ls in history.
Worse, for instance, than the malice of the Greek comedians or of Ovid — since they possibly believed their own stories — was the attempt made by Voltaire to pollute, through twenty-one books of an epic poem, the stainless fame of his own virgin country-woman, Joan of Arc. In that work he revels in a series of imput the art of printing had remained undiscovered, that all contemporary memorials of this maiden had vanished, and posterity had possessed no record of her except Voltaire's Pucelle.
In place of that heroic image there would have remained to us only a monster of profligacy, unless some possible Welcker had appeared, long centuries seeks to show this indirectly, through a minute criticism of her writings.
Into this he carries, I regret to say, an essential coarseness of mind, like that of Voltaire, which delights to torture the most innocent phrases till they yield a double meaning.
He reads these graceful fragments as the sailors in some forecastle might