its constitution. Then within a dozen lines he admits that there can be
no direct proof either way; we must content ourselves with settling it
by means of inference from the perfections of God. Of course, it is
clear that in the first place what Rousseau calls the true question
consists of two quite distinct questions. Is the universe in its present
ordering on the whole good relatively either to men, or to all sentient
creatures? Next was evil an inevitable element in that ordering? Second,
this way of putting it does not in the least advance the case against
Voltaire, who insisted that no fine phrases ought to hide from us the
dreadful power and crushing reality of evil and the desolate plight in
which we are left. This is no exhaustive thought, but a deep cry of
anguish at the dark lot of men, and of just indignation against the
philosophy which to creatures asking for bread gave the brightly
polished stone of sentimental theism. Rousseau urged that Voltaire
robbed men of their only solace. What Voltaire really did urge was that
the solace derived from the attribution of humanity and justice to the
Supreme Being, and from the metaphysical account of evil, rests on too
narrow a base either to cover the facts, or to be a true solace to any
man who thinks and observes. He ought to have gone on, if it had only
been possible in those times, to persuade his readers that there is no
solace attainable, except that of an energetic fortitude, and that we do
best to go into life not in a softly lined silken robe, but with a sharp
sword and armour thrice tempered. As between himself and Rousseau, he
saw much the more keenly of the two, and this was because he approached
the matter from the side of the facts, while the latter approached it
from the side of his own mental comfort and the preconceptions
involved in it.

The most curious part of this curious letter is the conclusion, where
Rousseau, loosely wandering from his theme, separates Voltaire from the