Voltaire was the intellectual autocrat of his time. From his throne at
the foot of the Alps he pointed the finger of scorn at every hypocrite
in Europe. He left the quiver of ridicule without an arrow. He was the
pioneer of his century. He was the assassin of superstition. Through the
shadows of faith and fable, through the darkness of myth and miracle,
through the midnight of Christianity, through the blackness of bigotry,
past cathedral and dungeon, past rack and stake, past altar and throne,
he carried, with brave and chivalric hands, the torch of reason.