasons than the educated mob, which cried after him “Vive la Pucelle.”

Rousseau, too.  Easy it is to feel disgust, contempt, for the “Confessions” and the “Nouvelle Heloise”—­for much, too much, in the man’s own life and character.  One would think the worse of the young Englishman who did not so feel, and express his feelings roundly and roughly.  But all young Englishmen should recollect, that to Rousseau’s “Emile” they owe their deliverance from the useless pedantries, the degrading brutalities, of the medieval system of school education; that “Emile” awakened throughout civilised Europe a conception of education just, humane, rational, truly scientific, because founded upon facts; that if it had not been written by one writhing under the bitter consequences of mis-education, and feeling their sting and their brand day by day on his own spirit, Miss Edgeworth might never have reformed our nurseries, or Dr. Arnold our public schools.