"The most interesting adventures are related to no sort of purpose," says Voltaire in one of his essays, "if they do not convey, at the same time, a description of manners. And even this is but a frivolous amusement, if that description does not contribute to inspire us with sentiments of virtue. I dare assert that, from the _Henriade_ to _Zara_ and down to the Chinese tragedy of _The Orphan of Tchao_ such was always the aim I proposed, and the principle that conducted me. In the history of the age of Louis the fourteenth, I have celebrated my king and country, without flattering either. In these endeavors have I spent above forty years. But here is the advice of a Chinese philosopher, whose writings are translated into Spanish, by the famous _Navarette_: "'If you write a book, show it only to your friends. Dread the public and your brother authors. They will embitter your expressions, misrepresent your meaning, and impute to you, what you never thought of. Calumny, which has an hundred mouths, will open them against you; and truth, which is silent, will remain with you.'" It has been said of Voltaire that he was "not only just, but generous in his dealings with others. With open purse and open heart, helpful to all who approached him. Collini, his secretary, said he was a miser _only of his time_, which was always usefully employed. But we are also told that there was one person to whom he could not even deny his time--it was Mademoiselle de Varicourt--_Belle-et-Bonne_--whom he had adopted, and who was afterward married to the Marquis de Villette. "She could never disturb him," says A.A. Knox, "not even when he was giving the last touches to _Irène_. If he were in a passion with anybody else, and she appeared in the room, he was at once gentle and calm. There is something very affecting in the old man's love and tenderness for this young girl." After the success of the French Revolution, to which the writings of Voltaire had so greatly contributed, when the National Assembly ordered the removal of his remains to the Pantheon, to repose between the ashes of Descartes and Mirabeau--when France honored herself in honoring the great philosopher--it was _Belle-et-Bonne_--in the full splendor of her majestic beauty--her heart overflowing with tenderness and gratitude--her eyes dimmed with pathetic tears--who placed with loving hands on the bier of her noble benefactor the wreath of filial affection--the grandest tribute that humanity can bestow. PETER ECKLER. _New York, Jan. 28, 1885._