when we read only for reading’s sake, and not for reproduction nor direct use, was as delightful to our laborious drudge as to others, but he could indulge himself with little of this sweet idleness.  It was in harder labour that he passed most of his mornings.  These hours of work achieved, he dressed and went down among his friends.  Then came the mid-day dinner, which was sumptuous; host and guests both ate and drank more than was good for their health.  After a short siesta, towards four o’clock they took their sticks and went forth to walk, among woods, over ploughed fields, up hills, through quagmires, delighting in nature.  As they went, they talked of history, or politics, or chemistry, of literature, or physics, or morality.  At sundown they returned, to find lights and cards on the tables, and they made parties of piquet, interrupted by supper.  At half-past ten the game ends, they chat until eleven, and in half an hour more they are all fast asleep.[202] Each day was like the next; industry, gaiety, bodily comfort, mental activity, diversifying the hours.  Grimm was often there, “the most French of all the Germans,” and Galiani, the most nimble-witted of men, inexhaustible in story, inimitable in pantomimic narration, and yet with the keenest intellectual penetration shining through all his Neapolitan prank and buffoonery.  Holbach cared most for the physical sciences.  Marmontel brought a vein of sentimentalism, and Helvetius a vein of cynical formalism.  Diderot played Socrates, Panurge, Pantophile; questioning, instructing, combining; pouring out knowledge and suggestion, full of interest in every subject, sympathetic with every vein, relishing alike the newest philosophic hardihood, the last too merry mood of Holbach’s mother-in-law, the freshest piece of news brought by a traveller.  It was not at Grandval that he found life hard to bear, or would have accepted its close with joy.  And indeed if one could by miracle be transported back into the sixth decade of that dead century for a single day, perhaps one might choose that such a day should be passed among the energetic and vivid men who walked of an afternoon among the fields and woods of Grandval.

The unblushing grossness of speech which even the ladies of the party permitted themselves cannot be reproduced in the decorous print of our age.  It is nothing less than inconceivable to us how Diderot can have brought himself to write down, in letters addressed to a woman of good education and decent manners, some of the talk that went on at Grandval.  The coarsest schoolboy of these days would wince at such shameless freedoms.  But it would be wrong to forget the allowance that must be made for differences in point of fashion.  Diderot, for instance, in these very letters is wonderfully frank in his exposure of the details of his health.  He describes his indigestions, and other more indescribable obstructions to happiness, as freely as Cicero wrote about the dysentery which punished him, when, after he had resisted