My very dear, and very great Philosopher,

So you have finished the Reading of that impertinent little Libel, of that impertinent little Rogue of a Priest, who has so often been at my Country House, and been there made much of. The Journal of the Encyclopœdia, the best of his Works, is what preserves that Crackling, frittering Morsel from Infamy. Thus you see, my dear Friend, that the Presbyterians are not a Bit better than the Jesuits; and that these do not deserve to beg their Bread more than the Jansenists.

You have done to the little dirty City of Geneva an Honour it did not deserve. They performed CASSANDRA on my Stage at Ferney agreeable to your Taste. The grave and austere Ministers did not dare to appear there, but they sent their Daughters. I saw both Men and Women melt into Tears; and indeed never was Piece so well performed: afterwards a Supper for 200 Spectators, and a grand Ball. This is the Manner I have my Revenge, as often as I can, of these good People.

At Toulouse they lately hanged one of their Preachers: this rendered them a little more gentle. But one of their Brethren is just now broke upon the Wheel, being falsely accused of having hanged his Son out of Spite to our Holy Religion; to which, as supposed, the good Father suspected his Son has a secret Inclination.

Thoulouse more foolish yet, more fanatic than Geneva, deemed the hanged Youth a Martyr. They never thought of examining if he had hanged himself, according to the pious Custom of the Sage Children of Albion: They buried him however pompously: The Parliament was present at the Ceremony, barefooted. The new Saint was invoked: After which, the Court, for criminal affairs, by a Plurality of Voices, eight against six, sentenced the Father to be broke on the Wheel. This Judgement was so much the more Catholic, as there was no Proof against him. He was a good Citizen, and a prolific Father, having had five Children, including him that was hanged. He bemoaned, in his dying Hours, his executed Son; and, under each stroke of the Wheel, protested his own Innocence: He cited the Parliament to the Tribunal of God!

All the heretic Cantons, all tender Christian Hearts, cry out aloud against this Execution! All pronounce us a Nation as barbarous as we are frivolous; that knows how to Torture, and cut Capers — but have forgot how to fight; that can go from a Massacre of Saint Bartholomew to a Comic Opera; and are become the Horror and Contempt of all Europe. What an Age do we live in! It is the Dregs of all Ages. What Ministers! what Generals! what Nobility! what Nation! We are immersed in Debauchery and in Infamy: Court and City are all one: Citizens, Courtiers, Priests, Women — all are Prostitutes. It is a Gulph of Meanness and Prostitution! I am sorry for it; for we were formed to be agreeable Stage-Dancers, fitted to divert; but we are now become the poltroon Prostitutes, the Scum of the World.

I promise you, my Friend, not to go to Geneva, because only small Fools and petty Tyrants dwell there: — nor to Thoulouse, because they have none but Knaves, Fools, and Fanatics: — nor to Paris, because, very soon, none but Whores, Rogues, and Beggars, will live there.

For God's Sake, and for the Sake of that little God Humanity, which still just vegetates, but with little Regard, on Earth, be pleased to make as execrable as you can that barbarous and shocking Fanaticism that has condemned a Father for hanging his Son, or that has broke on the Wheel an innocent Father, by eight rascally Counsellors and Tutors to a King of Cards.

If I was a Minister of State like Richlieu I would send these eight assassins of the Fleur de Lis, attended by all the Rabble of Thoulouse, with the Parliament in their Front and Rear, to the Gallies; and there, barefooted, with Torch in Hand, they should annually prostitute themselves before the Shrine of this innocently executed Father, to ask Pardon of God, and solemnly implore him, soon or late, to annihilate this cursed and perverse Race of Roman Catholicks.

Tell me, prithee, what Corps in France you despise the most. Nota, I just hear from Marseilles, that a Criminal, condemned there for Murder, with Tears in his Eyes, Repentance in his Looks, and Contrition in his Heart, has confessed himself to be the Murder of the Soon of the Protestant of Thoulouse, whom the Parliament sentenced to the Wheel for that Crime.

A Book lately appears here the most singular, and another the most astonishing. The first is an Heroic Poem, intitled, The Broom, or Broomstick. Rabelais, Scarron, or La Fontaine, had not more Wit, a better Stile, or finer Imagination. Moreover, it is the Work of an apostate Abbe, namely, Laurence; he published, about eighteen Months since, a Work intitled, The Jesuisticals. He is a Poet formed by Nature.

The other is called Oriental Despotism, by M. Boulanger. It is a Book worthy of a Montesquieu: I know you are acquainted with the Editor: The Police has let loose all her Furies to discover them, but to no Purpose, and I am glad of it.

Within a Month we have had sixty Assassinations, or frightful Murders, considered in their Circumstances. War, Luxury, and Extravagance, destroy this Place.

You know the Jesuits have no longer their Colleges; that we are at the Eve of banishing them out of the Kingdom. We begin, tho' tremblingly, to shew our Teeth at old Grey Beard of Rome.

Send me as soon as you can, your fourth Canto of the Dispensary. If my Christiana appears to you deserving the Notice of your glorious, piratical Gentry, get it translated as faithfully as possible.

Adieu! bestir yourselves, ingrates; praise God for all Things; admire Nature; it is the only Way I know to live sometimes contentedly.