ty, hoped to enlist his talents in the
Order. Either they or he planned his escape from home, but his father
got to hear of it. "My grandfather," says Diderot's daughter, "kept the
profoundest silence, but as he went off to bed took with him the keys of
the yard door." When he heard his son going downstairs, he presented
himself before him, and asked whither he was bound at twelve o'clock at
night. "To Paris," replied the youth, "where I am to join the Jesuits."
"That will not be to-night; but your wishes shall be fulfilled. First
let us have our sleep." The next morning his father took two places in
the coach, and carried him to Paris to the College d'Harcourt. He made
all the arrangements, and wished his son good-bye. But the good man
loved the boy too dearly to leave him without being quite at ease how he
would fare; he had the patience to remain a whole fortnight, killing the
time and half dead of weariness in an inn, without ever seeing the one
object of his stay. At the end of the fortnight he went to the college,
and Diderot used many a time to say that such a mark of tenderness and
goodness would have made him go to the other end of the world if his
father had required it. "My friend," said his father, "I am come to see
if you are well, if you are satisfied with your superiors, with your
food, with your companions, and with yourself. If you are not well or
not happy, we will go back together to your mother. If you had rather
stay where you are, I am come to give you a word, to embrace you, and to
leave you my blessing." The boy declared he was perfectly happy; and the
principal pronounced him an excellent scholar, though already promising
to be a troublesome one.[4]

After a couple of years the young Diderot, like other sons of Adam, had
to think of earning his bread. The usual struggle followed between
youthful genius and old prudence. His father, who was a man of
substance, gave him his choice between medicine and law. Law he refused
because he did not choose to spend his days in doing other people's
business; and medicine, because he had no turn for killing. His father
resolutely declined to let him have more money on these terms, and
Diderot was thrown on his wits.

The man of letters shortly before the middle of the century was as much
an outcast and a beggar in Paris as he was in London. Voltaire, Gray,
and Richardson were perhaps the only three conspicuous writers of the
time, who had never known what it