The novels and tales of Voltaire, aside from the question of merit, are most assuredly no more suitable to be given as prizes to little slips of boarding-school misses than are the immoral tales of our friend the lycanthropist, or even the moral tales of the insipid Marmontel. What do we find in the comedies of the great Molière? the sacred institution of marriage--as the catechism and the newspapers call it--scoffed at and ridiculed in every scene. The husband is old, ugly, and peevish; he wears his wig awry; his coat is out of fashion; he has a bill-headed cane, a nose smeared with snuff, short legs, and a paunch as fat as a budget.--He stammers, says nothing but foolish things, and does as many as he says; he sees nothing, he hears nothing; his wife is kissed before his face, and he has no idea what is going on; that state of things lasts until he is well and duly proved a cuckold in his own eyes and in the eyes of the whole audience, who are mightily edified and applaud in a way to bring the walls down. They who applaud the loudest are they who are the most married. In Molière, marriage is named George Dandin or Sganarelle. Adultery is Damis or Clitandre; there is no name sweet and charming enough for it. The adulterer is always young, handsome, well-made, and a marquis at the very least. He enters from the wings humming the very latest waltz; he takes one or two steps on the stage with the most deliberate, all-conquering air imaginable; he scratches his ear with the pink nail of his deftly spread little finger; he combs his lovely fair hair with his tortoise-shell comb, and arranges his ruffles, which are of great volume. His doublet and his hose are almost covered with bows and knots of ribbon; his neckband is from the best maker; his gloves smell sweeter than balsam and civet; his plumes cost a louis apiece. How his eye sparkles and his cheek glows! how smiling his mouth! how white his teeth! how soft and well cared for his hand! He speaks, naught issues from his lips save poesy, perfumed gallantries in the most refined style and with the most charming manner; he has read the latest novels and knows all about poetry, he is brave, and quick to draw his sword, he scatters gold with lavish hand.--And so Angélique, Agnès, Isabelle, can hardly refrain from leaping on his neck, well-bred and great ladies though they be; and so the husband is regularly betrayed in the fifth act, and is very lucky that he was not in the first. That is how marriage is treated by Molière, one of the loftiest and most serious geniuses who ever lived.--Do you think there is anything stronger in the suits of _Indiana_ and of _Valentine_? Paternity is even less respected, if that be possible. Witness Orgon, Géronte, and all the rest of them.