and serenity filled his spirit.

Montesquieu used to declare that he had never known a chagrin which half
an hour of a book was not able to dispel. Diderot had the same fortunate
temper.

Yet Diderot was not essentially a man of books. He never fell into the
characteristic weakness of the follower of letters, by treating books as
ends in themselves, or placing literature before life. Character,
passion, circumstance, the real tragi-comedy, not its printed shadow
and image, engrossed him. He was in this respect more of the temper of
Rousseau, than he was like Voltaire or Fontenelle. "Abstraction made,"
he used to say, "of my existence and of the happiness of my fellows,
what does the rest of nature matter to me?" Yet, as we see, nobody that
ever lived was more interested in knowledge. His biographer and disciple
remarked the contrast in him between his ardent impetuous disposition
and enthusiasm, and his spirit of close unwearied observation. _Faire le
bien, connaitre le vrai_, was his formula for the perfect life, and
defined the only distinction that he cared to recognise between one man
and another. And the only motive he ever admitted as reasonable for
seeking truth, was as a means of doing good. So strong was his sense of
practical life, in the midst of incessant theorising.

* * * * *

At the moment when he had most difficulty in procuring a little bread
each day for himself, Diderot conceived a violent passion for a
seamstress, Antoinnette Champion by name, who happened to live in his
neighbourhood. He instantly became importunate for marriage. The mother
long protested with prudent vigour against a young man of such
headstrong impetuosity, who did nothing and who had nothing, save the
art of making speeches that turned her daughter's head. At length the
young man's golden tongue won the mother as it had won the daughter. It
was agreed that his wishes should be crowned, if he could procure the
consent of his family. Diderot fared eagerly and with a sanguine heart
to Langres. His father supposed that he had seen the evil of his ways,
and was come at last to continue the honest tradition of their name.
When the son disclosed the object of his visit, he was treated as a
madman and threatened with malediction. Without a word of remonstrance
he started back one day for Paris. Madame Champion warned him that his
project must now be for ever at an end. Such unflinching resoluteness is