discern the firm, warm, broad substance of Diderot’s very self, underlying and supporting all.  That is the real subject of a book which seems to have taken all subjects for its province—­from the origin of music to the purpose of the universe; and the central figure—­the queer, delightful, Bohemian Rameau, evoked for us with such a marvellous distinctness—­is in fact no more than the reed with many stops through which Diderot is blowing.  Of all his countrymen, he comes nearest, in spirit and in manner, to the great Cure of Meudon.  The rich, exuberant, intoxicating tones of Rabelais vibrate in his voice.  He has—­not all, for no son of man will ever again have that; but he has some of Rabelais’ stupendous breadth, and he has yet more of Rabelais’ enormous optimism.  His complete materialism—­his disbelief in any Providence or any immortality—­instead of depressing him, seems rather to have given fresh buoyancy to his spirit; if this life on earth were all, that only served, in his eyes, to redouble the intensity of its value.  And his enthusiasm inspired him with a philanthropy unknown to Rabelais—­an active benevolence that never tired.  For indeed he was, above all else, a man of his own age:  a man who could think subtly and work nobly as well as write splendidly; who could weep as well as laugh.  He is, perhaps, a smaller figure than Rabelais; but he is much nearer to ourselves.  And, when we have come to the end of his generous pages, the final impression that is left with us is of a man whom we cannot choose but love.

Besides Diderot, the band of the Philosophes included many famous names.  There was the brilliant and witty mathematician, Dalembert; there was the grave and noble statesman, Turgot; there was the psychologist, Condillac; there was the light, good-humoured Marmontel; there was the penetrating and ill-fated Condorcet.  Helvetius and D’Holbach plunged boldly into ethics and metaphysics; while, a little apart, in learned repose, Buffon advanced the purest interests of science by his researches in Natural History.  As every year passed there were new accessions to this great array of writers, who waged their war against ignorance and prejudice with an ever-increasing fury.  A war indeed it was.  On one side were all the forces of intellect; on the other was all the mass of entrenched and powerful dullness.  In reply to the brisk fire of the Philosophes—­argument, derision, learning, wit—­the authorities in State and Church opposed the more serious artillery of censorships, suppressions, imprisonments, and exiles.  There was hardly an eminent writer in Paris who was unacquainted with the inside of the Conciergerie or the Bastille.  It was only natural, therefore, that the struggle should have become a highly embittered one, and that at times, in the heat of it, the party whose watchword was a hatred of fanaticism should have grown itself fanatical.  But it was clear that the powers of reaction were steadily losing ground; they could only