nce on one side,
and such generous love on the other. It is a commonplace how much waste
would be avoided in human life if men would more freely allow their
vision to pierce in this way through the distorting veils of egoism, to
the reality of sentiment and motive and relationship.

Throughout his life Diderot was blessed with that divine gift of pity,
which one that has it could hardly be willing to barter for the
understanding of an Aristotle. Nor was it of the sentimental type proper
for fine ladies. One of his friends had an aversion for women with
child. "What monstrous sentiment!" Diderot wrote; "for my part, that
condition has always touched me. I cannot see a woman of the common
people so, without a tender commiseration."[8] And Diderot had delicacy
and respect in his pity. He tells a story in one of his letters of a
poor woman who had suffered some wrong from a priest; she had not money
enough to resort to law, until a friend of Diderot took her part. The
suit was gained; but when the moment came for execution, the priest had
vanished with all his goods. The woman came to thank her protector, and
to regret the loss he had suffered. "As she chatted, she pulled a shabby
snuff-box out of her pocket, and gathered up with the tip of her finger
what little snuff remained at the bottom: her benefactor says to her
'Ah, ah! you have no more snuff; give me your box, and I will fill it.'
He took the box and put into it a couple of louis, which he covered up
with snuff. Now there's an action thoroughly to my taste, and to yours
too! Give, but, if you can, spare to the poor the shame of holding out a
hand."[9] And the important thing, as we have said, is that Diderot was
as good as his sentiment. Unlike most of the fine talkers of that day,
to him these homely and considerate emotions were the most real part of
life. Nobody in the world was ever more eager to give succour to others,
nor more careless of his own ease.

One singular story of Diderot's heedlessness about himself has often
been told before, but we shall be none the worse in an egoistic world
for hearing it told again. There came to him one morning a young man,
bringing a manuscript in his hand. He begged Diderot to do him the
favour of reading it, and to make any remarks he might think useful on
the margin. Diderot found it to be a bitter satire upon his own person
and writings. On the young man's return, Diderot asked him his grounds
for making such an attack